"Tell me what happened." I demand.
He doesn't have to tell me, though. It comes flooding back in a tidal wave that threatens to consume me, dragging me out to sea and battering me against the rocks like a ship in a storm.
Pain and fear and anger and betrayal and shock and horror and defeat and grief.
It's a staggering weight to bear, one that weighs on me, my knees buckling a moment before I drop to them.
He drugged me. Heplannedit.
Why? Was it just a game for him?
I remember him telling me it was. I remember him saying it would be just like when we were young...
hiding in the dark from our moms with his hand on my mouth telling me he loved me, telling me he was my husband, that mommies and daddies kissed with their tongues, his small hands creeping beneath fabric...
I remember so much I didn't even realize ever happened, and it fucking hurts.
My entire existence is fucking shattered, and I'm staring at the man I love, and he can't do anything to help me because I'm fucking dead.
Isn't death supposed to be easy? That's what people argue... that it gives you an end to the pain and suffering? That you'll be at peace? That better things await?
If I'm dead, then I've been betrayed more than I ever realized was possible, because this is not peace. There's nothing delicate or gentle here... not now that the cruel reality of the life I lost is playing out so obviously like a film I don't want to watch.
"It's okay." Noah croons, so softly that I think he might even believe it. "We're done with the hurt. We can move on now, together."
"Move on?"
The sound of laughter rattles the walls. The stained glass seems to shake in its frame as the sound builds in the church, something unhinged and baseless... something volatile. I don’t even know when we got back to the church, but it’s materialized around us like a prison.
"Move on?" I repeat.
No. I don't know what that even means. But I know that what happened to us isn't something you just 'move on' from. I don't care if I'm dead... I'm not going to just act like I forgive Nickfor this. I'm not going to go quietly into the void or the afterlife, heaven or hell, or whatever really comes next.
"I've been waiting here because I wasn't ready. But you're here now."
I appraise him… every lash, every hair on his head, every last pale freckle dotting his cheekbones. I love everything about him. I did before I died, and I think I still do. ButI'mnot ready.
"No." I shake my head. "I can't."
"You can't go back. It won't make you real. Trust me, I tried. I spent so much time trying to get you to see me, to tell you I would never leave you, to tell you to never doubt that I loved you... I watched you cry yourself to sleep, I held you every night. I was with you nearly every minute of every day, but still you didn't see me because we're somewhere that is separate from them... somewhere that they can't see us."
His confession is vulnerable enough that it subdues the pain, buries it all for just long enough for me to tilt my head.
"What do you mean, youheldme?"
"I don't suppose you could feel it, but I needed you. I was holding on to you as tight as you were to me... terrified that if I went wherever comes next, I'd never see you again."
I breathe him in, suddenly overwhelmed by the soft light in his brown eyes, the warmth of him near me, the love that's strong enough to drown out all the hurt.
"I missed you."
He doesn't tell me he missed me again. He doesn't have to. I can see his soul— or maybe he is his soul just manifesting in the shape I was familiar with him— and I can see his truth.
All the doubts and worries, all the second guessing and back and forth and agonizing, all the nasty little thoughts that tried to slip in between the cracks as I felt myself shattering. It was all in my head, and none of that was real.
But what we had was.
I watch his lips for a moment before they fall on mine, and then I'm consumed.
