On the floor between us, some small metal contraption hums. There are wires and gears everywhere. Even joints that look part drone, part mechanical spider. It crawls in tight circles, responding to the subtle flicks of the controller in Kai’s hands.
He’s completely focused. His eyes narrowed, and posture relaxed. His thumb adjusting the pressure just enough to keep the thing moving without crashing. And every now and then, he makes a small correction.
“What even is that thing?” I ask, watching it skitter over the rug.
“A prototype,” he says without looking up. “It’s a mapping algorithm. It learns the room as it moves.”
“So, basically, a creepy little spy bug.”
He lifts a shoulder, not disagreeing. The thing halts mid-step, as if listening, then adjusts course.
He sets the controller down and picks up a slim notebook, jotting something quickly.
I frown. “Wait, are you writing in… Latin?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
I make a face. “Because it’s dead?”
Kai finally turns, one brow slightly lifted. “I thought you liked things that were dark and dead,” he says smoothly, and there’s no judgement in it. Just observation. Just fact.
I scoff, more out of habit than anything else. “Says the one writing code in a corpse of a language.”
He smiles at that, and without another word, he looks back down at the controller, adjusting the spider-thing’s trajectory.
Meanwhile, I watch him. Like I always do.
There’s something about Kai, always has been. He’s one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever met, and I think he knows it too. He’s good at absolutely everything, and he always knows exactly what to say. I can’t help but admire him. Can’t help but feeldrawnto him.
I always wondered why that was. Initially, I assumed it was something about his face. He’s always been very pretty to look at; perfectly proportioned. I noticed that from the moment I first laid eyes on him. I had been itching to take a photo. To capture that look in his eye through my lens, for me to keep.
But then I started thinking that maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s because his darkness calls to mine.
Practically singing, so that I come crawling.
He must feel me staring, because I catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Just barely there. Amused, maybe. Or something else.
I finally look away.
My eyes drop to my arms as I shove my sleeves up, revealing the marks. Some are faded, some not. Some are fresh.
I roll my eyes at them. They always bother me. Or more specifically, the reason for them does. The reason I always keep a weapon on me, no matter the occasion.
If only my father could just get his shit together…
Actually, no. He never had it together. He’s just angry and loud and so damn bipolar. He’s two different men stuffed into the same skin. It’s like flipping a coin every day, except you already know it’s going to land on the wrong side every single time.
But he’s your father,people would always tell me.Find it in your heart to forgive him.
The thought in itself is hilarious to me. Why should I forgive him? Forgiveness doesn’t remove the knife in your back; it just makes the one holding it feel better.
I will never forgive him because he doesn’tdeserveit.
I scratch one of the older scars near my wrist. Looking at it now, I feel…nothing. I suppose I should feel some kind of shame, or disgust. Fear, maybe? That would make me normal.
