Miles smiles.
“I’ll call you later?”
“You better. I love you.”
“I love you too, Miles.”
****
Once I’m home, I head straight for my bedroom, craving the comfort of soft blankets and a quiet space to zone out. But I pause in the entrance.
The room looks different somehow. Louder. The clothes on the floor seem to scream at me, the dust on the nightstand taunts me, and the half-empty water glass is reminding me it’s been there for days.
How could I let it get this far?
Pulling off my shirt, I fold it to rest on top of the dresser instead of tossing it on the floor, but my hand hovers there, like it’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough. I need to do more.
With a sigh, I pick up the glass and take it to the kitchen. On the way back, I grab the laundry basket and start tossing clothes in. Slowly. Deliberately, like I’m relearning how. After a few minutes, a rhythm kicks in. I hit the button on my stereo and crank the music, then I reach for the T-shirts I’d thrown in a corner. Then a sock. My jeans. Another sock. I strip the bed next, pillowcases crumpling in my fists. The stale smell of sweat clings to the sheets, making me cringe.
After starting a load of laundry, I wipe down the nightstand and clear out the empty pill bottles and wad of used tissues I don’t remember leaving there. Then I crack the window to let in some air, moving right along to clean off my dresser. It’s half-buried under notebooks, mail, receipts, and too many plants.
I laugh. Too many?Don’t be ridiculous, Jordan.
I stack the papers and toss all the old bills. My mind is quieter than it’s been in weeks, maybe months. Like all the noise has been stored in these piles, waiting to be cleared out. All I needed was a nudge to do it.
Hauling my second bag out to the hall, I return with a fresh one, airing it open. That’s when I see it.
A thick stack of printed pages, held together with a binder clip. My name is in the header, and the words below that blur for a second before snapping back into focus.
THE DIVIDED SKY: Draft 2.
My heart stops, and an ache rises so fast and sharp in my chest that I suck in a breath.Charlie.My half-human, half-alien, who was hell-bent on building a better world for his colony, even if it destroyed him. God, I loved him. I still do.
I miss him.
Under the title are the words scrawled in messy, illegible handwriting:Fucking FINALLY!
I remember writing that. I remember the joy and elation of finally seeing my story in print. The pride. But the words are ironic.Finally.As if Two-Years Ago Me actually believed I’d be finished with Charlie’s story by now.
I sit down with the thick stack on my lap, soaking in Charlie’s presence like I’m visiting an old friend. Red ink bleeds across every page in frantic marks. Circles, slashes, half-legible comments from myself daring to believe in my success. I’d even scrawled “Killer description!” in one corner, like I couldn’t believe I wrote that.
I read the paragraph it’s pointing to and grin. It really is badass.
One comment catches my eye:Raise the stakes here. What does Charlie stand to lose?
I hadn’t known the answer then, but I do now.Everything.
Charlie had everything to lose.
With a rush, the air in the room changes. My chest tightens, and suddenly I see it. All of it. This story knew me before I knew myself.
Charlie was me.Not just a stand-in, not just a character. Hewasme. He carried my pain and wore my grief like armor. It’s uncanny. The isolation, the unbearable loss, the quiet, even the relentless war inside his own mind. It’s me.
Every word, every scene,I’d lived it.
Charlie’s father was as cold and dismissive as my own, shrugging off Charlie’s pain like it was just another inconvenience. He told him to be stronger and to turn off his emotions. Told him he shouldn’t feel what he feels.
Charlie’s human brother was in captivity too. His alien sister missing on another planet. Just like my own siblings.
