"I'm going to bed."
Her voice comes out flat. Empty.
I should say something, should turn around and look at her and try to explain. But the words won't come.
"Goodnight, Enzo."
Footsteps on the stairs. A door closing. Silence.
I stay at the window, staring at the empty porch where I destroyed the best thing that could have happened to me.
The couch is where I belong. Down here, away from her, keeping distance like I should have done five years ago when I started letting myself get close enough to notice the way she laughs or the perfume she wears.
I lie down and stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster.
Sleep doesn't come easy.
My mind won't shut off, keeps replaying that night on the porch, the look on her face when I called her pathetic, the way her hands shook, the mascara running down her cheeks.
The way I wanted to cross that porch and kiss her until neither of us could breathe.
I turn over, punch the pillow, try to find a position that doesn't make my shoulder ache.
At some point exhaustion wins. My eyes get heavy, the edges of consciousness start to blur.
I'm almost under when I hear a loud piercing scream.
ISABELLA!
I'm on my feet before my brain catches up, gun in hand, moving. Up the stairs three at a time. Down the hall. Her door.
I don't knock.
The door slams open and I sweep the room with my gun. “ISABELLA!”
I check left. Right. Windows. Closet. Under the bed.
Nothing.
No one.
Just Isabella thrashing in the sheets with her eyes closed, her head turning side to side, her hands clawing at something that isn't there.
"No. No. Please. I can't—" Her voice is broken, terrified. "Don't. Please don't."
It’s a nightmare.
I lower the gun and set it on the dresser before moving to the bed.
"Isabella."
She doesn't hear me, still fighting invisible hands, still begging.
"Please. I'll be good. I promise. Just don't?—"
"Isabella." Louder now. I sit on the edge of the bed. "Wake up."
Nothing.
