I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I don’t know how long this barrage will last or how much more will be uncovered, but the emotional revelations are beginning to take their toll on me.
A few months ago, I knew I loved Ella. I knew I felt for her what I’d never felt before for anyone. It felt new and precious and tender.
Important.
But every day—every minute—of the last couple ofweeks I’ve been bombarded by memories of her I never even knew I had. Moments with her from years ago. The sound of her laughter, the smell of her hair, the look in her eyes when she smiled at me for the first time. The way it felt to hold her hand when everything was new and unknown—
Three years ago.
How could it be possible that I touched her like that three years ago? How could we have known then, without actually knowingwhy, that we could be together? That she could touch me without hurting me? How could any of these moments have been ripped from my mind?
I had no idea I’d lost so much of her. But then, I had no idea there’d been so much to lose.
A profound, painful ache has rooted inside of me, carrying with it the weight of years. Being apart from Juliette—Ella—has always been hard, but now it seems unsurvivable.
I’m being slowly decimated by emotion.
I need to see her. To hold her. To bind her to me, somehow. I won’t believe a word my father said until I see her and speak with her in person.
I can’t give up. Not yet.
To hell with what happened between us back on base. Those events feel like they happened lifetimes ago. Like they happened to different people. Once I find her and get her to safety I will find a way to make things right between us. It feels like something long dead inside of me is being slowly returned to life—like my hopes and dreams are being resuscitated, like the holes in my heart are being slowly,carefully mended. I will find her. And when I do, I will find a way to move forward with her, by my side, forever.
I take a deep breath.
And then I get to my feet.
I brace myself, expecting the familiar sting of my broken ribs, but the pain in my side is gone. Gingerly, I touch my torso; the bruising has disappeared. I touch my face and I’m surprised to discover that my skin is smooth, clean-shaven. I touch my hair and find it’s been returned to its original length—exactly as it was before I had to cut it all off.
Strange.
Still, I feel more like myself than I have in a long time, and I’m quietly grateful. The only thing bothering me is that I’m wearing nothing but a dressing grown, under which I’m completely naked.
I’m sick of being naked.
I want my clothes. I want a proper pair of pants. I want—
And then, as if someone has read my mind, I notice a fresh set of clothes on a nearby table. Clothes that look exactly my size.
I pick up the sweater. Examine it.
These are my actual clothes. I know these pieces. Recognize them. And if that wasn’t enough, my initials—AWA—are monogrammed on the cuff of the sweater. This was no accident. Someone brought my clothes here. From my own closet.
They were expecting me.
I dress quickly, grateful for the clean outfit regardless ofthe circumstances, and I’m nearly done with the straps on my boots when someone walks in.
“Max,” I say, without lifting my head. Carefully, I step on the needle I’d tossed earlier to the floor. “How are you?”
He laughs out loud. “How did you know it was me?”
“I recognized the rhythm of your footfalls.”
He goes quiet.
“Don’t bother trying to deny it,” I say, hiding the syringe in my hand as I sit up. I meet his eyes and smile. “I’ve been listening to your heavy, uneven gait for the last two weeks.”
Max’s eyes widen. “I’m impressed.”
