“Bedroom,” I croak, squeezing his hand—needing to feel him there, solid, tethered.
But he lets go, heading toward the en suite.
My fingers linger in the empty space for a moment, grasping nothing but air, before I shuffle after him slowly, whispering to myself that it’s okay.He’s mad. Buthe’s still here. He’s still with me.
I exhale in relief—only for it to catch halfway up my throat.
The moment I step into my bedroom, the breath is ripped from my lungs.
Papers. Everywhere. Strewn across the floor like snowdrifts of secrets I never meant to share. My gaze darts to the desk—the rolltop is open. What was once a pile of crinkled pages is now carefully unfolded, meticulously arranged.
My poems. My memories. Mypieces.
He’s been here.
Gabriel.
And all the perfectly hidden fragments of my life have been dragged into the light—exposed, unfolded,seen.
My knees hit the floor with a hollow thud.
“Noah?”
His voice floats in from the bathroom, harsh, but concerned.
But I can’t answer.
I can’t move.
All I can do is stare at the ruins of my privacy—of my past—scattered across the floor like a soul laid bare.
And just like that… the storm I thought I’d survived begins again.
32
ALEX
The soundof Noah crying is gut-wrenching. It rips right through me—raw and sudden.
I don’t understand. A second ago, he was shaking in my arms, clinging to me like I was the only thing keeping him upright. Now he’s on the floor like someone pulled the plug.
I stand there for a beat, frozen. Heart hammering, brain scrambled.
I want to help him. I feel the need to. But part of me still doesn’t know what the fuck is going on.
His arms come up, gripping the sides of his head. “S-stay away. Stop talking to me! Pleasestop.”
His voice splinters—high-pitched, frantic—like he’s being cornered by something I can’t see.
Hesitantly, I step toward him. He’s hunched over, now clawing at scattered papers like they’re all he has left. He grabs fistfuls of them, crushing them until his knuckles turn bone white.
“Noah! It’s me—Alex!”
His head jerks up, startled. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide—like he doesn’t recognize me. Like he’s not even in the same room.
Then his head tilts sharply to the left. My own head follows before I can stop it—some instinct to mirror him, to reach him. Maybe if I move like him, he’ll see me. Maybe it will make it better.
Maybe I should just call Gabriel.
