“It never left.”
His eyes move down to my mouth. “These symptoms, Em… They’re not something we can ignore. Have you been taking the pills I gave you?”
I draw in a breath that doesn’t feel full. “That’s what I want to talk about.”
“When was your last dose?” he asks before I can ask my question.
Silence stretches between us. I don’t want to answer his question, because I haven’t taken any in a while, not since the pill spilled open on the corner desk and smelled sweet when it should’ve been bitter.
And besides, that’s not what’s pertinent. I’ve been dying to know if Idris did something to the pills he made for me. If what he’s been giving me is real or not.
My ribs grip around the question. I swallow my nervousness down and force my shuddering voice to ask, “Idris… Did you give me placebos?”
His thumb stills at my jaw, his hand at my waist flexing. Then, unexpectedly, his smile returns, as warm as ever. “Em,” he says, his gaze opening. “I’dnevergive you placebos.”
The words seem genuine enough, yet my body doesn’t relax.
I study his eyes while the silence holds. Light blue, clear as the sea, and as open as he’s always been with me. The expression alone suggests he’s telling the truth. Even so, curiosity presses harder than relief ever could.
“Then why are they sweet…?” I ask carefully.
His smile doesn’t waver as he speaks. “Because it’s a compound I made foryou, Em.” His tone stays patient, but his pupils dilate when he leans closer. “The perfect formula of clean Kysergic Synesthesine you made, and I…”
He stops to laugh lightly, so light that it’s a warm breath between us.
My eyes almost flutter close, and I nearly close the space betweenus. I want to return to our routine, and to be by his side the way we’ve always been.
But the need to know is stronger, so I wait until he continues.
Idris hovers closer. “Em, all I did was add some more into the formula. A pren—”
He blinks in surprise for a few seconds before clearing his throat and continuing on.
“A multivitamin and other supplements, such as folic acid and iron. And a low glycemic saccharide to support absorption.”
He lists the contents how he’d describe how he makes my coffee. Except as perfectly as he makes it, I don’t know why he’d change the compound of my pills.
“Does that mean…” I whisper, “that I have a dysfunction?”
The question seems to catch him by surprise. I see it in the lift of his brows and how fast his smile disappears. “A dysfunction? Inyou, Em?” His words leave him in a hurry. “No, nothing like that. What would ever make you think that?”
I don’t answer right away. My thoughts are lining up possibilities, searching for what he hasn’t said.
“I was preparing to explain,” he continues, “a lot of things, actually, but I wanted to wait for the right moment when—”
He stops himself with a huff of breath, more amused than frustrated.
“Em,” he says, “there’s nothing wrong with you.”
His fingers lift to my cheek, the touch so achingly familiar that I realize now how badly I missed him. His thumb brushes beneath my eye, behind the bottom frame of my glasses.
“I wouldn’t change one single, miniscule thing about you, Em.” A faint smile curves the bow of his lips. “All of it’s just to make sure your body has a little more support while you’re handling everything.”
His words pass without much emphasis. Still, my pulse jumpsunder his hand.
“I know you push yourself, especially when things feel out of your control,” he says. “I only wanted to make things easier for you. That’s all.”
He lowers his head. His mouth traces the line of my cheek.
