And for the first time —
I wonder if I’m imagining these nights.
If I made them up just to make myself feel better.
• • •
There’s one I know I didn’t make up.
I was eleven. Some virus that knocked me flat for four days. Fever, chills, the whole thing. My parents took shifts sitting with me.
But at some point in the night I woke up and it was Cassian.
Just — there.
Sitting on the floor next to my bed with his back against the wall, half-asleep himself.
I asked him what he was doing.
He said nothing. Like it was obvious. Like of course he was here.
He stayed until morning.
That’s the thing about him no one else knows.
He can disappear on me — and then do something like that.
And I forget everything.
Every time.
Because nothing about this feels real.
Not anymore.
But that night was real.
He was real.
And somewhere underneath all of this —
I have to believe he still is.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN YEARS OLD
• • •
Things went back to whatever our version of normal was.
After the window. After him pulling me in close and not saying anything and leaving before morning.
After I need you so much floating in the dark of my room like something I’d imagined.
I didn’t bring it up.
Of course I didn’t.
