Sure, I don’t have to write romance. I don’t have to write a happily-ever-after, but if I make that pivot, if I stop writing love stories, I think I’ll be discarding the last shred of the person I used to be. Because the young girl who daydreamed—who stayed up late at night handwriting poems and teaching herself Italian—she was destined to tell stories about love.
I was so sure I’d given up on her, so sure she died that day, too, but if I give up writing romance in pursuit of other genres—that somehow feels like dropping her coffin into the ground,burying her in soil. I don’t think I’m ready to do that to her just yet.
Since it’s unlikely I’ll find the words I’m searching for tonight, and sleep will evade me as well, I leave my bedroom and head downstairs for something to eat. I did skip dinner, after all.
August and I have gone back to nothing more than passing glances and muttered responses to basic questions, keeping as much physical distance between ourselves as possible. We almost crossed a line in the kitchen last week, and I hate to admit how much it killed me when he ended our interaction with the upper hand—how his venomous words shredded through my puckered scar tissue, and when he walked away victorious, I felt like I was left bleeding out.
There was a bit of satisfaction that came with that near-slipup, though. August can taunt and tease me all he wants, but he forgets that I once knew him better than anyone else on earth. I’ve spent hours—days—studying his face, his expressions, his reactions. He’s just as weak for me as I am for him, and I have no doubt that knowing I was chasing pleasure with his name on my lips, right above his head, sent him spiraling too. I knew by the way he spoke of it, the way his eyes flared when he touched my face, that he’d done the same under the cover of darkness.
He imagines me, dreams of me, even if it kills him to do so.
I’ve stuck to using nothing more than my hand to get off since, not wanting to risk him hearing me again. But sometimes, I’m tempted to torture him more. Leave my door open, scream his name, beg him to get me off himself.
It’s demented and fucked up, and I don’t know what it says about me that the thought of driving him to the brink of insanity turns me lust-crazed.
I tiptoe quietly down the stairs. It’s late and very unlikely August is still awake. Regardless, until I get my disconcertingreactions to the man under control, I’m avoiding him like the fucking plague.
I watch the kettle like a hawk, ready to catch it before the whistle so it doesn’t wake him, drumming my fingers against the counter. It’s like when you’re waiting for the water to boil, it takes so much longer than when you’re distracted by something else. That’s kind of how August and I feel sometimes. We’re slow-simmering, popping bubbles, raging with heat. When I search for signs of our combustion, it always feels too slow. But I know the moment my control slips, the moment I drop my guard, we’re going to boil over, and I’m terrified of what the outcome will be.
A shriek slices through the silent night, piercing my ears and rattling my bones. Gasping, I snatch the kettle off the stove, but the screaming doesn’t stop. Hair stands on the back of my neck as I whip around, scanning the house.
In the dim light, nothing moves, and the noise ceases. Only one lamp in the living room is still on, but nothing else appears out of place. Trepidation rises in my throat as I glance around. I can’t tell if the noise came from outside, but it sounded close. It sounded like someone facing pure terror.
Walking through the living room, I check the television to see if August left it on, but he didn’t. My body trembles with uncertain fear, and just when I’m convinced I made it up, another yelp tears through the quiet room.
Tracking the sound is much easier this time. It’s definitely coming from inside the house, and I follow it through the den to August’s bedroom. I hesitate outside his door, wary of invading his space. Until I hear him scream again. It’s unmistakable, the sound of raw pain coming from his familiar voice. It rushes through me, settling in my chest and causing a full-body wince, like his voice alone is force enough to sucker punch me.
“August?” I ask, easing the door to his room open.
It looks the same as I remember it, though it’s been over four years since I’ve been inside. A large bed sits at the center of the room, to the left of the door, forest green comforter crumpled and tossed aside. To my right is a dresser, littered with socks and belts. A walk-in closet is directly in front of me, with a bathroom door beside it.
I drag my gaze to where August sits upright in bed, startling because he’s staring directly at me. Air swooshes from my lungs on an exhale, and while our eyes lock, I somehow know he’s not seeing me. Shock and fear war within his green irises, but whatever he’s seeing, it’s not this room.
His chest heaves nearly uncontrollably, like no matter how hard he tries, he can’t catch his breath. I watch him grab the base of his throat before another scream echoes off the walls of the silent house. “No, no, no.” His legs flail, and he scrambles back against his headboard, like he’s crawling away from something. “I didn’t! I didn’t!”
He falls back on his pillow, eyes fixed to the ceiling now. He’s still clawing at his neck, panting hard.
It’s agonizing to watch him like this. Nausea twists my stomach, and my eyes fill with tears as I slowly step toward the bed. It must be a night terror, because this appears far worse than any bad dream could be. Leo used to suffer from night terrors the first few years after my family took him in. It was PTSD from witnessing his mother’s death, according to doctors.
Leo doesn’t talk about it often, mostly because he can’t remember having them. They stopped when he was a teenager. My mother said it was because night terrors were far more common in children than adults, but I suppose it’s not impossible for August to be suffering from them, with the trauma he bears.
From what I remember, you’re not supposed to wake someone in the midst of a night terror; you’re only supposed tocoax them back to sleep. Tears drip from my jaw and to the floor as I tiptoe toward his bed, holding back sobs at the sight of him like this.
“August,” I whisper, choking on the word.
He looks so broken, the deepest pits of darkness in his mind rising to the surface in a catastrophic wave. Bearing witness to the devastation is wrecking me—his screams like claws tearing through my flesh, his fear like a knife piercing my heart, his pain like black hole swallowing me whole.
I slowly climb onto the bed, sitting on my knees. My first touch is featherlight, fingers sweeping over the hair on his forehead, matted with sweat against his skin. He gasps at the contact, but I hush him. “It’s okay, Augustus. It’s me.”
I don’t say my name, because I no longer know if his subconscious will recognize it as a savior or a foe.
He begins to tremble, and I hesitate once more. I don’t know if my presence is causing more distress, amplifying whatever battle he’s already fighting in his mind.
I lean away, extending one leg off his bed and planting it to the floor, but the moment I do, he yelps again, screaming, “No! No.”
I know he isn’t talking to me. I know he’s not in the room right now. Wherever he is, though, is a place much worse, and I don’t want him to be alone when he returns.
I think my leaving him alone may be the reason he’s facing this.
