"You're worrying me. Casual melancholy is usually my domain." Beyond the self deprecating joke his voice holds genuine concern and it softens me, just a little. Just enough.
I take a deep breath in, then finally offer, "Just one of those days. The kind that remind you, you’re not always theheroin someone else’s story.”
He exhales slowly, “You’d be surprised how often I feel that one.”
I adjust under the blanket, the sound of his breathing filling the space between us. It’s strange, how natural it feels, how easily the walls come down when it’s dark and miles separate us.
“Tell me something good,” I say. “Before we both spiral.”
He pauses, thinking. “Alright. I finally nailed that one line, the translation worked. You were right, the word I needed was simpler than I thought.”
A small smile pulls at my lips. “Told you.”
He chuckles. “I should record you saying that, for balance.”
“It might help you remember it, keep you on track.” I murmur, eyelids heavy now. “Save you from all these sleepless nights and phone calls.”
“That's the best part,” he says and I almost miss it.
The silence that follows isn’t empty, it’s the kind that fills the air with everything neither of us dares to say aloud.
My throat tightens. “Not sleeping?”
“Notstopping,” he corrects. “Talking. Thinking.” There’s a small rustling sound, I imagine him running a hand through his hair. “It’s easier, when it’s you on the other end. I forget all the noise for a bit.”
I close my eyes. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” I whisper, “I’ll start believing you mean it instead of assuming it's just charm you've picked up from years of practice.”
The line goes silent. Then, almost reluctantly, he admits, “Maybe I do.Mean it.”
Something in my chest lurches, fear, longing. I turn onto my side, face pressed into the pillow. “Rafe…”
He sighs, “Don’t worry, I know what this is. Two insomniacs pretending the miles don’t matter for a few minutes. Helping our minds go quiet.”
I huff out a laugh. “That almost sounds like a diagnosis for something.”
“I’m talking to a doctor, aren’t I?”
We both laugh then, a little breathless, the tension easing but not gone. We trade stories until exhaustion blurs our words. Then, attempting to sound relaxed, like it’s nothing, but I can hear the careful weight behind it, he asks, “Are you free next Friday?”
I blink, pushing my hair out of my face. “Next Friday?”
“Yeah,” he says. “We’re in Miami. Our last show stateside, taking a break before the European leg... you should come. ”
I laugh, startled. “That’s theopposite endof the country, I can’t just hop on a plane to Florida. I have clinic, charts, patients.”
He replies thoughtfully, undeterred. “Listen, I never do this, but, tell fuckingConradif he helps cover you, I’ll get his wife something signed by the band. Guitar strap, vinyl, whatever she wants. I hate using that card, but…it’ll work. Trust me.”
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’thaveto,” his voice deepens, “Iwantto. I need you here.”
That word lands hard and direct, my heart stumbles. He clears his throat, words pouring out, trying to distract me from what he just said.
“To help me with the song,the translation. Szklane Serce, they'll be recording with us Saturday. The label rented out a studio. I’ll get you friends-and-family passes, flights, hotel, the band will foot the bill for yourprofessional translation services.” I can hear the grin in his voice. “You’ll get to meet the guys, it’ll be fun. What do you say? You got a Friday and Saturday you can spare for us? Consider ita thank you,for taking care of theEyes of Obelus.”
