Page 34 of Laced in Longing

“Those are dreams,” I counter, voice steadier than I feel. “This is real. You broke into my apartment. Again?” I’m not sure why I frame it as a question other than my brain telling me there’s no way this is real.

A sound escapes him—not quite a laugh, more a release of air that carries the faintest hint of amusement. “I didn’t break anything. The barriers between our worlds are thinner than most realize.”

Our worlds. The phrase tingles at the base of my skull. “What does that mean? Are you saying you’re not from…here?” I gesture vaguely, encompassing my apartment and the city beyond.

“No. Not from your realm.” He remains by the window, making no attempt to approach me further. Perhaps he senses that any sudden movement would send me bolting.

My thoughts race as I struggle to fit his presence into some framework my mind can process. Ghost? Vision? Delusion? Mental breakdown? None of these explanations feel right, but the alternative—that a being from another world is standing in my space—seems equally impossible.

Yet here he is.

“What’s your name?” I ask, grabbing onto this basic question like a lifeline, something solid in the shifting unreality of this moment.

“I have many names in many languages.” He tilts his head in that now-familiar gesture. “But you may call me Ash.”

“Ash,” I repeat, the single syllable strange on my tongue. Simple and ordinary enough. Though it doesn’t match the extraordinary figure before me.

Curiosity pushes past my fear, pulling me forward a half-step from the safety of the front door. My breathing shallows. “Why are you here?”

“A complicated question with a simple answer.” He spins back to the window, his profile stark against the glass. “I’m here because of you. Because you called to me across worlds, whether you were aware or not.”

“I didn’t call anyone,” I argue, but even as I speak, something flickers in my chest. My fingers pick at the hem of my shirt as I wait for him to explain.

“Not with words, no.” Ash looks back at me, and though I can’t see his gaze, I feel the weight of it all the same. “With something far more powerful. With the absence at your core that nothing in this world can fill.”

My breath catches. How could he know that? That vast emptiness I’ve carried for as long as I can remember, that hollow space no amount of moving or changing or trying has ever been able to fill?

“Who are you?” I inquire once more, voice barely above a whisper.

“I am the God of Longing.”

The statement hangs in the air between us, too enormous to process immediately. A god? Standing in my shabby apartment with its leaky faucet and second-hand furniture? Looking at me in my worn, ratty clothes like I’m something precious?

Impossible. This isn’t real…right?

“That’s not—” I begin before pausing. What do I know about what’s possible? My entire life has been an exercise in emptiness, in yearning for something I couldn’t name. Who am I to say what gods exist or don’t?

I lean against the refrigerator, legs suddenly weak. “Let’s say I believe you,” I manage, though I’m not sure I do. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here. With me. Leaving flowers while I sleep.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, seeming to consider his words. “I am here because you are mine,” he answers after a minute, each word measured. “Or rather, your soul is. Your soul is the perfect match to mine, promised to me many years ago.”

The statement sinks into my skin, ripples of implication spreading outward. This isn’t real.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say, forcing my voice to remain level despite the tremor building in my limbs. “I’m just a person. A nobody. I’ve never been anybody’s, not even my own parents’.”

“You are far more than you realize, Maven.” There’s something in his voice now—a depth of emotion that tightens my throat. “You have lived many lives before this one. And in each, I have found you. In each, I have waited.”

The room tilts, the universe shifting beneath my feet. “So, what—you’re saying I’ve been reincarnated? That we’ve known each other before?”

“Yes.” A single word, but laden with meaning. As though we share a history that should render us familiar.

My arms wrap around my waist as I grasp for something solid in this conversation that keeps veering into whatever the fuck this is. “If what you’re saying is true, if I belong to you, why am I here? Why have I lived so many lives and you’ve waited, as you say?” Knowing my mind is creating this scenario makes it easier to ask questions.

The atmosphere around him darkens, as if shadows gather more densely in his vicinity. I’ve upset him, though I’m not sure how I know.

“Because you must give me permission,” he says, his voice lower now, edged with something sharp. “You must consent to leave this mortal world with me, or you remain trapped in the cycle of reincarnation forever.”

The implication blazes my vision like a neon sign. This is so strange… “You’re saying I’ve said no. In every life?”