Page 39 of Laced in Longing

My throat tightens, eyes burning with tears I refuse to shed. He’s describing the core of my being, the void at the center of everything I am. The thing I’ve tried to fill with books and crystals. So desperate to make it stop that I stooped to meaningless sex and constant motion and, in my darkest moments, pain sharp enough to drown out everything else.

“That’s just depression,” I manage, the excuse weak even to my own ears. “Stupid chemical imbalance that shows how badly my brain was wired. Nothing mystical about it.”

“Perhaps in this life, it manifests that way,” he concedes. “The mortal body influences the soul’s experience. But the root cause remains the same. You don’t belong here, Maven. You never have. Your soul knows this, even if your conscious mind refuses to acknowledge it.”

I want to argue—again. Want to tell him he’s wrong; that I’m just a fucked-up human with a fucked-up brain, not some displaced divine soul trapped in mortal flesh. But the words stick in my throat, caught behind the terrible, wonderful possibility that he might be right.

And here I am again, closing the full circle of thought once more as I wonder if there’s a reason I’ve never fit anywhere? A question I’ve asked many times these last few days, before sinking into denial once more.

What if the emptiness inside me isn’t a flaw but a feature…a space left deliberately vacant, waiting for something specific to fill it?

What if he’s the answer to a question I’ve been asking my entire life without realizing it?

The thought terrifies me more than anything he’s said or done so far. Because if he’s right—if my soul really does belong with him—then everything I’ve built my identity around is a lie. All the pain and loneliness, all the years of feeling broken and unwanted…they weren’t punishment or bad luck or cruel fate. They were neon signs, shoving me toward a truth I’ve been running from for lifetimes.

I can’t handle that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“I need to go,” I say, abrupt in my movement as I push away from the railing. My legs feel unsteady beneath me, as if the ground itself has shifted.

“Maven—” He reaches for me, but I step back, avoiding his touch.

“No. I can’t do this right now. I need…I need space. Time, or something—I don’t know!” My words tumble over each other, frantic and disjointed. “Just leave me alone. Please.”

I don’t wait for his response. I spin before doing what I do best and walking away, my pace increasing with each step until I’m practically running down the path, away from everything.

The cold air burns like fire lining my lungs as tears stream down my cheeks.

I need him to go so I can calm the fuck down and think clearly. I need to sort through the tangled mess of emotions he’s stirred up and figure out what’s real and what’s delusion.

Maybe then I can decide whether I’m running from a truth I can’t face or toward a self I’m finally ready to become.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MAVEN

People stare as I rush past, my face wet with tears I can’t stop. Let them stare. Let them see the crazy woman running from nothing.

From everything.

A wooden sign appears through my blurred vision, the carved letters announcing “St. Joseph’s Oratory” with an arrow pointing left. I pause.

I’ve never been religious—never found comfort in the idea of a god watching over me when evidence suggested otherwise—but churches deal with spirits, right? Maybe an exorcism is exactly what I need.

I veer left without slowing, following the sign down a long, tree-lined path. Shadows stretch across the snow-dusted ground, cast by massive stone steps rising toward an enormous domed building that looms against the winter sky. The structure is imposing, all gray stone and sharp angles softened only by the curve of its large dome.

My pace slows as I approach the foot of the steps, my breath coming in ragged gasps. There must be at least a hundred stairs climbing toward the church entrance, each one steeper than the last. A migraine starts at the base of my skull, and my already-burning legs protest at the thought.

A group of tourists nearly plows into me, the idiot blocking their path. One woman mutters an apology in French as they pass, their faces upturned toward the church with expressions of awe I can’t muster. Awareness prickles down my spine.

He’s still here. I huff a weak laugh—as if he would just leave.

A warm breath skates across the nape of my neck, forcing the hairs to stand at attention. I suck in a sharp breath, my body going rigid before I can stop it. Slowly I turn, already knowing what I’ll find.

Ash stands less than a foot away, his tall frame blocking the weak winter sun.

He doesn’t usually stay this long. His visits are brief—even the times he manifests in my apartment to tell his stories. This persistence is new and concerning.

Is it a sign of deeper attachment? Or is he scared that I’m actually going to find a way to banish him from my life for good?