Page 6 of Laced in Longing

So thoughtful.

The radiator hisses just as my phone chimes, jolting me from my stupor. My lips flatten when I reach the device and see Dr. Voss’ text confirming tomorrow’s appointment time.

The routine of existing drags me through its motions, and before long I’m leaning against the window because I may freeze to death if I don’t sit over the radiator—which is not an ideal way to go. I’ve read that it’s painful but peaceful soon after. That the body falls asleep before passing, and the only thing I’d have to deal with is prickling from going numb. Still sounds miserable.

My gaze catches on people hurrying below, heads bent against the heavy gusts, each racing toward some destination that matters to them. What would it be like to have someone waiting for me? To have reasons that pull me forward through each day? To feel anchored in the world instead of constantly at risk of drifting away from it?

Glancing at the flowers once more, I release a heavy breath. I definitely should have told the doctor that I’m having comforting hallucinations and my grip on reality feels increasingly tenuous. She’d be right to lock me away. I’m a danger to society at worst, and a hindrance at best.

A floorboard creaks beneath my weight as I scurry to the bed, the sound echoing louder than my thoughts. For an instant, a prickling sensation slithers up my spine. The hair on my neck rises, forcing me to whirl around, eyes scanning the limitless shadows.

Nothing. Just my imagination working overtime from exhaustion. At least, that’s what I choose to believe. Manifest, more like.

But then a sense of calming warmth envelopes me, my eyes closing, willing my body to fall into its familiarity. Something brushes hair from my face, the touch gentle as a breeze.

I don’t even care if I’m going crazy…this feels too nice to let go.

CHAPTER THREE

MAVEN

Venice. That’s where I’ve ended up tonight. Not the Venice of selfie sticks and tourist crowds, but the one of my imagination—caressed by dawn, the lagoon water still as glass. Buildings rise from the mist in shades of faded terracotta and sun-bleached yellow, their reflections steady beneath stone bridges that arch over unused canals.

This is how my dreams always start now. A place I’ve never been but always wanted to see—places I’ve pinned on apps, images I scroll through when my mind becomes too heavy. Last night it was the Scottish Highlands; before that, a deserted beach in Thailand with limestone cliffs rising from impossibly turquoise water.

I shift to stroll across an empty piazza before noticing the dress draped over my body. Pink like the sky, long with its arms wrapped around my neck as it hangs low across my back. This is one thing that never changes in my dreams: the dress. It’s not something I would have chosen for myself, but it makes me feel almost pretty. Like the fabric was stitched together with my image in mind; like the one who chose it wanted to be sure that every dip and curve of the dress would worship each line of my body.

This is the moment when it always shifts; the moment I realize these dreams aren’t truly me, but the me as seen from another’s eyes. I bet if I peered into a mirror, my hair would be luscious and full, not dull and flat. My eyes would brighten the surroundings, encapsulating a beauty they’ve never possessed. Whoever creates these dreams—whoever he is—sees me as someone worthy. A beautiful entity who should be dressed in pretty things and taken to pretty places.

And now I’m…heavy. Lonely? Sad? Whatever it is creeps in like thick fog, rolling off the water to wrap around my ankles, climbing higher until it fills my lungs and swirls through my skull. It’s a familiar feeling, this hollow, yet dense, ache—the same one I’ve carried for the last twenty-seven years of my life. At least it’s duller in my dreams, less concentrated, as if the man that brings me here wants to spare me from the worst of my existence.

It’s strange how much I hate this feeling when I spend most of my waking hours avoiding people. I don’t want company, or the arduous dance of connection, yet the absence of companionship, or something, claws at me.

Maybe that’s why I move from big city to big city. Places where I’m surrounded by humanity without having to engage with it.

I learned young that loneliness doesn’t require physical solitude; you can be plenty lonely in a crowd, but at least in the midst of people you can pretend you’re making a choice to be alone rather than facing the truth: that something about you repels others as much as it does yourself.

As the air thickens, I know what comes next. My heart beats faster, torn between wanting it and fearing it.

What is wrong with me? Eager for an illusion?

Something behind me stirs. Condenses. There’s a presence at my back, as tangible as the stone beneath my bare feet. I don’t turn around yet. No, I wait, the moment stretching as I savor the burden of being perceived.

When I finally adjust my direction, he’s there. Standing at the edge of the piazza, a dark silhouette against the pale Venetian stone. Each time I dream, his form is a little more clear and defined. As if he’s slowly emerging from fog, gaining substance with each visit.

Strange that my mind won’t allow me to see all of him yet. Is he some metaphor for the crazy spreading through my head? Not able to show himself in full until I’ve well and truly lost my mind? Or maybe this is the dissociation Dr. Voss spoke of…

Today, I can make out that he’s tall—taller than I am by at least a head—with broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist. He wears a long black coat, the kind with lapels and a fitted waist that reminds me of the early 1900s. His arms rest at his sides, fingers long and elegant. Those things belong in leather gloves holding a cigar. His posture is perfect: spine straight, shoulders squared. And he possesses a stillness about him that no human being could maintain.

But his face…I still cannot see his face. It’s covered by a white fabric that drapes from his head down over a shoulder, hiding his features completely. Like a funeral shroud or a veil worn backward. The fabric remains stiff in the breeze that stirs loose strands of my hair, hanging in the way I imagine beautifully carved marble would.

We stand in our respective spaces, facing each other across the empty square. Neither moving. Neither speaking. Just watching. Assessing. In the waking world, this kind of prolonged eye contact—or whatever you’d call this faceless staring contest—would make my skin crawl. I’d be scanning for the nearest exit, calculating how quickly I could escape.

But in this version of my reality, I feel no urge to run. The itch of liberation is nowhere to be found.

The silence between us isn’t awkward or threatening, either. It’s comfortable…companionable, even. Like we’re sharing something precious without needing words to label it.

How many nights has he visited me now? I’m unsure, but each time is the same—a beautiful place, the creeping loneliness, his appearance, the silent communion. I’ve never tried to speak to him before. Never dared to break the contented spell with questions.