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But it isn’t.

Smoke, always smoke and shadow and wispy bullshit. All that’s left is an oozing pool of black muck, and this strange, cool feeling in the middle of my chest that feels familiar but not wanted.

“Sunday!” Bellamy shouts, the word chasing that cool feeling away. I slowly turn my head toward him, fighting back the sick feeling that’s taking over my system from the adrenaline rush. His hair is a wild mess, eyes wider and brighter still. There’s a thick layer of grime splashed over his Converse, a detail that will come to haunt me later.

And there’s nothing I can do, apart from call his name in desperation.

Half a second.

Half a second, where he believes we’ve won this.

The way his features contort in confusion, fear nipping hard at its heels…that’s something I’ll never forget. I’ll never forget the sound of his body hitting the floor, the cry as his leg is ripped out from underneath him.

I’ll never forget the way his fingers scrabble for purchase, for something to hold onto.

The way they slip on slick grime.

The guttural sound he makes as he screams my name, screams for me to help him.

I try.

I fucking try, but every movement makes the room tilt sideways. I gain an inch, maybe two, by the time his hips dip into the water.

“Please, please, help me,” he pleads raggedly, sucking in uneven lungfuls of air as the panic takes over him completely. “No. NO, PLEASE!”

The feeling in my arms wanes, and I collapse. The ground is cool and hard against my cheek, almost pleasant. I force myself to angle my head and look at him.

The last thing I see is dark fingers wrapping around Bellamy’s throat, wrenching him backward until his hands slip off the ledge. Pulling him down, down, down.

Until he’s drowning.

Epilogue

Sunday

ONE MONTH LATER

Istare.

At the ceiling.

The wall.

The barstool.

The window seat, and all the spaces he’s meant to be.

“Sweetheart, you need to eat more than that.” My mom’s voice is kind but feels barbed. Her warm hand lands on my arm, jostling it to encourage me. I continue picking at the pasta dish she’s made for me, but it’s pointless.

“I’ll only throw it back up later,” I mutter, dropping my fork with a clatter and pushing the plate away like a petulant child. I can’t even look at her face.

I’m fucking sick of the pity. None of them understand. None of them. Apart from Séverin, no one knows the truth of what happened to Bellamy. Séverin was in too much of a state to compel anyone, so a missing person’s report still ended up being filed.

I had to sit through several rounds of questioning, asking me what our relationship was like, where I was, when I last saw him, what we were doing. What he was wearing.

Oh, I remember that alright.

It fucking haunts me.