Page 161 of My Lovely Tragedy
I let the door close with a softshnick,trapping those memories within.
Each step is slow and deliberate as I round the wide corner to the ladder. It’s been forever since I last stepped foot in his space. And while the cabin is also wholly him, his loft is the heart. Where his books are, his clothes. Notebooks and music sheets. Where he lies his head at night—or at least where he did before I came along.
Each rung I grasp grows slick beneath my palm. I nearly slip halfway up, but my left arm bands around the back, catching me just as I teeter. “Fuck,” I pant, blowing my hair out of my face before dropping my forehead to the bar above, catching my breath. My heart hammers against my ribcage, erratic with the flush of adrenaline.
I wait for my hands to stop trembling, but then, it hits me—they haven’t stopped since I woke up. With that, I climb the rest of the way. Gripping the top of the railing, I hoist myself up, only to be met with an empty, dark room. A room that smells of… well,me.Infused with Tobias and laundry soap.
I frown as I round the bed, but it really is as empty as it looks. I drop to my knees and peer underneath. Nothing but darkness. Sitting back on my haunches, I gather my hair into my fist to toss it all behind my back and out of my face as I stare blankly forward at the empty bedside table, feeling every slow chug, every gurgle, and grinding bone.
He’s not here… Where is he? He has to be here. His truck is here.My fingers tap restlessly on my thighs. The muscles flex and bunch as I shift, grinding my ankles into the hard floor.
The shed outside.
I jump up with newfound realization, and my descent is with much more vigor than my ascent.He’s gotta be in there… doing something, I don’t know. Probably something with wood for the fireplace, I’ll bet. He did love having fires before… and that’s why he didn’t hear me. Or see me.
As my boots slam down onto the floor from the fourth rung, I slip as I turn, jerking to a stop. My eyes scour the room. The higher the sun climbs, the brighter its rays through the black curtains. They melt some of the shadows, drawing light into the darkness inside.
My gaze moves over the stained couch. The coffee table and his chair, which looks so…empty.
Shaking that thought away, I barely skim over my chains by the fireplace and the far window, which looks so odd blacked out, so I yank the curtains open, eyes rolling back at the flash of blinding light. I turn away, shielding my face with my arm, and that’s when I see it—what exactly caught my eye.
There’s quite a large stack of papers on the back of Tobias’s piano… on the lid… which is closed. My lips twist into a frown as I approach. My hand reaches out, fingers grazing the sleek, black wood. Down and across the ivory keys. Tobias’s hands over mine, veins stark against his tanned skin. Smooth flesh above my roughened skin. Silk on concrete. An imperfect perfection as we blurred together and made music. Fell into it and became one.
A chill wraps around my spine and up my neck, causing my eyes to roll back and my veins to spasm against the rush.
I lean over the keyboard, dragging the stack of papers closer. The top sheets are filled with notes along the bar lines, written into a song I know by heart. In my soul, wrapped in my core. My lips curve into a soft smile as my finger follows each note, written in a matte black finish all the way through the end.
When I flip the top papers back, I notice Tobias’s small, looping, neat script at the top. “Lifeblood,” I read aloud in a scrape of a whisper just before my throat closes the rest of the way.
Lifebloodlifebloodlifeblood.
The room closes in around me.
He heard me sing for him last night. He—heheard me.Watched me play his song, sing my words. Named his song for me while I gave my all for him.
I drop the papers with a shaking hand.He knows I want him, how I feel. And he wants me… that has to be what this means… making his song ours. Letting me see.
But… he doesn’t know I’m here.
Maybe he was expecting me. Yeah, yeah. He’s waiting for me.
God, I miss him.
With an unsteady hand and rapidly blinking eyes, I peer into the direct ray of light to the leather-bound journal resting on top of the papers stacked in whatwasa neat pile, now shifted and uneven.
I drag my finger over the smooth, buttery leather. Across the thick, rough strap binding it. Down along the side of the uneven, unlined pages within. A lovely cream color.
My hand trembles as I lift it from the stack and uncoil the strap, letting it fall loose. Old, worn leather and ink fills my nostrils as I push the cover back, exposing the first page, engraved with his neat, curved scrawl. Different from his hurried, scratchy letters on later pages—the ones I stole a glimpse of. When I held my knife to his throat, and helet me.
He would have let me end it all, and when I met his unwavering gaze, crimson irises open and exposed, I saw nothing but trust and utterdevotion.
My lovely tragedystares back at me.
My heart stops beating.
My lovely tragedy,
The first thing I want you to know is this is our story. Left unfinished, just as we are. As you are. I could not bring myself to write an ending when we simply do not have one, while also holding onto the hope that you and I will carry on existing together in every universe.
