Page 40 of My Lovely Tragedy
Relief masks the regret, if only marginally, but it is enough to flow over and bypass the moment. “Thank you,” I whisper as an entirely different scene takes shape, and I find myself uncertain as to which I would have preferred.
The one where I finally got a taste of him.
The realization is difficult to shove down. The longer he is here, especially in this state—vulnerable, dependent,desperate—the more I crave him. The deeper and darker my thoughts get. The profuse desire to keep him by my side, no matter the cost—the cost being his independence. His autonomy.
Hischoice.
Each sip is small and weak—a barely recognizable action—but slowly, the tea enters his mouth and trickles down the tight comfort of his throat, filling his belly with something I made for him.
It’s a comforting thought, being inside him. Swimming around in his intestines.
Once the cup is empty, the coil of hair around my finger slips away from my loosened grip, a soft whisp of air against my skin, as Brooklyn slumps against the headboard, his neck at an odd angle.
With his swollen eyes closed again, red lips parted as he breathes through his mouth, nose too clogged from crying, I watch him. Until my own body grows tired and I crawl in beside him, back against the headboard, arms crossed to resist the temptation totouch, to hold,and fall into a sleep filled with impossible realities.
CHAPTERTWELVE
BROOKLYN
The glareof sunlight makes the regret of being alive ten times fucking stronger. The groan of discomfort spills from my mouth before I can think twice—or even once—limbs pushing out in an attempt to work through the deep-seated aches from staying curled up for so long.
My leg knocks into something solid, making me jump out of my skin. My eyes fly open, landing first on the dark ceiling before catching a solid mass to my right.
I swear I feel my neck creak as I turn my head, discovering… Tobias right fucking next to me. He’s sitting up, practically at a ninety-degree angle, but his head is slumped toward me, cheek squished against his shoulder. His hands are folded in his lap, long, veiny fingers curled tightly, almost pressed between his stretched-out legs, crossed at the ankles.
And despite the drugging pull ofnothing,a smallsomethingtugs against the bottom of my heart.
I lie back on the bed and curl up again, needing the diminutiveness, but this time, I face Tobias, tucking my hands under my chin after brushing my hair back to watch him sleep.
His stubble is the longest I’ve ever seen it, nearly bordering beard territory with a lot of grays interwoven with the dark brown. Even in the mop of his curls, I notice gray strands highlighted by the sunlight.
Or maybe it’s because I just never really looked before.
Either way, his age is showing. Through the crow’s feet near his eyes, the pout of his lips, pronounced frown lines, and gray hairs.
He’s a terribly handsome man. And he’s kind.
A rarity often not found these days, especially for someone like me. Most people just want to use me or to get close to say theyhave.
And while I still don’t really know shit about Tobias, I can say he’s not using me. If anything,I’mthe one usinghim.And he doesn’t seem to care.
Actually, it’s almost like he’s encouraging it.
The thought makes me frown, eyebrows wrinkling. Something niggles at the back of my brain, but the feeling is exhausting. And thinking is exhausting; I’d much rather just go back to sleep.
To the nothing. To be nothing.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
TOBIAS
I feelhis eyes on me. Hot little trails syncing with the controlled pants of his breath. Slow, even. Too controlled for sleep.
I keep myself still, so as not to disturb him. The poor darling is just too far gone right now, and while my skin crawls with the desire to acknowledge him, tospeakto him, and hear his voice in return, I know if I part my lips, he’ll retreat back into that bubble he has been burying himself inside.
And maybe that’s a good thing. For him to experience this right now. It is already days past when he said he would leave me with no contact with his family.
I’m not sure it’s purposeful. He has been lost far too deep inside his own mind to think of anything apart from his sorrows. To asphyxiate in them.
