Page 36 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus
I miss everything about him like a physical wound that refuses to heal.
I miss his voice, the careful way he spoke English like he was choosing each word deliberately, the musical accent that made even mundane conversations sound like poetry.
I miss the way he looked at me. Like I was exactly what he’d been hoping to find.
By afternoon, I’m desperate for distraction. My laptop screen glows with promise: the submission date for my final grant proposal. It’s due before the program ends next week, one more box to tick before real life crashes back in.
I pour myself into the assignment with the kind of focused intensity I used to save for avoiding Scott’s criticism. The proposal comes together beautifully, each section flowing into the next with the kind of clarity that comes from genuine understanding. This is good work. Might I even say excellent? The kind I dreamed about during all those years when Scott insisted community college was “good enough for someone like me.”
When I hit submit at ten PM, I should feel triumphant. Instead, I feel hollow. Empty. Like tasting the sweetest fruit but having no one to offer the other half. The first person I want to tell about this success is the man I told to stay away from me.
My email dings with the usual automated receipt, and I close the laptop with a sigh. But when I reopen it an hour later, restless and unable to sleep, I notice an unread message buried in my inbox from earlier in the week.
Outstanding work on your latest draft of the cultural preservation proposal. Your insights into community engagement strategies show a sophisticated understanding of the field. I’d like to discuss some opportunities that might interest you—please schedule office hours when you’re back in town.
I should feel validated. Instead, the achievement tastes like cardboard.
Success means nothing when you don’t have anyone to share it with.
My phone rings. Ava.
“Mom! How’s the final project going?”
“Finished. My professor wants to recommend me for some opportunities.” The words come out flat, mechanical.
“That’s amazing! Why do you sound like someone died?”
I try to muster enthusiasm, but it’s useless. Ava knows me too well and can read every emotion I’m trying to hide.
“What happened with the gladiator?”
The question hangs between us, and I realize I can’t pretend anymore. Can’t keep acting like everything’s fine when I feel like I’m bleeding internally from wounds I inflicted on myself.
“I ended it.”
“Oh, Mom.” Her voice carries so much compassion it makes my throat tight. “Why?”
“Because I’m an idiot who’s too scared to trust my own judgment about what I want.” The admission spills out before I can stop it. “Because I was falling for him, and that terrified me.”
“Were you falling, or did you fall?”
Trust Ava to cut straight to the heart of it. “Past tense. Definitely past tense.”
Hours later, sleep is impossible. After midnight, I give up and slip out for a walk, restless for air that doesn’t smell like regret.
The sanctuary is peaceful under the star-scattered Missouri sky, but instead of my usual path, I drift toward the new construction where Quintus has been working.
I tell myself I’m just curious about the facility. That this has nothing to do with hoping I might catch a glimpse of him.
But then I hear it. Music floating through the night air like something from a dream.
His voice. Singing alone in the darkness while the rest of the sanctuary sleeps.
I follow the sound like it’s calling me home, drawn by the same irresistible pull that first made me fall for him. The melody grows clearer as I approach the half-built building, and I can make out words through my translation earpiece.
This is raw.
“I held love like morning mist,
