Page 13 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I let go of his hand and pick at the leather wrapped around my fingertips, as if I could rip right through and reach skin.
It would look ridiculous if I didn’t tell him why I’m like this.
I fear I wouldliketo tell him why.
“I can’t turn it off like the others,” I say. “The empathy. Being in that room, with all the pain, it was…” I trail off, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth.
“Painful?” Azaire shrugs.
Despite the morbidity, I smile. “Yes.”
“And you took even more of it for me?”
I look around, listening to the subtle music of the birds and the wind. Searching for my own version of peace. A louder one. “Good observation,” I murmur.
“I do try.” Azaire squeezes his eyes shut as he emphasizes each word. “Very, very hard.”
I chuckle as he blinks, looking right at me. Smiling a little more, I spot a journal behind him. It’s the same as the one from the party. He must’ve dropped it.
I reach around him, picking it up.
His anxiety spikes the moment he sees me holding it.
I quickly hand the journal to him.
“Um…” I stammer as I stand, awkwardly shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I jab a finger in the direction of the academy, avoiding eye contact. “I, uh… I’m gonna head back.”
Azaire jumps to his feet. “Would you like to—” He stops mid-sentence.
I freeze, caught off guard, even though I know the direction he wants to take this. He’s the only boy in this academy who has ever given me a second thought.
I would like to give him one, too.
“Like to…?” I prompt softly.
“Hang out.” The words drag awkwardly. “Sometime. Maybe?”
Azaire shrugs, and I smile. He’s nervous, and it’s kind of endearing. For a moment, I imagine his heart is beating fast. Then I realize that mine is.
But that is exactly the problem.
“Be careful,”the boy warns me, his voice echoing through my mind—and I hate that he’s right.
It’s better for both Azaire and me if I keep my distance. It always has been. That’s why my life is the way it is.
That’s why I’m alone.
That’s why the boy—a figment of my own imagination—is telling me to tread carefully.
I look at the little journal in his hands and say, “It won’t take away from your writing?”
Azaire tugs at his beanie, shrugging one shoulder. His eyes meet mine with hope. Longing.
“I can write anytime.” He smiles.
I’ve never felt someone care for me this much without a reason.
It reminds me of Ma.
