Page 5 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
He’s one of the few people I can pick out from a crowd by feeling alone.
Watching him is like being a fish out of water. All of life is, actually. Watching from the outside. Looking, but never touching. Oddly, because I could. I know what Azaire feels for me—there’s no way I couldn’t. It’s a blessing and a curse. I’m forced to feel it.
I wonder if there would be more fun in the mystery of not knowing, or simply more misery.
As I rest my head against the tree, a nut falls crunching against the leaves and rolling in the grass. I curse the tree when Azaire calls, “Who’s there?”
For a moment, I duck further behind the trunk. But if I don’t come out, he will come in. He will look.
With a deep breath, I step out from my safe haven. The moment Azaire sees me, his anxiety spikes.
“What are you doing here?” My voice trembles—too territorial.
But he doesn’t think so.
Azaire holds up his notebook and shrugs, tugging at the back of his dark blue beanie. “I guess I was just following the silence.”
“Okay.” I duck back behind my tree, planning to go south and find some quiet on the walk back to my suite.
“Wait!” Azaire calls.
I surprise myself when I stop.
“Do you want to sit?”
Azaire’s adrenaline spikes, but he’s not drunk. I think he might actually be sober. I pull the tips of my gloves from each of my fingers, then back down. Over and over again while I try to make up my mind.
Up, down. Up, down. Up, down. Never off.
With a subtle nod, I whisper, “Okay.”
Loneliness, I think, makes you do irrational things. It makes me sit next to Azaire on his rock as he slides his journal into his pocket. He looks at me, and I immediately look at the sky.
His anxiety is no longer steady—now, it shakes my hands. It’s because of me that he feels this, and it’d be endearing if I didn’t have to feel it, too. If the only way I could know how he was feeling was by the heavy thrum of his chest.
From the comfort of my mind, I reach out to him. My body trembles as I close my eyes, turning down his emotions like arusted dial on a record player. It isn’t hard; it’s only a small amount of resistance, twitching in my fingertips.
Once I’ve calmed Azaire, my muscles relax from his lethargy. All without touching him, too.
That’s something most of my kind, the Eunoia, can’t do—manipulate emotion without skin-to-skin contact. It offers merit to the words I’ve heard my whole life: “prodigal child,” “gifted one.” But if I were to touch him, he’d die. I’d override his mind with my emotion or the emotion around me that I’m forced to contain. Truth be told, I’ve never found out which it is that kills.
All I know is that my touchdoeskill. I learned that the hard way, once.
And there is nothing prodigal about that.
I turn to the sky, tugging at my gloves as I watch the stars. My one comfort.
Until Azaire asks, “What are you looking at?”
I take a deep breath, contemplating if I’ll answer. But this is what I came here for—company, even if I can’t keep it.
“Surma,” I answer, my voice quiet but the name heavy. “A constellation.”
Azaire is intrigued, as if my words have painted a picture he wants to see or began a book he wants to finish.
“What’s the story?” he asks.
“A sad one… They usually are.” I fidget with my hands, pulling my gloves off and on, rubbing my fingers together, aimlessly searching for a way to soothe myself.
