Page 132 of Ghosts Don't Cry
In the dim light, his face is softer, stripped of its sharp edges. His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheekbones, his lips slightly parted. The tension that usually holds him so tight is gone, smoothed away by sleep. He looks younger like this. Or maybe just more human.
My fingers itch to trace the lines of his face, to explore the pieces of him I’ve never been able to see this close. His scars, the ink on his skin that tells stories I don’t understand.
My gaze moves down, over the way the sheet only just covers his hips, exposing the deep cut of muscle, the inked words etched into his ribs.
She walks in light I dare not touch.
I wonder if he still believes that. Does he still think I am light, and he’s nothing but shadow? I wonder if he knows that I’ve never been afraid of his darkness. That I would have stayed by his side, if he’d let me.
I press my hand flat against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath my palm.
For the first time, I let myself believe that he’sreallyhere, and maybe he won’t disappear again.
I exhale slowly, letting my fingers trail lower, skimming along the ridges of old scars. Some are small, hardly noticeable.Others are deeper, reminders of the life he’s lived. I don’t know the stories behind any of them. I only know what they mean. They’re proof of everything he’s survived, everything he’s never said aloud.
I keep my touch light, but even so, his breath hitches slightly. It’s a small shift, but I notice it. A furrow appears between his brows before he relaxes again. My heart hurts at the sign of this moment of unconscious vulnerability, the way he trusts me enough to let his body fully rest.
I move slightly, just enough to take in more of him. His fingers are still curled lightly against my hip, his hold loose, butthere. Even in sleep, he keeps me close.
The memory of yesterday afternoon fills my mind, searing in its intensity. The way he touched me. The way heneededme. The way he let himselffeelwithout pulling back, without shoving it down into the silence he was so used to living in.
This wasn’t just a moment of reconnection, or losing ourselves in each other. It wasn’t just heat and desperation, or the collision of bodies trying to silence the past. It was more.
It felt like more.
And it scares me.
Because ifthisis real, if this ismore, then I don't know what it means for us. Ronan has always been something untouchable and fleeting. Even when he was right in front of me, he was always on the verge of slipping away. And now, after believing I’d never see him again, he’s here. I don’t know how to hold onto that, or how to trust it won’t disappear like smoke between my fingers.
Six months, he said. He has to stay for six months because of the house. And then what? Does he leave? Will he stay? Will hewantto stay?
DoIwant him to stay?
The question is a knife twist to my heart.
If I let myself believe in this, in him, inus, then I have to accept that he could still leave. And I do want him to stay. But wanting and having are different things.
This could fall apart. And I don’t know if I can survive losing him again.
I’ve spent so long convincing myself that he was lost to me, and whatever we had was a ghost of something that could never be resurrected. I built a life around his absence, and found ways to function, be happy, and move forward.
And now he’s back, and I don’t know how to reconcile that girl who loved him with the woman I’ve become.
My gaze drifts to the nightstand. The box sits there, lid closed. At some point last night, we’d gathered everything up and put it back inside.
I swallow against the lump in my throat, and look back at him. I could wake him up. I could press closer, whisper his name, and tell him everything going on inside my head. But he’s already given me more than I ever thought I’d ever have a chance to get. So instead, I look at him.Reallylook at him.
His hands, strong and calloused, rest against my waist. The scars that mark his knuckles are a testament to the fights he fought, and all the things he hasn’t talked about. The ink that covers his skin, layered and heavy, words and images blending together into something that’s uniquelyhim.
Ghosts don’t cry.
The words are inked along his forearm. I run my fingers over them, wondering if he really believes them. If he thinks he was never meant to break or to feel.
Does he know I can see every piece of him, even the parts he tries to bury?
I brush my fingertips over the tattoo, thinking about the ghosts that haunt him. The ones that hauntme, and sigh softly. Sliding down the bed, I rest my head against his shoulder, and listen to the sound of his breathing.
I wonder if he knows what this means, if he feels the same slow unraveling that’s happening inside me.
