𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

Denouement

"Hi."

Judging from the way he rushed to recompose himself, the word came out weaker than he had intended. His voice faltered, the greeting falling at my feet in a puddle of whispers. I imagined him internally hating himself for saying something so seemingly underwhelming. But it was still far more than I could say.

I must have looked like a blubbering fish to him. My mouth, opening and closing in an endless cycle of silence as tiny droplets of rainwater slid through my hair, pitter pattering against the stones we were stood on. I wanted to say something, I really did; but couldn't bring myself to speak. None of the words in my vocabulary seemed worthy enough. Nothing felt right.

His eyebrows raised, waiting for me to do or say something, anything, with hope in his eyes. I stood in place, breathing through slightly parted lips. I could see the water on my eyelashes, weighing them down until eventually, they fell onto the skin of my cheeks.

A single step forward and he was as close to me as he had been in my dreams. Resting his head on the pillow beside me, close enough to feel but too far away to touch. Slightly taken aback, I closed my mouth, and this time it remained closed. Now I was the one waiting for him to speak as the candles behind him slowly burned out. Wax melting from top to bottom. Falling, sinking, crying, dying.

He didn't say anything. Instead, he brought a hand to my face, picking the wet hair off from where it had stuck to my complexion. He pushed it behind my ear as I just stared at him. His fingertips brushing against my skin.

I imagine I looked worried, perhaps. A frown in my forehead, a certain dread in my eyes. My breath, shaky, and my cheeks, taut.

But that's just how I imagine it now. In reality, I have no idea how I might have looked, what expression might have naturally fallen unto my face. It's unfair really. That you are the only person who can't see yourself. Hear the way you speak or see the way you react to things.

He dragged his fingers down to the ends of my hair and toyed with them, tilting his head to one side before smiling sheepishly.

"I like your hair," he whispered. "You look more like yourself."

I remained mute, forming a thin line with my lips. But I suppose that this time it was warranted, seeing as there was barely enough room to breathe between the two of us. His gaze lifted back from his hand to my eyes and my breath caught in my lungs.

One step back and he was away from me once again. An arm's length away, a safe distance. One at which I still had some semblance of self control and clarity. A deep breath to ground myself and a hard, long, blink of the eyes as I felt the corner of the paper envelope dig into my side.

I tugged on the tie of my cloak, pulling it off of my shoulders before tossing it to hang over the back of the bench. The paper crinkled in my hands, creased on either side from my grip. I held it up in front of him and found my voice.

"Is this real?"

It probably wasn't the best greeting. A friendly 'hello' would have been optimal, but at least it was to the point. In other words, it got things done, and earned me a melancholy frown from his part.

"Of course it is," he said quietly, "Of course it's real."

I watched him as he shook his head in disbelief, the doubt setting in against his features. I hadn't intended it to sound that way. Like I didn't trust him, like I thought he was trying to make a fool of me. I just, wanted to be sure.

"So?" He asked. I could see the dark circles around his eyes, festering the same way an infection would. I suppose in this case, I was that infection. Infiltrating his dreams, robbing him of rest.