Subdue-X

Grief: The Rat In Our Chests

 I felt the bed shift beside me, and I looked over my shoulder to see Christian pulling up his sweatpants to go answer the phone on his desk. His movements were jerky, rushed—like someone had walked in on us with a gun drawn. The air between us felt charged, heavy with unspoken tension.

I noticed a slight panic glistening in his eyes as the phone rang, the glow from the screen reflecting off his tense features. Supporting my body on my elbow, I squinted at his slouched silhouette in the dark, my voice barely a whisper. "Chris?"

“Go back to sleep," he said quickly, leaning over to plant a hurried kiss on my forehead before disappearing into the next room. The kiss felt hollow, a poor imitation of reassurance. A dread seized my windpipe, constricting tighter with each breath. I slowly sat up straighter in bed, my body rigid. The room was chilly—too chilly. I must have forgotten to close the sundeck door, and now the cold air was creeping in, making the eerie atmosphere worse, heightening the already suffocating tension.

I tapped my phone screen, its blue light harsh against the dark room. The time read 2:40 a.m. I squinted, trying to recall a time when his phone had rung this late. A few times, yes—but those calls were never good news. Never.

My hands felt stiff and swollen, the sheets beneath my fingers strangely foreign. My head throbbed, pulsing from the sudden surge of anxiety mingling with the remnants of wine still dulling my senses. I didn’t even like wine. I never appreciated its bitterness, but tonight, it sat in my stomach like a weight, dragging me down further into the unease.

From the next room, I strained to hear him. His voice was low, but his tone—furious, shaky—cut through the silence like a jagged blade. My skin prickled, and I tried to shake off the creeping hysteria rising in my chest. My heart pounded so violently I could feel it in my throat, the rhythm erratic, uneven. I was overreacting. I had to be. I was tired, and so was he. This was just exhaustion playing tricks on me.

His feet shuffled toward the bedroom, and I listened, hopeful for the soft comfort of his presence. But then his steps stopped. Silence. The kind that stung like a slap. I held my breath, every muscle in my body tensing, waiting for him to come back.

But he didn’t.

He wasn’t on the phone anymore—he was just standing there, somewhere between the living room and the void. My brows furrowed, a sinking feeling making its way into my chest. He wasn’t coming back to bed. Instead, his footsteps moved away, growing softer, more distant. Disappointment swelled like a bruise. After everything we had shared tonight—after the long-awaited bonding—I had half-expected he’d come to me for support. But now, it felt like that connection had vanished, leaving nothing but the familiar cold space between us.

I heard the metal door leading up to the roof close with a loud, echoing clang. The sound hit me with a wave of nostalgia, reminding me of the heavy doors in high school that slammed shut behind careless students. Loud, jarring—back then it was a game, a way to feel in control. Now, it felt final.

I shuffled out of bed, pulling my white robe tighter around me as if its thin fabric could shield me from the growing chill. The living room sat in silence, a ghost of its usual self. It felt… haunted. If I looked long enough, I swear I’d see a deadened wisp flickering through the air. The dim light from his laptop blinked. He refused to hang any pictures, leaving the space barren, soulless. He didn’t believe in sentiment.

I wandered over to the desk, my fingers brushing over the papers scattered across its surface. His phone vibrated again, rattling with urgency. I didn’t need to pick it up—I didn’t even have to read it. But I did. And the words leapt out at me like a knife: Authorized. Agreed upon. As soon as possible.