𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊

𝟐𝟏 | 𝐈 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃'𝐕𝐄

𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐋 𝐈 hear deep and balanced breaths from Beau's throat, I make sure that he's in a sound enough sleep before I push off the bed and put my feet on the ground. I slide my sneakers back on and tiptoe out of the room.

The sun is beginning to make its descent in the sky, and its purplish, pink, and orange structure reflects against the various dirty and broken windows as I pad down the hallway. My eyes take in the nameless décor on the walls while my fingers brush against pieces of abandoned furniture.

I rub my fingers together, feeling the collected dust hollow in my fingerprints, but I keep my face schooled and even. I try not to think too deeply as I wander the corridors, I try not to wonder what the purpose of bringing me here was, but it is an inevitable feat as I think about Beau's words.

This is your home, Aeron.

This is our home.

My eyebrows pinch together as my shoes ricochet and echo off the mystery walls. I can't figure it out, exactly, when Beau went from being a random man I met at the mafia ball, to a man my body and mind feels so pulled to, it's like we've known each for far longer than I assume, but it's happened. And as I mosey, as I tread, I can't help but wonder if his words hold any merit.

I have no memories of this building.

No memories of living here, alone or with Beau.

The thought of that plagues me almost as easily as the conversation we'd had hours ago—almost as easily as finding out and becoming aware that my first real memory was of my brothers taking care of me while I was sick at the age of seventeen.

Even now, as I wrack my mind, I cannot think of anything prior to that. I cannot picture myself with a younger face—I cannot remember how I looked growing up, or picture the child-like faces of my brothers. I can't even remember the sight of my mother's.

I pull my lip between my teeth and bite, contemplating.

I've told you already, snow—I know you better than you know yourself.

How could it be possible?

How could Beau know so much about me, so much about a history I cannot recall, yet I am a stand-still notion on the perforation of losing a mind that I don't even have? How can he tell me one thing, and do it in a way that doesn't feel like a lie, but I see something completely different?

I'm Russian.

I grew up in Russia with my father and two brothers.

My last name is Petrov.

I run a hand through my hair and pull at the split ends as I round a corridor that feels familiar to me. I try to convince myself that it is only because I ran through this place earlier to escape from Beau, but even I know that my lies are brief disparities from what I know is a truth.