𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊

𝟑𝟖 | 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐘

𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 over the glass wall taking up the wall at the end of my bed, playing a quiet melody as my eyebrows dip inside and frown, finally regulating to the point at which I can open my eyes. My eyelashes are thick, dark shades against my vision as I take in the spot I'm curled into my bed, as I relish the storm outside.

I lift to the back of my elbows and blink a few more times, letting my vision normalize to the obscurity surrounding me. I'm dressed in proper clothes—sweatpants and a black T-shirt with socks I don't remember putting on, as I don't remember falling asleep.

My curiosity only increases when I move my eyes across the room, and I see the most beautiful girl slouched in my chair, one arm resting on the handle, supporting her cheek as she sleeps. Two suitcases and one backpack rest near her, open and spilling with her belongings, and I almost suffocate under the notion that she's leaving me until I remember her recent words.

I'm not running.

I'm not running.

I'm not running.

I repeat her sentiments like a mantra in my head as I attempt to peel myself from the mattress. I don't want to or intend to wake Aeron up, but my bed lurches and squeaks under the weight of my body, and promptly, like she'd been waiting for it, Aeron's head quirks up.

My mouth dries as she squints through the room and spots me sitting, flinging my feet over the side of the bed and resting them on the ground, trying to find some balance.

It takes a few seconds for her to recognize my consciousness, but when the truth hits her, she's up and dashing over to me faster than I can even complete one inhale-exhale rotation.

"Beau," she breathes, collapsing next to me.

I fall into her touch without thinking twice as she raises her palm to my cheek and cups it. I close my eyes and rub my skin against hers, liquifying in her hands if only to make sure that she and his moment might actually be real—making sure that her words are, too.

I'm not running.

"You're awake," she beams, "I'm so glad you're awake."

I open my eyes again and lean back, grateful that Aeron has no intentions of severing our physical contact. She puts both of her hands to the flat broadness of my shoulders and holds me softly.

I watch her, as her vision follows the lines of my jaw, and the bridge of my nose—as she takes me in with a paramount of surprise—enough that I want to question her pleasure, only I don't want to shatter these rosey glasses. 

"How're you feeling?" she asks.

"Better," I admit, "Much better."

"That's so good to hear."

I swallow hard, and allow myself one more long gaze into her violet-blue irises—allow myself one more long second to run the tips of my fingers through her breezy, snow-like strands—to fall into the sight and feel of her for what might be the last time once I open my mouth.