Colliding Dreams

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Walking on Glass

[Darius POV]

It's been three weeks since Luna's light faded. Every morning I wake up, hoping to see the spark return to her eyes, the smile that used to feel like home. But instead, she's distant, her warmth replaced by a cold, hollow silence. She's right there, I can see her, but it feels like she's worlds away.

I miss her—so much that it's a physical ache. She's the first thing I see when I open my eyes, the last before I fall asleep. But even though I'm next to her, it's like we're separated by an invisible wall. I haven't held her in my arms in so long, haven't tasted her lips or felt the comfort of her skin against mine.

I watch her as she sits at the edge of the bed, staring out of the window with that same vacant look that's been haunting me. I don't know what to do. Every instinct I have tells me to pull her into my arms, to comfort her, to remind her that she's not alone. But whenever I try, she pulls further away, slipping through my fingers like sand. It's like I'm walking on eggshells, afraid that one wrong move will shatter whatever fragile connection we still have.

"Luna," I whisper softly, my voice hoarse with emotion. "Please talk to me."

Her body tenses at the sound of my voice, but she doesn't turn around. She doesn't acknowledge me at all. It's like I don't exist, like I'm not the same person who used to be her everything.

I stand there, helpless, watching her drift further away. The silence between us is suffocating. I'd give anything to hear her laugh again, to see that mischievous grin she used to flash me when she was teasing me. Now, all I get is emptiness.

I run a hand through my hair, feeling the frustration build. What happened to us? What happened to her? Ever since that night—since the incident that left her broken—she's been locked away in her own mind, and no matter how hard I try, I can't reach her.

There are moments, brief flashes, where I think I see her—the real Luna—trying to fight her way back. But then, just as quickly, she retreats, leaving me standing there, grasping at nothing. I want to fix it. I want to fix her. But how can I do that when she won't even let me in?

I sit down on the bed beside her, close enough to feel the heat of her body, but she doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch. She just keeps staring out the window, as if I'm not even there. I reach out, my hand hovering just above her back, but I stop myself before I touch her. I don't want to scare her off again.

"Please, Luna," I say, my voice breaking. "Just tell me what to do."

Still, nothing.

It's like she's not even the same person anymore. The girl I fell in love with, the one who used to challenge me with every word, every glance, is gone. In her place is someone I barely recognize—someone who's locked herself away behind a wall so high, I don't know how to climb it.

I look down at my hands, clenching them into fists. I hate feeling this helpless. I hate not knowing how to help her, how to make her see that I'm still here, that I'm not going anywhere. I'm her mate. I'm supposed to protect her, to take away her pain. But I can't even do that. And it's killing me.

There are nights when I lie next to her, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing with thoughts of what I could have done differently. Maybe if I had been faster, stronger, I could have prevented what happened. Maybe if I had been there for her in the right way, she wouldn't have shut me out.

But it's too late for that now. All I can do is be here, waiting, hoping that one day she'll let me in again. That she'll come back to me.

I steal another glance at her, and my heart breaks all over again. She's so beautiful, even in her silence. But it's a beauty that feels distant, unreachable. I want to tell her how much I miss her, how much I ache for her touch, but I'm afraid. Afraid that if I push too hard, she'll slip away completely.

Instead, I stand up, moving to the window. The view outside is calm, serene—the exact opposite of what's going on inside me. I can feel the storm brewing, the constant battle between my need to protect her and my fear of losing her.

I lean against the window frame, my forehead resting on the cool glass. I can feel her behind me, her presence a constant reminder of what we used to have and what we've lost. I don't know how much longer I can take this—this endless waiting, this walking on eggshells around her, terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing.

"Luna," I whisper again, though I know she won't answer. She hasn't in days.

I turn around, watching her for a moment longer. Her eyes are still fixed on something far away, something I can't see. I want to be angry. I want to shout, to demand that she come back to me, but I know that won't work. Not with her. Not now.

So instead, I do what I always do. I wait.

I cross the room, pausing just for a second before placing a soft kiss on the top of her head. She doesn't move, doesn't react, but I like to think that somewhere inside, she feels it.

"I'm here," I murmur against her hair. "I'll always be here."

And with that, I leave the room, closing the door softly behind me.

The rest of the day drags on in a blur. I go through the motions—meetings, training, everything that's expected of me—but my mind is elsewhere. It always is, lately. I can't focus on anything but her. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Every time I take a breath, I wonder if she's doing the same, if she's even aware of me anymore.

By the time night falls, I'm exhausted. Not physically, but emotionally. It's draining, loving someone who's slipping away from you, and I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending that everything is fine.

I find myself standing outside our bedroom door, my hand resting on the doorknob. Part of me doesn't want to go in. Part of me is afraid of what I'll find—or won't find—on the other side. But I push that fear down, forcing myself to turn the handle.

The room is dark, save for the soft glow of the moon filtering through the curtains. Luna is already in bed, her back to me. I can tell by the way her shoulders rise and fall that she's not asleep, but she doesn't acknowledge me when I walk in.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, my back to her, staring down at the floor. The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. I don't know what to say anymore. I've run out of words.

"I miss you," I whisper, my voice barely audible in the quiet room.

She doesn't respond.

I lie down beside her, careful not to touch her, even though every fiber of my being aches to hold her. I don't want to push her further away.

As I stare up at the ceiling, I wonder how long this will last. How long I'll have to wait before she comes back to me—if she ever will. I've never been afraid of anything in my life, but this—losing her—terrifies me.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the ache in my chest, but it's no use. It's always there, a constant reminder of what I've lost.

And as sleep finally takes me, I make a silent promise to myself: I won't give up on her. No matter how long it takes, no matter how much it hurts, I'll be here. I'll always be here.

Because she's my mate. And I love her.

The next morning is the same as the one before. And the one before that. Luna is quiet, distant, her gaze always fixed on something I can't see. But I don't stop trying. I sit beside her, even when she doesn't acknowledge me. I talk to her, even when she doesn't respond. And every night, I lie next to her, hoping that one day, she'll turn toward me again.

It's a slow, painful process, but I hold on to the hope that she'll come back. Because I know, deep down, that she's still in there.

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I haven't updated in awhile, what do you think?

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-Daisy