Beside

63 - salve

ᖴO᙭

Her hair is softer than I remember.

Maybe it's the way it curls at her temples, like silk threads weaving through the cracks in me. I brush my fingers through it, again and again, careful not to tug, careful not to wake her.

"Jellybean?"

"Yeah, Fox?"

"You've got leaves in your hair again."

"Oh, that's okay. They can live there."

Her breaths are light against my chest, faint puffs of warmth that sync with the rise and fall of my own lungs. My fingers trail down her back, over the thin hospital gown. Her cheek rests over my heart. I press my lips to her hair, inhaling. It's an apology, a prayer, a promise.

Chrysanthemum.

It's her.

I can feel her heart, but I'm more focused on the beeping rhythm of the monitor behind me. It skips too often. My chest tightens at the memory of alarms. There's a large piece of me that's waiting for them to go off again.

We talked before she fell asleep. God, we talked. I told her how I refused to believe she was gone. I hired investigators, called hospitals and morgues, even broke into our old school for answers. Years of searching turned up dust and silence.

How do you stop blaming yourself for something carved into your bones? I built my life around her ghost.

Her hand shifts slightly against my chest. Her fingers are delicate like the flower she was named for.

"Fox, why are grownups always tired?"

"'Cause they don't take naps."

I can hold her now, but I can't stop the world from trying to take her away again.

"Don't you try to leave," she whispers. Her lips quirk into the smallest smile, barely there, but god, it's enough.

"Wouldn't dare." My hand doesn't stop tracing the line of her spine, the curve of her shoulder blades.

Her eyes search my face, soft and unguarded, like she's trying to memorize me. "You've always been my hero, Fox." How many signs did I miss?

Her lips part, her breath hitching, and I see the tears she's trying so hard to hold back. "Do you love me because I'm Jellybean?"

I cup her cheek, brushing my thumb along the curve of her jaw. "Do you remember kissing me in the bar the night we met?" She nods, her lips twitching into the faintest smile. "You felt familiar."

"Really?" she whispers.

My forehead presses against hers. "I fell in love with the woman who moved in. I fell for you, Chris. And god... it's been a beautiful fall."

"I love you," she whispers.

I laugh a little. "Chris, you don't have to—"

She squeezes my cheeks together with a hand. "Shh. I trusted you because I knew you, but I love you as you are now. I am... so in love with you."

I pull back just enough. Her eyes are glistening, lips trembling, but her smile is brighter than anything I've ever seen. "It's like starlight, Fox. I feel it." Her gaze travels over my face. "I see it."

And so I ask about it—what she sees. She tells me about the stars, about the light, and a love so deep it rivals galaxies of old.

ｃｈｒｉｓ