Just Like Her

Chapter 97

Emma

"I don't know how you're sleeping on that thing," Youssef declared as he perched himself on the edge of his wooden coffee table.

"I don't really sleep much these days," I murmured as forced myself to sit up. The couch was admittedly lumpy, but I didn't much care.

Youssef pulled a face as he passed me the mug of tea he had been holding. "You sleep all the time."

My arms felt heavy as I robotically lifted them to accept the mug. "Do I?"

"Uh... yes."

"Oh."

"Drink," he said after a minute. Then he gestured toward the mug in my hand for added emphasis.

I stared down at it.

He leaned forward, which he likely immediately regretted. I hadn't bathed since the last time Tom carried me into the bathroom, however long ago that was.  I'd been at Youssef's for two days now—maybe three—so I couldn't have smelt pleasant. I didn't care. Apparently Youssef didn't either. He didn't lean back.

"Drink, Emma. You'll feel better."

"No I won't," I whispered.

"You feel like you're suffocating now. But eventually... you'll breathe again."

At that my eyes suddenly flew to life and met his. I hadn't mentioned my... episodes to him. Not to anyone.

I hadn't told about my moments—or were they hours?—of breathlessness, of feeling like my lungs had collapsed like a deflated balloon. I hadn't told about the recurring nightmares I had of being buried alive, choking on damp dirt. I woke up coughing sometimes, but somehow I'd managed to avoid waking Tom.

"H-how?"

Youssef merely shrugged. "You just... do with time. I suppose it's a natural human instinct, breathing."

I felt a warm tear slide down my cheek. "That's just the issue," I croaked, not able to free my gaze from his.

"What is?"

I shook my head, sending a second tear flying. "I don't want to breathe. A-and I don't think time fixes that."

He narrowed his gaze on mine for several thundering heartbeats. Then, suddenly, he was there next to me on the couch wrapping his arm tightly around my shoulders and pulling me into him. "Perhaps not. But tea might. Drink, Emma."

I could feel his fingers pressing into my skin, almost painfully. I could feel his chest against my shoulder, could feel it expanding and deflating as if modeling to me how to breathe.

And yet, I didn't feel anything.

I lifted the mug towards him to take. "Maybe later, Youssef. I think... I think I'll just rest my eyes for a minute."

He pushed the mug back toward me resolutely. "Not till that's empty."

I blinked up at him confused, but he merely shrugged. "You've been here two days and I haven't seen you drink or eat anything. My mother would be shocked if a guest of mine fainted from dehydration in my house. Drink."

It wasn't a request. It wasn't anything to think about. It was an order.

Over the last several weeks, not thinking was something I had become quite adept at. I did what he said and hissed as the steaming liquid scalded my chapped lips.

He tsk-ed at me as he stole the mug back, blew on it several times, took a sip to test the temperature and then handed it back to me expectantly.

I suddenly had the urge to roll my eyes, but instead I simply took the mug back and let the shockingly bitter flavor wash over my taste buds.