Adrian
“Serafina, look at me.”
The words tore out of me in a low whisper, sharp enough to cut through the dark that smothered our bedroom. I waited—fighting against the hollow that had become far too familiar—but she didn’t move. Her breathing stayed slow, steady, oblivious. It felt like I was speaking across a canyon instead of a shared bed.
“Please… just look at me once.”
My voice cracked, carrying a desperation I hadn’t meant to reveal. I shifted closer, my chest brushing her back as if proximity might bridge everything we’d lost, and I lowered my lips to her ear. The room was too silent—so silent it made the words feel pathetic.
“Do you even hear me anymore?”
Still nothing. No flinch. No stir. No sign she sensed the breaking happening inches away from her.
I laid my palm against her hip, feeling the warmth that used to ground me. She didn’t wake, but her body melted instinctively into my touch, and the ache inside my chest deepened instead of easing. I removed my hand, then placed it back again just to feel her respond.
“You used to reach for me, Fina. You used to pull me to you like you’d stop breathing if I moved away.”
The memory punched straight through me, sharp enough to make my throat tighten.
“What happened to that? What happened to us?”
Her lips parted slightly. For a second I thought she might actually be waking. A soft sound came out—barely a breath of my name.
“Adrian…”
But it held no weight. No recognition. Just a sleep-deep reflex her body performed without her mind.
I let out a quiet, humorless laugh that tasted like defeat.
“That doesn’t count. That’s just your dreams remembering me.”
I pushed myself up onto one elbow, studying her face in the pale wash of moonlight. She looked peaceful, untouched by the fear eating through my ribs. I reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek, memorizing her for the thousandth time.
“Do you know I lie awake waiting for you to turn toward me?”
My thumb traced the soft curve of her jaw.
“I keep thinking tonight will be the night you’ll curl into my chest like you used to. But you don’t. Not anymore.”
My hand trembled, just slightly, as I let it rest against her shoulder. The silence pressed heavier with each second she didn’t respond.
“Tell me what I’m doing wrong. Just talk to me. I don’t care if you yell or cry or shove me out of the bed—just say something.”
The plea slipped out before I could swallow it back.
I pressed my forehead to her shoulder, breathing her in because I didn’t know what else to hold onto. The scent of her skin—warm, familiar, devastating—pulled old memories to the surface, memories of the woman who once clung to me like I was the only thing keeping her upright.
“I’m losing you,” I whispered softly, almost to myself.
“Or maybe you’ve already let go, and I’m the one still holding on.”
Again, no answer.
The truth settled like ice at the base of my spine. I let the silence stretch until it felt unbearable, then forced myself to speak again, voice quieter, rawer.
“Do you even need me anymore, Serafina? Or am I just the body you sleep beside while your heart belongs to everything else?”
She shifted in her dreams, murmuring something too soft to decipher. I answered her instinctively.
“I’m here.”
It came out gentle and automatic, the way you answer a child calling for comfort.
But she didn’t hear me. She wouldn’t remember.
She wouldn’t know the way those two meaningless words stripped something vital out of me.
I looked at her for a long moment, studying the powerful serenity etched across her face. Even asleep, she looked like a woman who conquered her world with ease. And I—once the center of that world—now felt like a ghost standing outside the gates of a kingdom that no longer belonged to me.
“I miss you,” I whispered as I leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to her shoulder, hoping it might settle the ache.
It didn’t.
I lowered myself back into the pillows, staring into the darkness pressing thickly against us.
“This is temporary,” I whispered, though it sounded like a lie even to me.
“We’ll find our way back. We have to.”