Page 101 of Eternal

AZRA

“Under” by Alex Hepburn

Present

M y body relaxes without permission, sinking deeper into the mattress.

Blanket pulled to my shoulders. The sun’s climbing higher outside, but I stay buried under the same one I always carry.

I have my water bottle next to me and take another long pull. Then, I dial Vik.

He picks up immediately, like he always does. “Morning, kroshka .”

“I have a lead, Vik,” I say.

“Tell me.”

“I talked to someone. A girl, she was in the background of those church photos Kat found. She was there for years. And then she vanished. Changed her name. Scrubbed herself clean. She’s been hiding since she was a teenager. But she said she wants to talk when I’m back.”

“Shit.” His voice drops. “That’s huge.”

“It was worth coming here. Zanae sent me a few files last night too. Things about the Veil.”

“You’ll go through her files when you’re back?”

“Yeah, I think.”

“Good.” A pause. Then softer, “I’m proud of you.”

That word always hits weird. Pride . I don’t know what to do with it.

“Thank you…” I say. It comes out small.

“Come back sooner if you can.”

“I will.”

Another beat. Then I say, “He came here yesterday.”

Vik doesn’t ask who. He waits.

“Brought me home. Said he missed me. Kissed my cheek. Then left.”

He’s quiet. Then, “And?”

“This morning, he brought back my bike. Left breakfast at my door.”

“You text him yet?”

“No.”

“ Azra .”

“I know.”

“You should.”

“I will,” I say. “ Eventually .”

He laughs quietly. “Alright. I gotta go. Mischka is threatening the delivery guy again. I’ll let you talk to Kat.”

“Be careful. See you soon.”

“Bye. Love you, always.”

He hangs up.

Ten seconds later, the screen lights up again. Kat. I answer.

She’s in her little garden, hoodie pulled over her head, knees to chest. Hair a mess. Face bare. Sunlight catching the strands behind her. She looks like home .

“So…” she says, “He brought you breakfast.”

I groan. “Don’t.”

“You liked it.”

“It was just food.”

“You kept the note.”

I don’t answer.

She grins. “You’re so bad at this.”

“I’m not doing this,” I mutter. “I’m not… built for it.”

I tilt my head back, look at the ceiling. Hold my hand in front of my face, like I’m looking at someone else’s skin. Like Mom used to.

The bruises. The scars. The tattoos. No softness there.

But he kissed them. Touched them like they were silk. Like they deserved kindness.

Ugly things. And he still kissed them.

He kissed me. The scar on my jaw. Me .

Azra .

“He’s so gentle with me sometimes,” I say. “It feels wrong, Kat.”

She smiles, sad and warm. “You deserve gentleness .”

“Maybe. But it’s strange. He’s making me mad. And he’s just… himself .”

And he lied. Came here to kill me. Can’t say that. Why? I don’t even know. Probably because if I do, I’ll have to kill him. Or they will.

“What do you think it means?” she asks.

“I don’t know. My heart beats faster when he’s around. And I feel safe. But I can’t…” I stop. Swallow. “I can’t feel that. Because if I do… I’ll understand how bad it was. How it’s never been like that.”

“You feel safe around him?” she asks.

“I strangely do.”

“Do you want more?”

“Even if I do… would I ever deserve it?”

Kat leans in, voice barely a breath. “Can I tell you something?”

I nod.

“You know how sometimes a song gets stuck in your head?” she says. “Not because it’s your favorite. Just because it’s been following you.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what love is,” she says. “It plays when you least expect it. When you’re scared, or alone, or tired of pretending you’re a pure result of brokenness and rage. That song is still there. Playing. Quiet . Waiting for you to listen.”

“I don’t have a song,” I whisper.

Kat smiles. “Maybe you’ve just been humming it this whole time without even knowing it.”

There’s a pause. The kind you can feel behind your eyes.

“You look tired, Visha ,” she says.

I lean back into the headboard, and smile. “A few days ago… I saw this little girl buying a bouquet for her mom. It was cute. Really .”

Kat’s smile fades at the edges. She pulls the phone closer like proximity might help. “I know you hate talking about her. But that doesn’t mean she’s not still talking in your head.”

I breathe out, slow. “She’s dead. What’s left to say?”

Her voice is quieter now. “So much. Dead doesn’t mean done. Have you ever thought about writing her a letter? Or… even writing in her journal?”

A bitter laugh scrapes out. “You want me to trauma-dump on her trauma-dumping journal?”

She shrugs, soft. “Why not? You always think grief means silence. It doesn’t. All I want is for you to stop carrying it alone.”

There’s a pause. Then she says, “Just try it, Visha . You don’t have to make peace. Just make space.”

“ …Okay ,” I whisper. “I’ll try.”

She exhales, eyes closing like she’s already drifting. “I’m here. Always. You call me if you need anything okay? I’ll leave you. Love you.”

“ Me too, ” I say.

But she’s already gone. Didn’t hear it.

I stare at the black screen for a long time. The quiet feels too loud. I could take the keys. Throw on a hoodie. Go to the beach. Bring the wine. Bring the journal. Bring the cigarettes. Maybe write the letter. Maybe not. But at least… sit still with it.

Try .

So I did.

In minutes, I’m on my bike, messy hair, dry eyes, tired. A bottle of wine. Cigarettes. The journal. The blanket. And my pain.