Page 94 of Lovesick

Our souls are meant to be together, that’s what she whispered to me, trembling in the dark, her fingers tangled inmine refusing to let go, we were kids, but even then, as nothing more than innocent friends, we knew what we meant to each other.

The truth coils inside me like something feral, a hunger sharpened by loss. I can’t release her. I won’t. The very thought of her living a life where I’m not woven into the corners of every fucking moment makes something hideous and violent unfurl in my chest.

I need her, with a bone deep ache that threatens to crack through my skeleton, pluck out my lungs, and dagger my heart. The idea of protecting her from afar tastes like ash; distance feels like death. I know I should vanish from her horizon… keep her away from The Obsidian, but I would rather burn the world to its bones than live as a ghost in her life.

I need her close enough to touch, close enough to breathe in, close enough that the darkness inside me has something warm to cling to. And I am too selfish, too ruined by love, to ever let her walk free.

I would kill her myself to stop her from ever leaving me.

That’s why I can’t stop searching.

Because somewhere, she is out there waiting for me to hunt her down, she wants me to find her, even if she doesn’t know it.

The vicar closes his sermon with a final gentle blessing. People begin to rise, gathering coats, tugging on gloves and hats for the walk home.

I remain where I am.

Unable to move.

Unable to breathe properly.

Unable to leave the place where, for just a moment, I felt something warm enough to thaw the edges of my grief.

Snow continues drifting through the open doors, small white ghosts settling onto the stone floor.

The last of the congregation filters out, their footsteps echoing toward the street. Music hums faintly from outside, carollers gathering somewhere nearby.

The church grows quiet.

I finally push off of the beam I leant against, my legs stiff, my hands numb despite the heat.

At the front of the church, the altar candle flickers.

A soft, steady flame. I step toward it without knowing why. Maybe because the light feels like something she would follow. Because the warmth reminds me of her hands on my cheeks, because standing in this quiet, holy space is the closest I’ve felt to her in a month. Because the bells brought me here.

I rest my fingers lightly against the pew.

“Penelope,” I whisper, voice cracking, “stay alive.” A drop of melted snow slides down the inside of my wrist like a tear. “I will find you,” I murmur. “Even if it takes my whole life. Even if you don’t want to be found. Even if you beg me to let you go when I do.” My breath wavers. “Just don’t disappear.”

I turn slowly and walk back toward the doors, the last of the candles flickering behind me. The bells ring again overhead, resonant and bright, echoing through the winter night like a promise.

That’s when I see her.

Chapter 35

PENELOPE

Isit curled at the very end of the pew, bundled up in my gifted oversized coat as though I’m trying to fold myself smaller, make myself invisible.

I’ve always been good at it.

Hiding.

Well-practised since the youngest age.

I have always found it easy to blend, to pretend, to lure and to trick, to pave my way across the world erasing my footsteps before they appear. And even though I made my way to Italy four weeks ago, unfollowed, under a different name, to a new place, on this night, I find myself cominghome.

The familiar church is warm, lit with candles and soft amber halos, full of people with rosy cheeks and friendly smiles, but my bones feel frozen, stiff, decaying. Christmas hymns drift like smoke, too gentle for the storm inside my chest. I keep my head bowed, hands clasped tight, as if prayer could make me disappear.