Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
“Elyssa.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. Every inch of my body still vibrated with her screams. “Elyssa, wake up. You’re dreaming.”
She jerked beneath my touch, a full-body flinch, and her eyes flew open.
For a moment she didn’t see me. I could tell by the way her gaze moved—wild, unfocused, still caught somewhere between sleep and whatever had been chasing her through the dark. Her chest heaved. Her lips parted, and I braced myself for another scream, but what came out instead was a sound so broken it made my own throat ache in sympathy—a low, wretched sob that seemed to crack her open from the inside.
I sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her against me without thinking. My arms went around her shoulders, and she collapsed into me, pressing her face into the hollow of my neck, her hands fisting the front of my shirt.
“I’m here,” I said. The words felt inadequate, but I said them anyway. “I’m right here. It was just a dream. You’re safe now.”
She cried. Loud and violent.
Elyssa didn’t cry in the controlled composure I’d been taught was the only acceptable way for a woman to express grief. She cried the way a person cries when they’ve run out of strength to hold it together—messy and gasping and raw, her breath hitching against my collarbone, her tears soaking through the thin cotton of my shirt.
She cried, and I held her as she fell apart in my arms. I didn’t know what else to do.
I pressed my cheek to the crown of her head, her hair damp against my skin, but I didn’t care. The minutes stretched. Her sobs turned into shuddering breaths, and then finally, she released a long, exhausted exhale.
She didn’t pull away. Neither did I.
Elyssa’s breathing evened out. Her grip on my shirt loosened, but she didn’t let go entirely. Silence settled between us, and the idea that I could bring her some kind of peace through her darkness was strangely… comforting. She felt safe with me.
I had grown used to being needed by people only when they could use me as a pawn, but Elyssa wasn’t using me the way my family did.
She was vulnerable, and I was her safe haven.
“Elyssa.” My voice was soft, barely above a whisper. I inhaled, the scent of her vanilla shampoo filling my nose. “Will you ever tell me about them? The nightmares?”
We had been living together for a little over a year now, and our second year of university began just two weeks ago.
Over time, our lives had braided together in a way I never imagined. Elyssa and I had grown close enough I could recognize the different weights of her silence. We had shared more real laughs, the kind that left my ribs aching and tears streaming down my face than I ever had with anyone else. I’d collected those laughs like something precious, bottling them into an invisible jar, so I could take them with me when the time came and we would part ways.
Because after all, our separation was undeniable.
She was truly my only friend, and I realized that was enough for me. She was the only person who ever looked at me and didn’t see my last name first.
I understood her, and though I hadn’t told her everything about my life–about the blood in my lineage or the weight of my inheritance—she understood me more than anyone ever had.
But she never would tell me about her nightmares.
Elyssa was quiet for so long I thought she might not answer at all. Then I felt her shake her hand against my shoulder. A small, deliberate shake that told more than words ever could.
“No,” she said. The word was barely audible. She pulled back just enough to look at me, and even in the dim light, I saw the tracks of tears on her cheeks, the redness around her eyes, the way her jaw was set with stubbornness. “They’re mine to carry. Not yours. Especially not yours. My past is haunting, and I refuse to drag you into it.”
The words landed with a weight I understood intimately. I knew what it was to hold something close because the alternative—letting someone else see it, share it, bear it—felt more dangerous than carrying it alone. I knew what it was to believe that your pain was yours to manage, yours to bury, and yours to perform around.
But I also knew what it was to carry something alone and feel it grow heavier with every passing day.
“I have nightmares too,” I said.
The words left my mouth before I could stop them. Before I could run them through the careful filter of discretion that had been instilled in me since childhood. I forgot to ask myself if this was safe to say, if this was wise to confess, or if my confession would cost me. Elyssa went still. Even her breathing seemed to pause.