Sharp.
Focused.
Alive.
And something twists in my chest at the sight of it. That’s his world. That’s his dream. And he’s out there living it, while I’m here.
Stuck.
Held in place.
And suddenly, I can’t sit still anymore.
I shift slightly, pulling away just enough to reach for the edge of the couch, my fingers curling into the fabric as I try to ground myself in something that isn’t this feeling of being suspended.
“I need to do something,” I say quietly.
Elijah’s arm tightens slightly around me.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, because I don’t, not exactly. “I just… I can’t keep sitting here like this. I need to… think. I need to do something that feels like me.”
There’s a pause.
A tension in the air that I can feel him working through.
“What do you want?”
The question is careful. Measured. But it’s there. I swallow slightly before answering.
“My laptop.”
He goes still.
“Why?”
“Because I want to write.”
The words come out steadier than I feel.
Because this, this part of me, it’s still there. Even under everything else. Even under the fear. Even under the ache. I need to feel it again. I need to know it’s still mine.
Elijah studies me for a moment, his gaze searching, like he’s trying to understand something deeper than what I’ve actually said.
Then he nods once.
“Okay.”
He stands, moving away from me, crossing the room to where my bag sits, pulling the laptop out and bringing it back without another word.
When he hands it to me, our fingers brush. And for a second, just a second, I feel something there.
Something familiar.
Something that almost feels like before.
Then it’s gone.
