I think about Tilly.
I want to ask how she is, really ask, not just the surface stuff.
I have a feeling in my gut that she needs it.
This feeling is telling me she needs itnow.It’s telling me that she needs someone to tell her everything is ok.
But when I think of doing it, I’m scared.
And that’s pathetic.
I’m pathetic when it comes to her.
I want to see her look at me the way she used to — like the world has gone quiet and we are the only two people left.
We used to talk until sunrise about nothing and everything. Even the silences between us were full.
Now it feels like there is a wall, invisible but thick. Like if I speak, I’d bounce off it.
I’m terrified that whatever we had is slipping, and I don’t know how to stop it.
Sometimes I swear I see it in her too, the flicker of something, but maybe I’m just imagining it.
I don’t want to lose her completely.
I groan, sitting up.
My head feels too full for sleep.
I pull a hoodie over my head, the fabric rough but familiar, and walk into the kitchen.
The apartment is dead quiet.
I can hear each individual board creak under my foot.
I flick on the stove light, a dim pool of yellow in an otherwise dark kitchen. The counters are clean, Zara’s plants lined up neatly on the windowsill, their leaves casting jagged shadows against the tile.
The faint hum of the fridge is the only other sound.
Yana and Zara are asleep — they always are by now.
Tilly has her own room.
I pour cereal into a bowl, the clink of the spoon weirdly loud in the stillness, and sit down at the counter.
“Luca?”
Her voice is soft, scratchy with sleep.
I turn, and there she is.
Tilly.
Her hair is up in a messy ponytail and falling into her face. Her favorite black sweatpants on and an oversized sweatshirt hanging off her shoulder.
She looks so beautiful.
She doesn’t look like she realises it, and it makes me want to take her in my arms and tell her until she realises just how beautiful she really is.
