Static.
Halfway through the movie, she leans her head on my shoulder. My brain completely short-circuits.
I try to focus on the movie, but all I can think about is her.
The smell of her shampoo, the warmth of her hair against my hoodie, the way her fingers curl against the blanket.
“Tills?” I ask finally, my voice too soft.
“Mm?”
I hesitate. My chest feels too tight. “Can I ask you something?”
She lifts her head, blinking sleepily. “Sure.”
I hesitate. “Do you still… feel nothing?”
She blinks, lifting her head to look at me.
The movie flickers light across her face softly, painting her face gold.
And she smiles, gentle, almost apologetic. “Yeah.”
A simple word that somehow breaks my ribs.
I nod slowly. “Right.”
“You’re weirdly quiet,” she says, watching me.
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly.
She frowns like she doesn’t buy it, but doesn’t push either. She just lays her head back down, whispering, “You don’t have to be.”
Her voice is soft enough that I almost think I’m imagining it.
She falls asleep before the credits roll.
Her breathing evened out, taking a calm pattern.
There is a streak of cream still on her cheek, and her hand has drifted against my sleeve.
I watch her for a while.
The way her lashes brush her cheeks, how peaceful she looks when she isn’t pretending everything is fine.
I want to tell her how much space she takes up in my head.
But what’s the point?
She feels nothing, and I feel everything.
I brush a bit of flour off her hair, careful not to wake her.
The room is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the sound of the waves outside.
Don’t tell anyoneshe said two nights ago.
Not Yana, not Zara, not Matt.
