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It can’t be. I’m hallucinating.
But I hear it again, the soft, “Jace,” on an exhale.
My heart gives out a loud thud.
She’s dreaming aboutme?
Or is @MidnightLu working?
Or is she…
“Yes, Jace,” she says softly.
I hold my breath, waiting for more.
But Lu goes quiet. The only sound coming from her room now is soft music while my heart pounds so hard that it sounds like it’s knocking on her door.
Maybe, I’m hearing things, projecting out what’s not there.
Before I get caught creeping behind her door, I step back and keep backing away until I reach my room.
And because I can’t get Lu out of my mind, I go inside and release my tension as I re-read her stories.
1 “????????.” — (Russian) “Shithead.”
2 “??????.” — (Russian) “Love.”
3 “?? ???.” — (Russian) “Up to {one’s} ears.”
22
LU
John Templeisthe temporary project name for the new novel I started days ago. It’s a dark roommate romance with mafia vibes, nothing like what I’ve written before.
I think out the chapters carefully and work on my wording. More importantly, I write down my thoughts about Jace. They find their way into the new chapters, and I catch myself writing Jace instead of John Temple, every mistake resonating in my heart with a subtle feeling that I shouldn’t be writing about a real person.
But I can’t help it. The new novel feels like my diary. Jace is the easiest inspiration I’ve ever had. Come to think of it, he’s the only real person who’s inspired my stories or my paintings.
The paintings, yeah.
Last night, I stayed up and painted his portrait, a quick impressionist one with large brushstrokes and barely any details, except for his eyes, the old Jace—with a hoodie and glasses on.
I’m yet to paint his new look. He stopped wearing glasses, and I can’t stop looking at him. At times, his eyes burn me with so much intensity that my chest tightens. There’s a mystery under his sweet appearance that calls to me, like the lucky number you wait to scratch off on a lottery ticket.
Last night, I set one of his portraits in front of my bed, studied it for some time, and, for the first time, fantasized about Jace. His hands. The way he touched me in the bar. The way my body drew tight when his hot whisper grazed my cheek. The way his gaze heated up when we rode the cab home from the bar, and we couldn’t look away from each other as the street lights slid across the darkness. How much I wanted him to kiss me. How much I craved his touch.
I should be ashamed of what I did in front of his portrait last night.
I got carried away.
Too loud.
Too hot.
Too wet.
And too quick…
