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It’s fitting.
He’s always liked the darkness, preferring to wither in the shadows than to grow in the light.
“Roman?” I breathe.
No answer.
Nothing.
Just another flick of his lighter, and the sizzle of paper. I sigh, letting the door close softly behind me.
I hadn’t expected to see him here, of all places.
Apparently we’re doing this now.
“Those things will kill you.” I take a step toward him, then another, closing the distance between us. My eyes widen when I get close enough to see it’s not a cigarette he’s burning. “Roman!” My voice echoes against the walls, disrupting the silence.
I rush forward between the pews, my hands already outstretched. He doesn’t look at me as he rips another page from the Bible and flicks his Zippo open, lighting the thin paper on fire, blasphemous smoke billowing up toward the rafters.
“Stop it!” I cry as I reach for him, but my feet catch on a leg of the narrow pew and I fall forward. He doesn’t try to catch me. Instead, he shifts his weight to the side, letting me land heavily on the unforgiving wood beside him.
Pain shoots up my wrists as I catch myself, a soft grunt leaving me when I try to hide my pain.
Another rip.
Another flick.
Another sizzle of paper.
He doesn’t care, I idly think. Does he even know I’m here?
Finally, I look up, watching as he lets the ash fall to the floor, covering his boots and jeans on the way. He slides his gaze to me as he slowly rips another page out and lights it on fire, the move so practiced, he doesn’t even need to look to see what he’s doing.
It’s as terrifying as the bleakness in his once luminous hazel eyes.
“What are you doing?” I breathe.
“What does it look like?”
His eyes lower to my trembling hands as I push myself up. I’m too close to him—our bodies are too close. It’s been years and though my soul knows him, recognizes him on an intrinsic level, I don’t know him anymore.
This Roman is not my Roman.
Yet, I can’t bring myself to move away.
This is the closest I’ve been to him since the night he left me, and I can’t force myself to put distance between us, even though I know I should. I don’t want to. I just want to stare at him until I’ve seen every new feature he’s developed, every new freckle, every new line.
Everything.
I just want to share breath with him, breathe him in so his familiarity can settle in my bones the way it once did, soothing me.
Before I can do something reckless like lean into him, he pulls me from my nostalgic thoughts as he chuckles. “Close your mouth, Golden Girl. You’re drooling.”
My hand instinctively moves to my chin, ready to wipe the saliva away. It glides along dry skin, and my face burns red as he lets out a low laugh. I don’t know what’s worse—the way he effortlessly laughs at me, or the hurtful rendition of the nickname he once gave me out of love.
For years, Roman called me the golden child of the family. He always said that I was the child his father wanted. That I was stuck up, a show-off. That I was taking his place.
The golden child turned to Golden Girl. Eventually, that name changed. Adapting to the nickname he murmured again and again while worshiping my body, kissing away the pain. While devouring me. Loving me.
