Page 84 of Molt

Eleanor. Blonde. Blue eyes. Same laugh.

Same fucking soul.

She’s tied to a chair. I tied her there. Her wrists are raw from fighting the rope.

“You’re hurting me.”

“I know.”

“Untie me.”

“No.”

“August.”

“No.”

“You said you loved me.”

“I do.”

“Then untie me.”

“I can’t.”

Her face twists. “You’re afraid.”

“Yes.”

“Of me?”

I look away.

Her mouth opens. The hurt in her expression makes me want to tear my own heart out.

“Of what I become?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Of what I become around you.”

She stares at me.

I have been awake for five days. There’s bottles everywhere. Notes. Measurements. Pieces of my hair. Teeth in a glass. I’ve been documenting every loss. Trying to understand. Trying to control it. Trying to turn love into numbers because numbers cannot betray me.

“Let me go,” she whispers.

“No.”

“I won’t touch you.”

“That isn’t enough.”

“I won’t kiss you.”

“Not enough.”