Page 92 of Molt

She’s weak. Her body has almost completely taken mine.

My eyes. My hands. My scars. Even my voice sometimes.

I look like a ghost. Thin. Gray. Barely there.

“Please,” she whispers.

“No.”

“August.”

“No.”

“You promised.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You promised.”

“I don’t care.”

“You said if it got this bad…”

“I know what I said.”

She reaches for me. Her fingers pass through a section of my arm. Not completely. My body is becoming translucent.

“I’m running out of time.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“No.”

“Look at yourself.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

She cries. “You always get to decide.”

I stare at her. “What?”

“You decide when we run. You decide when we stay. You decide when we touch. When we don’t. You decide when I’m allowed to know the truth.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“No.”

She looks at me. “You’re trying to keep me.”

The words hit.

Because they’re true. I don’t want to save her.

Not entirely.