Page 127 of Dark Night of the Soul

“Sorry,” I muttered. “Occupational hazard.”

A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said.

“I wasn’t—” I started.

“I know,” he said, quiet. “You don’t have to explain.”

His eyes held mine for a second too long. Something unguarded flickered there—warm and steady—before his face went blank again.

And my throat tightened, which was annoying.

“We should go.” Though I said it, I didn’t move. I didn’t want to go. I knew this was only a brief respite, anyway.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask why. He stood, offered me his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I took it. Together, we walked back.

Nighttime was strange. Sometimes he stayed awake all night. I knew what he was doing. I never questioned it. Sometimes, I’d shout myself awake, and he’d already be there. Like he knew the nightmare was coming. And sometimes we’d lay there together staring at the ceiling, neither of us sleeping but pretending to sleep.

It was hard to shake that constant coil of dread deep in my gut but there were moments when I forgot.

I was still awake at dawn when I heard the buzz. He was on his feet a second later. The screen lit up his face in a sickly pale glow. And I knew it was coming. I didn’t move but his gaze flicked to me, anyway. He knew I was awake.

“He’ll call in a few hours.”

A few. An indefinite time period that gave me all the time in the world to spiral. I needed something to occupy my mind until peace was shattered.

I skipped my morning coffee ritual because my stomach was in knots. I couldn’t bear the thought of food, either.

There wasn’t a way for me to release this nervous energy. I forced myself to stand on the balcony. And wait.

He waited with me. Two people standing guard over the last vestiges of tranquility.

“What if we can’t go back?”

My voice sounded thin, fragile. Like everything might shatter at any moment. This was the fear that had been gnawing at me for hours. And thinking it settled a profound loss deep in my chest.

He moved closer to me. Not touching. A comforting presence.

“Then we build something else,” he said.

We.

Not you’ll find another place or I’ll help you rebuild. We. As if my home was his home. As if my losses were his to carry, too.

I took a deep breath, exhaled. He never tried to tell me everything would be okay because in our experience, everything was never okay.

The phone in his pocket rang. We looked at each other. My heart rose to my throat as he pulled it from his pocket.

“Put it on speaker.” I wanted to hear it for myself.

He punched the button. “What do you have?”

Silas’s tinny voice rose from the speaker. “You aren’t going to like it. I hope you’re sitting down.”

He gave me a questioning look. I shook my head.