But then his face darkens, and he’s giving me the same look he did when I told him I wasn’t here, in this place, for him.
I lick my cracked lips, uttering, “Yes.”
His brows come together, and he’s thoughtful.
I let out a breath. “It’s—”
“No,” he retorts quickly, giving the room a long look. “We don’t talk about the other world in here. No names.”
I dig into my mind, trying to remember all the information given before I got here. But my heart is racing, and I’m anxious, and I can’t fucking think.
Is he right to be paranoid?
Are we truly being listened to?
I can’t afford to assume we aren’t.
I’m careful when I say, “Everything is different.”
He’s not looking at me, but he’s listening. His eyes are on a spot in the water, his movements are slow. He waits for me to continue.
“Our world…it’s changed out there,” I add. “It’s not how you remember it.”
He thinks. “Were you happy?”
My heart slows. Tears spring to my eyes, but they don’t fall. I let out a faltering breath, admitting, “I had a life. It wasn’t always pain. There was love.”
“Was?” he echoes.
“Was,” I simply confirm.
We’re quiet.
There is so much I want to say, but even if I could say them, even if it was safe to do so, I’m not sure he can handle the truth.
Finally, he looks at me. And now I feel like he is truly looking at me. His eyes don't leave my face as he studies me in that quiet, thoughtful way.
I do the same.
The gap is easing between us, like it was never there.
Time...
Time is a funny thing.
"Are you the same person?" he wonders.
"Yes." I answer. "The same...and different."
He swallows, finally looking away.
It feels cold when he's not looking at me. It feels...hollow. I'm suddenly craving his eyes, but I'm not sure what it would mean if I fell back into his gaze.
He cleans himself and then steps out of the tub, ordering me to, “Wash yourself.”
But he doesn’t leave.
He paces the bathroom, looking anywhere but at me as I quickly soak my hair. The water is loaded with soap, and it smells like flowers. I finger comb my hair and then wash my face.