We stare at each other for a second… then burst outughing. I shake my head as he tries to clean milk off his sketch screen, mumbling curses the whole time and I start on the mess of

milk on the floor.

Even when he’s annoying, even when he throws wet paper towels at me, there’s something kind of perfect about moments like this.

Later, when the kitchen is finally clean (and only smells faintly of milk and regret), we reward ourselves with microwaved doughnuts and Mum’s leftover melted chocte. It’s not fancy, but it hits the spot.

Luther’s sitting beside me at the counter, barefoot, sses slipping down his nose, sketchpad back in hisp. He’s all focused again, that little crease between his brows making ateback.

“I’m thinking of making this one different,” he says suddenly, his voice low but excited. “It’s my final project. Myst sculpture before graduation. It has to stand out, you know? Something that’ll make people stop and say, ‘That’s Luther C. Vanderbilt. That’s the one to

watch.“”

I lean against him, resting my head on his shoulder, still chewing on a warm piece of doughnut. His body heat isforting, familiar. The sketches on his screen still look like organised chaos to me wild lines and sharp curves but I know better than to say that out loud.

—

—

Instead, I smile. “I’m sure Mum and Dad will personally send engraved letters to every art investor on the letting them know you’re it, Lu.”

He chuckles, a soft sound that rumbles through my cheek. “You think so?”

‘I know so,” I say, nudging him gently. “You’re annoying, dramatic, and impossible to live with… but you’re kind of brilliant too.”

He grins at that, the proud, smug kind. “Kind of?”

‘Let’s not push it.”

Heughs again, and for a moment, the whole world feels warm- like the smell of melted chocte, safe nights at home, and soft things you never want to outgrow

“You know,” Luther says, still smiling at his screen, “when I first thought of this sculpture,

–

I wanted it to feel real. Like, raw and bold something that didn’t try to be perfect. Just… honest. Even if it looked a little stupid.”

He nces at me, his grin widening. “Basically, I wanted it to feel like you.”

I sit up straighter, pretending to be offended. “Wait- are you saying I’m stupid?” –

Heughs, the kind ofugh that makes me smile even when I don’t want to. “No, dumbass. I’m saying you’re honest and brave. You don’t hide the messy parts of you. That’s what makes you kind of incredible.”

My chest warms a little, but I cover it with a smirk. “So… am I going to be your muse

now?”

“Ew. Absolutely not,” he says, scrunching up his face. “But… you can be the inspiration

behind it.”

“Rude,” I mutter, closing my eyes again and leaning back onto his shoulder. It’s warm. Safe.

“Well, the muse will neverpare to me anyway.”

“Totally iparable,” he agrees, soft and sure.

I smile. “She’ll just have to deal. And when you’re done with this masterpiece, I’ll have saved up enough money to open a whole art gallery in your name. Every wall, every corner just your sculptures. All of them. People will walk in and immediately know how big of a nerd

you are.”

Heughs, nudging me with his shoulder. “Promise?”

“Promise,” I whisper.

And for a second, everything slows down.

Just me and him. In the kitchen. Chocte on our fingers, dreams scattered across the table. Like nothing ever changed. Like he never died.

“You never got me the gallery, did you?” Luther’s voice is soft this time. Almost like he already knows the answer.

My heart aches. My throat tightens. “No,” I whisper. “No, I didn’t.”

“And… and Adrian…? Do you know if he’s doing wellb?/bb” /b

His voiceb, /bso heartbroken and longing and regretful, brings tears to my eyes. “No, I don’t.”

His eyes don’t hold any me. Just that familiar calm. This isn’t real, is it?”

And just like that, the hole in my chest

that tiny space that felt full again the moment I

saw him

rips wide open.

“No, I say, barely able to get the word out. “No, it’s not.”

He reaches out, fingers gently running through my hair. The way he used to when I couldn’t sleep. When I was scared of thunderstorms. When everything still made sense.

“I love you, Emily. I always will.” He smiles, but it trembles. “But sometimes… sometimes I

hate you.”

The world cracks.

“I hate that I had to go. I hate that I’m missing everything. Mum’sugh. Dad’s stupid jokes. Diana’s singing in the garden. You. Adrian,” his face contorts in pain. “God, I hate missing you both most.”

I shake my head, tears burning. “L-”

“But I don’t regret it,” he says. “I’m sad. I really am. But I’m okay. And even if I had a thousand regrets… you wouldn’t be one of them. Never you, Emily.”

I can’t speak. I can’t move. I just cry. Loud and messy and real. Like I’m seven again and scraped my knee ying tag in the backyard and he was the only one who could make it

better.

“There, there,” he murmurs, arms around me, fingers in my hair. “You were always such a

crybaby.”

I miss byou/b, Lu,‘ I choke out. ‘I miss you so much it hurts to breathe. I didn’t mourn you. Not really. I thought I bhad /bto be strong. I thought if I ignored the pain long enough, it would disappear. But it didn’t. It just got heavier.”

I clutch his shirt. “Why cant i stay here? Why can’t you stay? Why do I only get to see you in dreams? Why are you so perfect… even when you’re not real?”

Lather pulls back just a blittle /band presses his forehead to mine.

Familia is a good name/he says quietly, souding onest time

And then

He’s gone.

And I scream.

Chapter Comments

Anika Heemskerk

Wow, crying my eyes out here. I thought it was just a shback

View 1 Comment

8

SHARE

POST COMMENT