Elendili by hadastheunseelie

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Part Three: Fin

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It is spring, and the leaves are yellow again when he sees the girl.

Nick is back in Marissa’s, sketching something absentmindedly, the curve of Aidan’s lip, or the planes of his collarbone. She walks in with two other girls, both of whom seem plain compared to her. If the girl looked like a glass before now she looks like the void of space, with the nothing there to block the sun. Her hair is longer, and braided into a crown.

She mutters something to the other girls, and makes a move towards the bathroom until they turn away. She slips quietly in Nick’s booth.

“You’re dying,” he says.

“So are you,” she replies, “Most people are.” But he sees that she does not mean it. Her eyes are too bright, and her hand quavers as she brushes a stray bit of her hair back.

It is dull, he notices, as is everything else about her. All the power has been drawn into her eyes, and the rest of her looks worn down beyond measure.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she smiles, but it is more sad than bitter. “I should have helped more.”

He shakes his head. “You were wrong. He’s still here, with me.” This time it is him who smiles.

She looks at him all the more sadly when he says this, and shakes her head. “How long has it been since you saw him?”

“Six days,” Nick answers without a pause, “He’s gone to New York for a meeting.”

She looks at him with her bright eyes that look too tired to be alive, and he doubts Aidan, for the first time in months.

Nick shakes his head. “You’re wrong. You told me before that he would leave, and he didn’t. He won’t this time either.” He leaves his tea on the table, unfinished, and sweeps his sketchbook and pencil into his bag.

The girl makes no move to stop him, or to warn him. He turns around, just as he is about to walk out the door, and looks back at her. Her eyes are closed, and she is leaning against the back of the booth.

He thinks he pities her, for all her sadness, and all her lost youth, but he does not let the thought trouble him as he walks out of the shop. She will be alright one day, when she sees that people don’t always leave.

 

 

                Of all the colors she hates, (she is long past trying not to sound emo,) yellow is the worst.

                It fills the leaves, neither gold nor silver, both or maybe not either at all. She feels it every day from the sun, filtering through her like some ghost that once had too much whisky and not enough water.

                She sees the boy again in the café. He is no ghost. He is no human.

                She sits across from him, leaning into the leather seat, willing herself not to be swallowed by it.

                “You’re dying,” he says.

                “So are you,” she replies, unable to resist one last word. “Most people are.” (It is a farce. She feels her hand waver and when she pushes a stray strand of hair back it is brittle, and dull.)

                She looks at him. “I’m sorry.” (There is nothing else to say.)

                The boy shakes his head. “You were wrong about him. He’s still here, with me.” He smiles, and she knows what he does not. He is already gone.

                “How long has it been?” She does not bother to clarify what she means.

                “Six days,” the boy answers without pause. “He’s gone to New York for a meeting.”

                She looks at him, and Naomi doesn’t do anything else except keep herself from closing her eyes.

                The boy shakes his head, and she knows that it isn’t at her. “You’re wrong. You told me before that he would leave, and he didn’t. He won’t this time either.”

                He stands up, and leaves. She listens to him go.

                The boy knows, even if he does not know that he knows. She does not need to remind him.

                She leans against the leather. It is not soft, but she cannot care. Her eyes are bright, and then closed, and her hair is dull pressed up against the seat. She takes a breath, and lets it out.

                She is not fading anymore. All the light is finally gone. She does not take another breath.

 

It is two days later when the text comes.

It is from an unknown number, and arrives in the middle of the night. Nick hears his phone buzz as he sleeps, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, and picks it up fuzzily.

I am leaving, it says, I cannot stay. Goodbye.

He feels a pit open up in his stomach as he reads it, and though he tries to convince himself that it is a random number, he knows the truth, and doesn’t even bother to look up the area code.

“I cannot stay,” he tries to say, but the words stick in his mouth and throat.

He gets up, and pulls away the curtains on his window. There is no moon, and the stars are bright. He feels the wind, blow against him, and looks at the frost on his windowsill. He is not cold.

He looks down at his hands in the faint starlight. He should not be able to see them. They are almost glowing.

His sketchbook is across the room. He walks over, opens it, finds one of the last unoccupied pages, and places his hand against the paper.

His hand is lighter than it is.

Nick puts the sketchbook down, and sits down on the bed. He breathes in, and out, and closes his eyes.

                He opens them again, and stares up at the ceiling. He does not look at the almost glow that lingers behind his eyelids.