Page 13 of Deranged Imposter

“Ask him yourself if you want him to join,” I say, electing to be vague.

“He is wasting talent by studying here,” he insults with a shake of his head and walks away.

He’s probably an alum of the rival university, hoping to poach impressive students after gathering personal information on them. Mikah doesn’t use social media, is uninterested in friends, and is generally intolerant of being open with others.

Mikah’s not going to be happy when he finds out.

“Who was that?” he probes, bumping my cheek with a cold drink.

I take it, noting he only got one order. I shrug and give a blasé sweep of the man’s retreating form.

It’s shameful how often it happens, Mikah being approached with offers until his hands go numb. I remember some reoccurring declined propositions, so he filtered those email addresses to spam.

I think it’s a rash choice. What if he changes his mind and wants to take up an offer, but the employer grows balls on their head and chastises him for being disrespectful because he didn’t have the decency to email them back that he wasn’t interested?

Elites play by a different set of rules.

“We were just talking,” I recap and grab onto his wrist.

The muscles flex under my firm touch and soft strokes above his swaying pulse.

Mikah is a book of mysteries, but I’ve learned through little signs and ciphers. Rage lances through his eyes, and fingers curl tightly into his palms. His massive frame is coiling centimeter by centimeter. He’s going to lunge at the man.

With years of practice in knowing exactly what to do, experiences commit themselves into my veins; I press my body to his side, nudging his rigid arm with my head, and whisper his name with melodies of reassurance and sincerity.

Releasing his wrist, I reach up gently to brush the pieces of hair that have fallen into his stormy gaze. When he gets like this, adrift and gone, he’s barely recognizable.

And it’s cruel, I ponder after the luster in his eyes flickers, the way he shuts me out.

He used to be unguarded, spoke his piece, and never held secrets to his heart. But that was before Zico; he changed so much. I don’t know if he’s ever going to get that part of him back.

Once things are gone, they’re not coming back. And maybe it’s for the best.

“Mikah,” I whisper over the bustling voices when the café door opens. “Where are you?”

I caress the bezel of his expensive watch, nervously shifting my fingertip to his wrist’s pulse as I patiently wait for his mind to mend together again.

What happened just now is becoming a common occurrence. The number of times he’s drowned in his thoughts is alarming.

Mikah returns with relaxed muscles and limp arms. The powerful clench of his jaw loosens, and his stance reverts to dignified apathy.

I sense it, the revival of doubts—but he turns away, and the feeling vanishes.

Chapter Four

Mikah

I lean back, arms resting on the edges of the white tub as I close my eyes to feel the bubbles popping on my skin. The lathered body wash stays foamy and creamy, floating above the warm water as the bathroom light flickers.

It smells lovely, like Isa in her pretty sundress, smiling brighter than the summer sun. My skin feels soft, similar to the way it does when she traces the ink curiously with unshakable vulnerability.

On rare occasions, such as a relaxing bath, I let my thoughts run in circles. They don’t linger in one place, nor do they make a lasting impression. Thoughts laced with scents of honeydew and pomegranate unscrew the knots in my shoulders as I sink deeper into the tub.

I briefly deliberated whether or not the tub would fit me. Luckily, it’s meant for two people, so my limbs have plenty of room.

The saccharine scent whiffs in my lungs, turning them into butterflies as the wings dust pollen up my throat. Nothing can measure up to the smell of Isa.

I’m tempted to leave the tranquil water to lick her slender neck until red marks darken to purple bruises.

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