Page 48 of Until Forever Falls

He crowds in behind me, pressing in until there’s nowhere for me to go. My throat locks, my hands fisting into the sheets as I shove my face into the pillow. “You really thought you were special, didn’t you? I made you feel that way. Made you believe you were important. But you’re not. You never were.”

His voice doesn’t die with the dream. It stains the waking world. I bolt upright, breath rattling, sweat dripping, but the silence does nothing to wash him away. Sleep presses in, disorienting, and for a ghost of a second, I’m unsure if I’m awake or trapped in some cruel continuation of the nightmare.

My phone blinks on the nightstand, a dim beacon against the dark. Its glow cuts through the room in splintered lines, but nothing feels real enough to trust. My grip tightens on the blanket, desperate for the scratch of fabric.

“It’s not real,” the words tumble out quietly, more a plea than a reassurance. “He’s gone. He’s not here.”

I peel myself from the mattress, the air biting at my sweat damp skin as my legs drag free from the tangle of sheets. The floor is unforgivingly cold, a shock of reality against the ghost clinging to me.

The bathroom light sputters to life, carving deep shadows into my reflection as I shove the faucet on. Water crashes against the sink, and I plunge my hands into it, dragging the icy relief up to my face. It drips from my chin, slipping down my neck like sweat, like blood, like a stain I can’t scrub off.

I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles bone-white. The nightmare hasn’t loosened his grip—it festers in the cracks of my skull, pulsing behind my eyes, whispering from the corners of the room.

A glass of water might help—might wash it down, remind me I’m still here.

The hallway feels impossibly long, each step down feels like wading through tar, dragging me deeper into the murk of the childhood I swore I’d buried.The sensation of his hands resurfaces, slithering back uninvited, and I force myself to focus on the smooth floor beneath my bare feet. The only proof that I am here, and not back there.

My throat clenches with a dull ache, as if something is lodged there. When I step into the kitchen, Greg’s figure by the sink materializes out of the half light, flickering hues of the TV casting shifting patterns across his skin.

His voice cuts through the static in my head.

“Oh. Sorry if I woke you.”

I halt mid step, my pulse still skittering from the nightmares claws. “No, I—um, was just getting water.”

“You okay?” He moves closer, the shift in space sending a cold shudder through me.

“Yeah.” A blatant lie, but I cling to it. “It’s just been a long night.”

Greg barely exists in this house, slipping in and out, always on the road, barely leaving an imprint. My fingers press into the counter’s edge, biting into my palm as he moves again—too close. I jerk back before I can stop myself.

He hesitates, his brows pulling together, but at least he stops. “Are you sure?”

“Sorry,” I blurt, the apology tumbling out desperately. “I’m fine. Just jumpy. I’m heading back to bed.” I leave before he can speak. The water doesn’t matter. I abandon it, turning sharply, and retreat to my room, my pulse a war drum beneath my skin.

I drop onto the bed, but my body won’t settle. The adrenaline fades, leaking from my limbs. Closing my eyes feels like an invitation, a door cracked open for the nightmare to crawl back through, and I’m not ready for that.

I grab my sketchbook and flip to a blank page, the lead carving harsh strokes as I press into the paper. His face threatens to drift back into focus, but the frantic movements of the pencil push it away.

Unruly, erratic lines fill the surface, growing harsher with every pass. The night stretches on, and the sun begins to rise, its light filtering weakly through the blinds. My burning eyes protest from lack of sleep, but the drawing isn’t finished. Yet.

The portrait glares back at me, unsettling in its vulnerability. A specter of myself bled onto the page—eyes sunken beneath brutal strokes, lips split and bruised in shadows. Hair erupts in wild, frantic tangles, like it’s trying to escape the body it belongs to. She looks hunted. Cornered. Like she knows there’s no way out.

Scrawled words overlay the image, repeated over and over—why me?—cut deep into the paper. My fingers trace the grooves, feeling the heaviness of the graphite ground too hard. It’s a reflection of everything I’ve bottled up all these years. It’s the pain I’ve hidden, the rage of every buried scream, spilling out in lines that snarl and snare across the page.

A glance at my phone on the nightstand sends panic through the moment. Time’s run out, and my shift at Ruby’s starts in less than an hour. My clothes are thrown on hastily—jeans, an oversized cardigan, whatever’s within reach. I’m dressed and out the door in a rush, and the short walk to the diner is a blur, but as I arrive the clock inside reads just before seven—I barely made it.

“Good morning, Sunshine!” Ruby’s voice rings from the kitchen, brimming with unshaken enthusiasm.

“Morning, Ms. Miller,” I reply, though it’s an effort to match her energy.

“Oh, none of that!” She waves a hand, already rounding the bar. “I told you—call me Ruby. I won’t say it again.”

Her golden-brown eyes gleam, her red hair spilling from a loose braid, as if she’s always moving too fast to fuss over the details.

The hours blur together, the unwavering rhythm of the diner pulling me along until late afternoon sneaks up. The lunch rush ends, leaving only the sound of a damp cloth against the counter as I wipe it down. The bell above the front door chimes, and I glance up.

Brooks saunters in, all casual arrogance, hands buried in his pockets, that damn smirk already in place.

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