Page 34 of In Another Time

I typed slowly, hesitantly.

I’m... hurting. My condolences, by the way.

I stared at the words for a long moment before hitting send. My chest felt tight, like I’d just given away a piece of myself. Almost immediately, the typing bubbles appeared, and my pulse quickened.

Same here. I’m fucked up. And thanks. My condolences as well. Truly. That’s a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

My eyes blurred as I read his response. It was the first time he’d said it outright, admitted that he was struggling. The vulnerability in his words struck me.There was a pause, and then another message appeared.

Can I see you?

I sucked in a sharp breath, staring at the screen. My first instinct was to say no, to put up the wall I’d perfected over the years. But something stopped me. Maybe it was the rawness of his message, or maybe it was the fact that I was so damn tired of running from how I felt.

Still, I hesitated. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as doubts crept in. What would this accomplish? Would seeing him make things better or worse?

Finally, I typed back.

When?

The message sent, and I let out a shaky breath. There was no turning back now. As I set the phone down, a mix of anxiety and anticipation coursed through me. I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but for the first time in a long while, I felt something other than numbness. It wasn’t peace—not yet—but it was something. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

OMIR

O’Shea’s laugh echoed in the foggy recesses of my mind, sharp and unfiltered, the way it used to be when we were younger. He was sitting across from me in Pop’s living room with a blunt between his fingers.

“You got life all fucked up, O,” I said, and he shook his head, the smoke curling around his face. “You think life waits for you to figure it out. It doesn’t.”

He frowned, leaning back against the couch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re out here acting like you’ve got all the time in the world to make shit right. You’ve got a son now. It’s time to get your shit together, bro. For real.”

He opened my mouth to speak again, but the smoke thickened, and his figure began to fade.

“O!” I called out, but the only response was the sound of my own alarm blaring in the background.

I woke up drenched in sweat, my heart racing. The room was dim, the late morning sun barely filtering through the curtains. I blinked a few times, trying to steady my breathing, when I noticed Anya sitting up in bed, staring at me.

“Bad dream?” she asked softly, her voice laced with concern.

I rubbed my face and nodded. “Yeah. . . something like that.”

She reached out to touch my arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I shook my head. “Nah.”

She sighed and moved closer, her hands sliding up my chest. “Babe, everything is going to be alright.”

Her words were sincere, but they didn’t hit the way they should have. Instead, they felt like an echo, distant and hollow. “I know,” I said, forcing a small smile. “I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting. I’ve been pushing you away, and that shit ain’t fair. I’ll make it up to you.”

Anya climbed onto my lap, her warm body pressing against mine as she cupped my face in her hands. “You better,” she said with a teasing smirk before leaning in to kiss me.

Her lips were soft, familiar, but as her kisses deepened and her breathy moans filled the room, my mind drifted to Lennox. Anya tugged at my shirt, trying to pull me closer, but I gently pulled back.

“Not. . . not right now,” I murmured.

Her brows knitted together in confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just. . . not in the right headspace. It’s not you, baby. I swear.”

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