Page 5 of Teach Me to Fly

He nods like he understands, but the crease in his brow deepens. “Alright, well, for the record, I'm here. Okay? You're not alone."

The weight of those words nearly buckles my knees. A breath shudders out of my chest, and I nod, swallowing the rising lump in my throat.

"Thanks, Lando."

"Don't thank me yet. I'm moving into full mother-hen mode. I've already stocked the pantry with all your comfort foods, and yes, I bought three different kinds of chocolate and six kinds of tea because I didn't know which version of your post-breakdown personality was going to show up."

Despite everything, a soft laugh escapes me. It's small, barely there, but it's real. He brightens at the sound, gently taking the mug from my hands.

"I also stocked the fridge with all your favourites, and there are bath salts in the bathroom. I even got those gross jellybeans you used to obsess over as a kid."

I laugh again, a choked little sound that surprises both of us. "You mean the vomit-flavoured ones?" I groan, half-laughing, half-crying.

"Truly, you were a disgusting child." He grins, and for a second, the past feels like a place I can still visit. "Come on. Let's get you settled in. Your room is made up, and I even fluffed the pillows."

"Did you spray them with lavender mist like you used to?"

"Of course I did."

I let him guide me down the short hallway to the primary bedroom, where a queen-sized bed, warm lighting, and an absurd number of pillows wait for me. He sets the tea on the nightstand and dims the lights.

"Go run a bath, I'll drink my tea while I wait. And if you want to cry, scream, or throw something fragile, we have excellent insurance on this place." He says it with a wink, but there's tenderness beneath the joke.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I pad into the bathroom across the hall minutes later, and my reflection startles me. I look haunted; the clothes hanging off my thinning body, and my eyes are ringed with shadows. I barely recognize myself.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe the girl who left New York died somewhere in that studio, and the one who arrived in Marlow is all that's left. And if that's true… I have no idea who she is yet.

The bath ishot enough to sting when I sink in, a sharp bite that used to come from something far more destructive. I don’t burn myself with lighters anymore, but sometimes I still chase the ache. The smell of the eucalyptus bath salts fills the air while I let the water scald the day off my skin, watching the surface ripple with each trembling breath. My legs float to the top, golden-brown and tense, the muscles wiry from running on fumes.

On the edge of the tub, beside the untouched bottles of shampoo and body wash that Lando must've set out for me, sits a razor, still wrapped and clean. My gaze catches on it and won't let go.

I used to cut after my dad died. It was the only way I could feel anything that made sense, and the pain was mine, at least. It was predictable and something that I could control, but I stopped when I joined The Big Apple Ballet, when dancing gave me something else to ache for again.

But now, after the last few weeks that I've had, the urge is back. The idea of feeling that kind of pain, of choosing it on my own terms, terrifies me. But what terrifiesme more is how much I want to. Just to make it stop, to get a breath in without my lungs catching fire, to remind myself I'm still here. That he didn't takeeverything.

After the bath,I must've laid my head on the pillow and drifted off, because I jolt awake an hour later—screaming. It tears out of me, violent and guttural, like my lungs are rejecting the memory before my brain can even process it. My body jerks upright, drenched in sweat, sheets twisted around my legs like restraints. My throat burns from the sound clawing its way out, part sob, part scream.

The door slams open seconds later, and I flinch violently, scrambling backward until my spine hits the headboard. Lando stumbles in, wide-eyed and barefoot, wielding the TV remote like a weapon. His sweater twists off one shoulder, hair sticking up like he passed out on the couch. He looks half-crazed with panic.

"Angelique!" he shouts, eyes sweeping the room. "What the hell happened? Are you okay?"

His eyes dart around like someone might step out from behind the curtains, but when he sees that we're alone and it's just me, sobbing into the duvet and shaking uncontrollably, he drops the remote with a thud and rushes over, instinctively reaching for me.

"Hey, hey. It's okay, you're safe. It was just?—"

"No!" I shriek, my voice thick from the tears.

I curl in on myself, arms shooting out in a defensive push before I even register what I'm doing. He stumbles back and freezes, mid-step, hands raised like I've pulled a knife on him.

"I'm not going to touch you, love." he says gently, lowering his voice. "You're safe with me. I promise."

The silence that follows is thick and ragged as my breath wheezes in and out of me like my lungs forgot how to work. I pull the duvet higher, burying my face, trying to force my mind back into the present, to remember that I'm in a bedroom miles away from Alec and that it's over; I survived.

"I'm sorry," I whisper after a long, shaking pause. "God, Lando, I'm so sorry."

Lando lowers himself into a crouch beside the bed, slow and careful as his eyes search mine, soft with worry.

"Don't apologize for having a nightmare," he says.

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