Page 25 of Time After Time
We walked side by side in silence, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of my palm, each stroke loosening the tightness in my throat and easing the weight pressing at the base of my skull.
I turned to meet his gaze. His brow was furrowed, an expression that gave away the storm of thoughts swirling behind his eyes. For a moment, he seemed far away, lost, until he blinked rapidly and shook his head, as if trying to chase the thoughts away.
When he finally focused on me, his gaze turned intense, sweeping over me as though trying to memorise every detail. It felt like he feared forgetting the exact hue of my hair, as if I might disappear by morning.
Once we stood in front of my house, the summer breeze caught the hem of Sebastian’s white t-shirt, making it sway. His left hand gripped his pocket, while the other clutched a bag of clothes from the farm. His knuckles strained white.
“Good night, Gen,” he uttered, sending a shiver through my chest or perhaps my heart, if such a sensation could be articulated.
“Good night, Seb.”
His smile, devoid ofhimself, didn’t reach his eyes or create the usual creases around his lips. He turned away, leaving me with that and nothing more.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” My voice betrayed a neediness I hadn’t known existed, yearning for affirmation.
A simple nod.
“And the day after that too, right?” I asked, feeling like a child being separated from their favourite plushie for a much-needed wash.
Another nod.
“And then?”
A faint breath escaped Sebastian’s lips as he wiped his nose, his response making the corner of my lips tremble. At that moment, I wished I had entered my house without looking back.
“Until it’s time.”
Normally, the roles were reversed — he would observe me turning towards my home, ensuring my safety until the door closed behind me. Yet, this time, I found myself standing on the other side, fixated on the receding figure of Sebastian. Vulnerability embraced me, leaving me to ponder if he, too,experienced the same sense of impending loss and hopelessness every time I vanished into the depths of my home.
As he moved farther away, a chill descended, prompting me to clasp my arms around myself in a feeble attempt to ward off the cold that seemed to seep through my very being.
“Hey, you okay?” The voice, though unexpected, failed to coax me into turning around, speaking, or even drawing a breath until Sebastian disappeared from my sight. “Gen?”
My sister had opened the front door while I was distracted looking at him, and now she stood there, her gaze filled with concern. I tried to push it away with a faint smile. “Just tired.” My voice teetered on the edge of cracking, forcing me to pause and steady my breath. “There was a lot of work at the farm, and then we went swimming, so I’m exhausted.”
Sylvie’s eyes were on me, sharp. I wanted to look away, to keep her from seeing whatever was going on behind my smile. She had this way of figuring me out, and I didn’t want her to do it now. But just when I thought I’d have to spill everything, she shifted topics. “Mum and Dad went out,” she said, her hands working fast on putting her hair up in a perfect not-so-messy bun.
As the persistent goosebumps on my arms and the lingering chills failed to dissipate, I stepped over the threshold into my house, still embracing myself.
“I was waiting for you,” Sylvie announced.
I felt her eyes on me as I slowly closed the front door, my gaze dwelling on the spot where Sebastian had disappeared into the night while I listened to her footsteps as she walked away, and for a brief moment, I thought she had left me alone with my thoughts.
But when I turned around, she was there, standing with a kind smile, a light blanket draped over her arms. Without hesitation, she stepped closer and wrapped it around myshoulders, the soft fabric enveloping me and making me sigh in relief.
I looked down to find Mr. Whiskers, his brilliant eyes gazing up at me as he let out a series of soft, insistent meows, weaving between my legs as if trying to nudge a smile from me.
He was successful, although it wavered, and I felt the strain as a V formed on my forehead. Fatigue enveloped me, not just physically. “I’m too tired,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
Sylvie, however, moved closer to the kitchen. “You’re not going to bed with an empty stomach,” she insisted, hands and arms moving around, almost making a headache appear.
She tilted her head, gesturing for me to sit. I found myself on one of the kitchen barstools—the same one where I had my breakfast every morning.
As soon as I settled in, Mr. Whiskers bounded onto the stool next to mine, his paws making no sound on the worn wood. He nudged my arm insistently with his head, demanding attention until I leaned back just enough for him to climb into my lap as we, together, watched Sylvie as she prepared dinner.
I craved the silence, prayed for it to stay. But Sylvie knew me better than I knew myself, knew when to push and when to pull back.
She paused, her hands stilling over the cutting board. “What’s tormenting you?”
