Page 42 of Make Them Cry
He heard me.
The red pinprick in the corner blinks once, patient. I should be creeped out. I should be furious. I’m not. I’m melting and mortified and aching and—God help me—relieved.Because theghosts outside can be anywhere, but the ghost inside this room ismine.
My thumbs hover. I should type something sensible. I type the truth instead.
ME:Too late.
There’s a long beat. I imagine him somewhere in the city, watching a tiny screen light up with my hunger, his jaw tight, his hand in a fist by his side.
The dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear.
MASK:You should sleep.
ME:You should come take responsibility.
The dots freeze. I can feel his restraint from here, a taut line running straight from his phone to my body.
MASK:If I come, River, you won’t sleep.
Air abandons my lungs. Heat skyrockets. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
ME:Maybe I don’t want to.
Longer pause. I picture him closing his eyes, counting, losing count.
MASK:I care about your safety. Not your dreams.
Liar. The phone trembles in my hands. I push harder, reckless.
ME:What if I care about both?
Another breathless wait.
MASK:Then obey me. Sleep. Practice in the morning. Thumbs outside.
A laugh slips out. It’s small and ragged. I bite my lip and type softer.
ME:Why do you make me feel like this?
MASK:Because you’re alive again.
My eyes sting. Not with fear. With something that feels like relief.
ME:What’s your name?
Silence. The longest yet. Then?—
MASK:It doesn't matter.
ME:It matters to me.
MASK:Sleep.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
