He Mourns Me, I Don’t Know Myself

Chapter 2: The Man Who Waits

He hadn't turned on the overhead lights.

Ronan moved through the dim kitchen with the slow, deliberate precision of a man walking underwater. The silence of the apartment was thick, pressing against his eardrums, but he didn't turn on the radio. He didn't want any noise to drown out the faint rustle of her presence.

He opened the cabinet and pulled out two ceramic plates. One plain white, one with a faded blue rim. He placed them carefully on the small dining table. Then, he opened the drawer, his fingers brushing against the cold metal as he withdrew two forks, two knives. He set them perfectly parallel to the plates.

The pasta was already cold by the time he scooped it from the pot, but he didn't care. He divided it evenly, making sure to place a slightly smaller portion on the blue-rimmed plate. Just the way she always preferred.

When the table was set, Ronan pulled out his chair and sat down. He didn't look across the table right away. Instead, he stared down at his own food, picking up his fork with a hand that trembled slightly, before gripping the handle tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

Across from him, the chair shifted.

It was a minute sound, barely a whisper of fabric against wood, but to Ronan, it was louder than a gunshot. He kept his eyes fixed on his plate, chewing a mouthful of cold pasta that tasted like ash, swallowing heavily.

He could feel her looking at him. Her gaze was a tangible weight, filled with a frantic, bewildered energy. He knew what she was thinking. He knew the panic that was fluttering in her chest like a trapped bird. She had stood in the hallway staring at him with wide, terrified eyes, looking like a lost child who didn't know her own name.

Because she didn't.

She opened her mouth. He saw the movement in his peripheral vision, the slight parting of her lips as she struggled to form words she didn't have.

"You still don't remember me, do you," Ronan said.

His voice was terrifyingly calm. It wasn't a question; it was a statement. He finally lifted his head and met her eyes. She flinched slightly, her shoulders tensing. She looked exactly as she had seven days ago. The same soft curve of her jaw, the same pale skin, the same slight dishevelment to her hair. But her eyes—they were empty. There was no shared history in them, no inside jokes, no warmth. Just a profound, heartbreaking blankness.

Seraphina swallowed hard, her lips trembling, but she remained completely silent. She looked down at the table, her gaze lingering on the plate of food set in front of her, and then back up at him. She looked terrified of him.

That was the part that hurt the most.

Ronan looked away. He couldn't bear to see the fear in her face, not when it was directed at him. He set his fork down, the metallic clink sharp in the quiet room. He had barely eaten three bites, but the thought of swallowing any more made his stomach churn.

He stood up, pushing his chair back. He reached across the table and picked up his plate, then hesitated for a fraction of a second before picking up hers as well. The food on her plate was untouched. It would always be untouched.

He carried the plates to the sink, turning his back to her. The water ran from the faucet, washing away the remnants of a meal he couldn't stomach.

"It's okay," Ronan said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. He gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles turning white again, staring blankly at the water swirling down the drain. "It's okay that you don't remember."

He closed his eyes, a single, jagged breath escaping his lungs.

"I'm just glad you're here."

Behind him, Seraphina sat frozen. She was staring at him, not at his face, but at his arm as he leaned against the counter. The sleeves of his dark button-down shirt were rolled up, but on the right cuff, near the elbow, the fabric was stiff.

It was a dark, rusted brown color. A jagged, ugly stain that had soaked deep into the fibers and dried hard.

Blood.

She stared at the dried blood on his sleeve, her heart hammering against her ribs, wondering what had happened in this apartment before she opened her eyes.