Touched by Smoke

Chapter 8

Elara

I had to find a way to help Adam recover. Me, I have no idea what I’m doing, and maybe because I believed my presence was helping, I actually made things worse.

I haven’t been to see Adam in almost two weeks—not because I didn’t want to, but because I was busy. I had to paint a piece for my mother’s gallery, help her arrange the important paintings, and I spent hours at the library reading all kinds of psychology books, hoping to find something that could help me help Adam. At the end of the second week, I couldn’t bear not knowing how he was doing anymore, so I rushed to his house.

I’m sure he’ll think I left him. That I only pretended to care… He’ll throw a storm of bitter words at me, but I’ll let him.

I’ll let myself be hurt by them, if that helps release some of the pain he’s holding inside like a ticking bomb. I’ll let myself be burned by his rage, if that means we’re beginning to tear down—brick by brick—the thick walls he built around his broken heart.

I arrive in front of the house. Everything is exactly the same, and yet different. The windows are shut tight, and there’s no sign of life. It’s as if time has stopped around Adam, frozen in darkness.

I gather my courage and knock on the door. Three short, firm knocks. No answer. I wait a few seconds and knock again. I lean my forehead against the door and close my eyes.

— Adam… please, I know you’re there.

No one answers. I consider leaving. Maybe he’s not home… or maybe he’s refusing to open the door. But as I take a step back, the handle moves.

The door opens slowly, and Adam appears in the doorway. He doesn’t look as shattered as the last time I saw him, but his eyes still hold storms. He’s unshaven, with deep dark circles, and a gaze that seems once again accustomed to the void.

He says nothing. Neither do I.

Then, slowly, he nods toward the inside. An invitation.

I can’t hide my relief and step in, leaving my jacket on the coat rack I haven’t touched in days. It feels like a lifetime has passed.

— *You were gone,* he says in a low voice, almost a whisper.

I don’t know if it’s a statement or a reproach. Probably both.

— I know, Adam. And I’m sorry. But I’m here now.

We look at each other. The silence between us is heavy, but somehow not suffocating.

— I read that some people… fall apart without even realizing it, I continue, looking into his eyes. But those pieces don’t disappear. They can be put back together… with patience. With time.

Adam runs a hand through his hair, visibly confused by the emotions he doesn’t want to feel.

— You came to fix me? he asks bitterly.

— No. I came to stand by you while you learn to fix yourself.

He doesn’t reply, but I see something in his eyes I haven’t seen in a long time—not hope, not trust, but… a shadow of openness. As if my presence doesn’t hurt him quite as much anymore.

And for now, that’s enough.

— I’ll ask you something and… you don’t have to answer if you’re not ready. Did you miss me? I ask, seeing him scan the house as if constantly searching for a threat he knows he can’t face.

Adam stops moving. He stays still, his gaze locked on a spot on the wall, as if the answer is hidden there. He takes a deep breath, but says nothing.

I could assume he didn’t hear me, but I know he did. I feel it in the way his jaw tightens, in the almost imperceptible tremble of his hand.

— I don’t know if it’s “missed”… he murmurs finally, still with his back turned. But… I looked for you in my thoughts every day. Every night.

He turns toward me. His eyes are dark, but they no longer run from mine.

— I felt your absence in small things. In the silence that was too deep. In the way food lost its taste. In the nightmares that weren’t interrupted by your voice anymore.

He steps closer, but not enough to touch me.

— And I was afraid. Afraid that if I got used to the idea of you staying… you’d vanish. Like all the others.

I look at his face. It’s vulnerable, cracked, painfully beautiful in all its collapse.

— I’m here, Adam. And I plan to stay.

For a moment he hesitates. Then, as if surrendering after a war fought too long, he takes a step toward me. He doesn’t touch me, but his voice softens:

— *Then yes… I missed you. So damn much.*

And in that moment, the silence that follows says more than any answer.

With a smile on my lips and my heart warmed by his words, by the fact that even a sliver of light managed to slip through the strong, well-built walls of his being, I close the distance and wrap my arms around his torso, trying to shake loose even more of those walls.

He doesn’t know what to do. I feel his body tense, and his hands clench into fists a few times, as if afraid that if he hugs me back, he’ll burn.

I stay like that, my face against his chest, feeling his heart beat irregularly like a trapped bird. I don’t rush him. I don’t force him. I give him time. Because I know that every gesture, every touch, every moment of closeness is, for him, a life-or-death battle.

Then, with a hesitation that hurts more than a wound, his hands rise. He touches me like I’m made of glass. Fragile. Dangerous. A mirage.

But he places his palms on my back and finally embraces me. It’s an uncertain, trembling gesture, but it’s real. And I say nothing. I don’t move. I just breathe beside him, in his rhythm, in his wound, in the silence that is starting to hurt a little less.

— I hate you for what you’re doing to me, he says, almost whispering, but his voice carries no venom. It’s broken, torn, bitter.

— I know, I reply, smiling faintly, my heart full of a sweet kind of pain. But I’ll love you even for that.

I feel his body give in a little more. How those walls no longer seem made of stone, but of clay. And clay… can be molded. Can be healed. With time. With patience.

With love.

— You showered, I say, teasing, still holding him.

He doesn’t seem ready to let go yet. I’ll hold him every day, because I realize he’s starved for touch. His soul is starved.

— Why didn’t you tell me how bad I smelled before? You had to stay near me… enduring the stench of a broken man? he says softly, but the sting of bitterness is still there.