I've written this chapter rather quickly, I've been super inspired for a few days and I can't stop writing!

So, this one is still angsty, but only because it's the continuation of the first chapter. I'll write a third one that will finally be romantic and fluffly and everything, I promise!

Enjoy your reading, and don't forget to let me know what you think! :-)

Chapter 2

What did I do to deserve this? I think, burying myself deeper between the sheets. I'd have thought that, after what happened the night before, everything would have gone back to normal. Obviously, it's not the case. The first thing my eyes lay upon when they open is her. She's sitting on a chair opposite my bed, her arms crossed on her chest. She's in the shadow of the wardrobe, her head resting on the wood panel. It's her. There can be no doubt about it.

I take a deep breath, debating whether I ought to talk to her – well, the vision – or on the contrary, ignore her. In both cases, I'm bound to either go totally insane or kill myself. This is not a life. I can't keep talking to someone who's not there, making up a fake relationship with a hallucination. I'm way beyond the age of having imaginary friends – not to mention that I want way more than a lovely and cute friendship with her. But ignoring her… That would mean living with her shadow cast on me, all the time. If I don't want to acknowledge her presence, I know that seeing her will end up consuming me. Walking with the fear that she might magically appear whenever I feel too alone. Going to work with her weight on my shoulders, feeling her behind me, bending over my shoulder when I do paperwork. Having a shower when I'll know she'll be leaning against the door, watching. Checking my mails on my couch when I'll know she'll be sitting on the other end. All of this, I cannot do. I'm not strong enough.

I don't know what's best. Maybe if I decide to live with her, accepting that this hallucination is the only thing I can have, I could live a life close to normal. No. That's not the solution. A vision could never replace the Fang I knew, the woman I love. It's just a pale copy created by my imagination because I miss her. I'd even rather contempt myself with memories of all those feelings I had when around her than seeing her but feeling nothing. I remember distinctly her perfume, and when I concentrate enough, I can smell it in the air. I remember her voice and that strong Pulsian accent – I love that accent so much, I could listen to her talk all day long… I remember how her skin felt under my fingers, when they brushed against it. I remember her eyes sparkling when she won a fight. And when I find myself in front of that mirage, I try to look for all those things I supposedly know by heart, but I can't find them. And it makes me wonder, do I really know her? Are all those memories trustworthy? The more I think about it, the more I feel those memories slipping from my grasp. Soon, I'll have nothing more to rely on than that dull and lifeless image following me wherever I go. Soon, I'll forget about her, about who she really is, about all the things in her that made me fall for her. Soon, I'll see her, and find myself asking, who is she?

I shake my head and rub my eyes with the back of my hands. I need to stop thinking for a moment. It's only making it worse. I need to stop thinking about her. I grab my tee-shirt, knowing that the only way I can achieve some inner peace is to go kill some beasts. When I fight, I'm too focused to think about such a stupid thing as love, to be angry or sad. Yes. Even if she follows me, I won't notice her presence, I'll forget about her. And I'll preserve my mental health a bit longer. That's a good plan. I reach for my pants, and that's when I notice the bandages on my right hand. I remember cutting myself, but I don't remember taking care of that. Probably because of the hysteria that possessed me, I guess. It's not like I'm aware of everything I do lately. I put my pants on with a sigh and head for the door. From the corner of my eyes, I can still see her. I won't look. I won't give up my sanity without fighting. I'll pretend she's not there.

But then, I hear something. It's not loud, barely audible. But I can hear it. The vision… It's breathing. I know for the past weeks I've been imagining things, but this is different. It feels real. I take a sharp intake of breath, scared and thrilled. I know I shouldn't feel excited. I know she's not real. It's just one more thing my mind has learnt to make up. I know all of this will end up breaking my heart for good. But it sounds so real. Slowly, I take a step toward her sleeping form. I can feel an aura that I've never felt before – not around the mirage, at least. Her chest is heaving peacefully, a strand of hair being slightly blown away from her face every time she exhales. I kneel before her, and reach out the back if my hand toward her mouth and nose. The air meeting my skin is burning and I quickly draw back, as if pricked by a needle. I'm so scared. And yet so hopeful. My fingers hover over the skin of her arm, and I close my eyes, taking my time to enjoy the heat emanating from it. I'm afraid that if I touch her, she'll disappear once again. A tornado of feelings rises in me, and boiling tears stream down my cheeks. Millions of thoughts rush in my brain, but none of them makes sense. Is she real? That's the only question I can ask. Is she real? I need to make sure. I don't care if she'll vanish, or if I'll lose my mind for good, I just need to know. I bit my lip, to the point it almost bleed, and extend my finger toward her arm. My brow knitted in anticipation and fear, I poke the soft flesh. Once. Quickly, as a child who pokes an animal with a stick to make sure it's dead. Suddenly, she stirs, and the only thing I want to do is run away screaming. But then I see it. Her face. It looks… Is it…? Her nose is awkwardly slanted on one side, tinted with a dark shade of greenish blue. Her cheek, her left eye are swollen. There's a deep cut on her cheekbone. And all those bruises. It hits me. It is.

I poke her arm once again. And this time, for the first time, she doesn't disappear. My throat is sore and I feel like my lungs are going to implode because I just can't breathe anymore. She's here. She always has been. She opens her eyes and I lose it. My eyes turn into waterfalls, I draw her to me, she falls over me, I pin her to the floor. I lock her arms with my own, hold on tightly to her body. Her body. Those words don't seem to make any sense, not after all this time. Until now, her body meant either her physical being, trapped in crystal, or the image I saw lurking around every corner, wherever I went. I forgot what it really meant. And now, I feel the heat of her skin, her hair tickling my neck, her breath on my shoulder. Her perfume – oh Etro, that intoxicating perfume – and her hand cradling the base of my skull, and her arm wrapping around my shoulders. I have never hugged someone like this in my entire life. It's a desperate hug. My fingers dig in her skin, trying to get a better hold of her. I bury my face deeper in her shoulder, my tears soaking the blue silk of her sari. I can't breathe, I can't think. My mind is wandering I don't know where, maybe it's because I've finally succumbed to the madness that had been threatening me for weeks. But what I know is that she's in my arms, her body is against mine, and for now this is enough. She's my anchor in this world of folly, and it's the only thing I need. She doesn't speak, not a word is uttered, and it's better this way. I don't want her to open her mouth to say things I don't want to hear. Minutes pass with the sounds of my cries muffled against her shoulder echoing loudly in the silence of my bedroom. Minutes turn to hours, but I don't let go. It's too soon. I've missed her for weeks, I think I deserve much more than half an hour of hugging. She doesn't complain. She keeps caressing my hair, patting my back lightly.

I just can't get enough of her, her warmth. My arms are sore, heavy, weak, but I can't let go. No, no, no. I know that if I let go, she'll disappear. And if she disappears, I'm dead. All the fear, the loneliness, the doubt, the pain that have accumulated during all these weeks gather into a single wave washing over me. It's irrational and stupid but I can't help it. I feel like she's going to leave me. Please don't. Don't leave me. Don't leave me. Those words keeps echoing in my head, like a mantra, until I'm convinced that that's what going to happen. I grab her by the soft material of her sari, and start shaking her, violently, without respite. I feel the cuts of last night opening under the bandages, but I don't stop. I see her face, the bruises, the cuts, the dried blood, the wet trail left by her own tears on her cheeks, the pained expression in her eyes. And I can't stand it. She looks weak, but doesn't have the right to. She looks so pitiful, so hurt, so helpless. I'm angry. I'm so angry. She went through nothing; she slept in a lovely cocoon of crystal, having dreams filled with happiness and joy. She left me all alone. I had to cope with her absence and that goddamn love eating me from the inside. I was the one mourning for her every single day. I'm the one who suffered. And now, she comes back, lets me know she's here, and now, she's going to leave me. This is not fair. I don't deserve this. I don't.

'I hate you!' I spit, slapping her face with the back of my hands, blinded my tears.

She doesn't do anything. She doesn't say anything. Just like last night. And it makes me even angrier. I cry, I yell, I cry some more, I keep on shaking her. I can't stop myself. She's so weak it makes me sick. Selfish bitch. She seems insensible to the pain, to the force of the blows I throw at her. She doesn't move, remains impassive. It's impossible. I know she's strong, but she's human. Even she couldn't resist to all of this without being hurt. So you're just an illusion, in the end. My world starts crumbling around me, all over again, and all I can foresee is darkness. I've just been tricked by my mind once again. My sobs keep getting stronger, but I never stop beating her. She's not real, so why should I care? I punch her shoulders, her stomach. Even after the temper I threw last night, the rage is my veins is still not one. It's driving m every move, and I can't control it. Until she grabs my wrists. I freeze. I stare at her and those eyes that stare back at me with an intensity I've never seen coming from them. I try to move, but I can't. I'm bent over her, tears dripping from the tip of my nose on her face. And I realize that she didn't move, nor feel any pain, because I'm the one who's weak. I'm so weak. My muscles feel atrophied. My limbs feel tired. Right now, I'm as harmless as a fly. When she sees that I understand, she lets go of my wrists. She helps me settle on her shoulder, and I bury my nose in the crook of her neck as she wraps an arm around my waist. My body is limp and I can't move. My hand is on her breast. Her heartbeat is so strong I can feel the pulsations under my fingertips. I hear her shallow breath. I feel her trembling fingers on my hip. I see a tear rolling down her temple. Is this real? I think, unable to make out the difference between reality and illusion anymore. Are you real? This time, an answer rises in the silence. The voice is shaky, unsure. It sounds odd, because this voice is usually never tinged with such negative tones. But it's an answer nonetheless.

'Only if you want me to be.'