LIVING IN A HOUSE
You begin to walk through the front door. She stands inside, in the foyer. An impatient frown forms and beckons you in, though you aren't quite sure you can deal with this, not yet. What is she thinking? you desperately need to know. But something happened after you left — maybe before that (might even be your fault) — and you can no longer read her like a book. So you get nothing; something inside of you laughs because It thinks that's what you deserve.
Imagine your surprise as you find there is no invisible wall to taunt you, not this time. So the voice inside — the soul that will remind you of what you are, despite everything — taunts instead, as It reminds you that a cancelled invitation requires magic, and magic in the hands of the wrong person is partly what got you both here in the first place.
Her frown disappears, however, so you follow her as she begins to walk up the staircase. Three steps behind her, you trail silently until you see her reach the top and, though you stop before you get there, she continues without so much as a glance over her shoulder. Slight hesitation blankets you and easily — so easily — manifests itself into guilt and grief. You peel your eyes away from the carpet and they are drawn, impulsively, to her hips as they sway, to her steady hands, to the curve of her neck. Your fists clench and unclench as you hurriedly catch up so you are standing right behind her, breathing down on her, aching to touch her — because, despite everything, you are what you are.
The hallway is longer and the bathroom is brighter than you remember. Maybe because she kicked you out of it with the heel of her foot; maybe not. It doesn't seem to really matter, though, because you watch her as you both pass it in unison and she doesn't even blink. You flinch, however, and fall a few steps behind as you freeze for a moment. In that millisecond you remember those two minutes of blurred confusion you spent smothering her, those thirty-four and a half weeks you spent under rocks and flickering bar-lights trying to forget. You flinched, and though you'll be thinking about it for days, she failed to even notice.
But the funny thing about immortality is how quickly the milliseconds pass, especially when part of you thinks she's leading you to your death. You tear your attention away from the aesthetically displeasing, angel-wing white room to find her disappearing behind the door of her bedroom. So you follow her and she closes the door behind you.
You think about the times you've been in her bedroom — nothing comes to mind. All you can think about is how she's never invited you in before. Then you think about the times spent in your old bedroom, the literal hole in the ground that you called Home because you didn't know what a home was.
She kisses you and you think you might could get used to living in a house, again.