A/N: Thanks so much for all of the support for this story so far! It was a really nice departure to write this. Many of these chapters were written while I was in the hospital's waiting area. That place definitely had a distinct vibe—so much hopefulness mixed with so unspoken fear. Groups of people would come and generally talk a bit at first but after a few minutes, their chatter would fade into the silence that overwhelmed the entire room. Writing definitely helped me focus my mind on something else. So, I hope you can feel as I did while I was sitting there.

Big thanks to Sally for editing this so quickly for me! You're the absolute best.

Sea-foam and Sea Witches

"Let me sleep, I'm tired of my grief and I would like you to love me, to love me, to love me. This is the night when these woods sigh. Come with me. There are people who cannot speak without smiling. They would take me from your hand or they would try, they would try. This is the murmur of the land. This is the sound of love's marching band. And how they hold you like a gun. And how I sing you like a song I heard when I was young and buried for a night like this."

-"The Wisp Sings" – Winter Aid –

3

Have you ever looked at a person and wondered what the interior of their home looked like? Were their shelves lined with tchotchkes? Were their walls covered in photographs of all the people they've met and the places they've traveled?

Sometimes, I looked at a person and wondered what they went home to. Were they like me, arriving home after a long day of work at a dead-end job to find themselves immersed in utter chaos? Whenever I looked at Edward, I pictured a home in disarray. Not the sort of "Oh, God … how have they been living like this?" type of disarray but rather a charming sort of chaos that always came with creative, bookish types.

When I thought of him, I pictured books everywhere—on the shelves, lining the walls, and covering the countertops—and notebooks filled with random thoughts stacking up high on his bedside table. His work life reflected a disorganized, yet intelligent mind, and I expected his home life to be similar.

However, as the bartender Rick carried Edward to his apartment with me lagging behind, fished for the apartment key, and opened the door, all while Edward was passed out, I was shocked to find a home that was nearly bare.

Unlike the overwhelmingly full bookstore, his apartment almost looked like he had just moved in. Or, perhaps, it looked like he was preparing to move out. If he was intent on killing himself, had he cleaned his place up, getting rid of some of his belongings so that the landlord wouldn't have to deal with these things during the aftermath of his death? Despite being depressed, it seemed as if he had been thoughtful enough to try to get his house in order before dipping out for good.

Something about this made my eyes burn. The lack of pictures … lack of anything that made this flat a home … felt uncanny. It was like stepping into a hotel room that had been vacant for some time. The place was far too perfect to look lived in. What did he do while he was here? Did he just exist? Wait for time to pass by?

Or had he cleaned this morning, knowing that the next person to step foot into this apartment wouldn't be him?

Tears fell before I could stop them. There were moments when crying felt natural—as if all of the emotions just became too much and came pouring out. These times didn't need reason.

In the past, I had watched people fall to piece while wondering why they weren't able to hold it together. Why not hold off the tears for a few more minutes? Why not wait until you're alone? Even with my past, I had never broken down. Maybe I had never given myself the chance to.

This was a man I barely knew at all, and yet, the tears poured as if he were my oldest, dearest friend. Thankfully, Rick was too busy moving the unconscious Edward to his room to notice my grief. If I could control myself, I would. Throughout my life, I always prided myself on my strength, but perhaps, what I had once believed to be strength wasn't strength at all. Maybe it was just numbness. Or maybe cynicism. Or maybe just a jaded feeling that dulled everything else.

Can the strong cry? Can they shed tears until it feels like there's nothing left inside them? Or does a lack of control like this merely make a person weak?

Am I weak? Was I merely pretending to be strong until this moment?

As I rode out one wave, another crashed into me. These waters felt intense enough to send me to the ground. I sat on the hardwood and leaned back against the bare, white wall behind me. Soon, my lips tasted like salt.

When I was little—still in my car seat, little—I had gotten lost at an amusement park. That day had consisted of cheap, off-brand sunscreen, sticky fingers from melted ice cream, and a boiling sun that had covered my skin in a sheen of sweat that had made the drops from the blue ice cream even stickier. Between the kiddie rides and snack bars, there had been nonstop arguing. Mom looked at me in a way that suggested she was disappointed in more than the rides.

Back then, my bladder had been tiny, and the lines had been seemingly endless to my child-sized brain. I couldn't hold my piss, despite my best efforts, and when I had spoken up, begging to use the potty, I had received no more than a dismissive wave.

"You take her, Mike. I want to stay behind and take pictures. I mean, you can do that much, right?"

The tone in her voice still felt sour. After all these years, the dismissiveness touched me in a way that the fear of being lost in a crowd full of strange faces never did.

Young and without any attention to detail, I wandered out through the wrong door of the bathroom, leaving me surrounded by strangers. Tears fell before I had a chance to fully feel helpless—at the mercy of anything and everything as I stood alone with wobbly knees and a growing sunburn. Still, I could feel the thick layer of cheap sunscreen, greasy against my chapped skin. Underneath the sun, too disorientated to look for shade, I had sat until a familiar face found me.

There had been times when I had cried for myself, but now was the first time I crumbled for another person. Still seated on the hardwood floor, feeling my legs grow numb, I peered over to Rick, who was peering down at the still unconscious bookstore owner with an almost paternal grimace. This seemed more than just a moment shared by two neighbors. There was something deeper here. Something brewing beneath the calm exterior the old bartender hid behind.

Was there a past between the two men? Or was this merely sympathy from a stranger? No more than a grimace of casual sorrow.

What was casual sorrow anyway? Could it exist between two people? Was sympathy something we could shell out like mailbox-dwelling coupon books? Were tears cheap enough to buy with pocket change?

No, something about the small interaction captured by only a few seconds of notice suggested these two were more than strangers but maybe less than friends. As I watched the pair of men, legs still practically paralyzed, I wanted to crawl across the floor to join them. Whatever they were experiencing, it felt like something I had never taken part in.

Was this the sort of moment that was felt by many? Was this interaction some basic thing I had never known or experienced? Was this kindness? Was this friendship? Was this love? Have I never experienced sympathy enough to so easily recognize it?

Eventually, Rick's gaze moved from Edward's unconscious frame and found me sitting still on the floor. Another grimace formed, resembling something close to sympathy, before it quickly passed, and he closed the space between us. With hesitancy, he reached out his hand, letting it waver in the air as he waited for my grasp.

After a moment, I reached out to him and found that my legs could finally move again. I stood up and hovered near the wall for a moment before I felt strong enough to push away. Still, my limbs felt wobbly, making me feel once again like that young, lost girl looking for a familiar face in a crowd of sweaty, sun-kissed strangers.

"You all right there?" he asked as he watched me gaze around the room.

There was only emptiness. Bare walls and lifeless rooms, making the entire place seem sanitized. The lack of anything resembling a home caused my stomach to turn. After a few twists, causing bile to rise to my throat, coming to rest on my tongue, I leaned against the wall again and felt my legs wobble.

"Here," Rick said as he reached out to grab me, catching my weight right before my knees gave out. With a choked laugh, almost as if he were trying to make light of the situation for my benefit, he continued. "Don't tell me you're drunk too. Can't have the both of you passing out on me."

With the heaviness in the air, he and I knew that the man on the couch wasn't there after a good night of drinking. We both knew as well that I hadn't a single sip of alcohol. Sometimes, jokes felt easier than the little sort of truths that always found a way of keeping you up at night.

Following his lead, I found myself muttering, "Everyone needs a night like this every now and again." Also, following his lead, I managed to choke out a laugh, finding that it sounded more like a perverse chortle. Every sound I made was too lifeless to seem sincere.

"Do you need help home?"

If I were really drunk, and Rick believed I was really drunk, I was sure he would've insisted on taking me safely back to wherever "home" was. However, we both knew this question regarded my watery temperament rather than any level of intoxication.

"I—I'll be fine." Then, my attention turned back to the handsome, unconscious bookstore owner whom I found it difficult to pull my gaze from. "Will he be all right?"

"Oh, Edward?" Rick gazed back, giving him a small, fond smile before his features relaxed again into his resting face. "He'll be fine. Just needs to sleep it off, is all."

Could someone "sleep off" grief? Unconsciously, I moved away from Rick's grasp and closed the distance between the unconscious man I had somehow saved and myself. I knelt beside him, almost waiting for his eyes to open and his gaze to find mine.

Of course, that was the sort of thing that would happen in a fairytale, and this was far from that. If this were a fairytale, he would surely awaken and embrace me, and we would ride off into a sunset, looking forward to basking in the dawn of some sort of happiness.

I doubted I was ready for happiness, though. From the looks of it, neither was he.

His eyelashes were long, lingering on his flushed cheeks. Asleep like this, he looked even more beautiful. I should stop now. I couldn't afford to continue to think this way. I couldn't afford to lose myself in another person again. Any amount of happiness always came with a price.

Unable to help myself, though, I reached forward and brushed back his copper hair, wanting to capture a better glimpse of his strong features. His brows were twisted as he slept as if he were experiencing an unpleasant thought. I reached out and smoothed the line forming between his angular brows and watched as his face smoothed into a calmer expression.

Every cell of me wanted to lean into him, kissing the flushed skin of his face as if my lips were somehow capable of absorbing a few fragments of his pain. Instead, I let my fingers move through his hair, memorizing the way its silkiness felt against the pads of my fingers.

Maybe I was overstepping my boundaries, inviting myself into the life and home of a stranger without a sober welcome. With that thought, I pulled my hand away, letting my fingers linger in the air above him for a moment before I rocked back on my heels. Then, with great effort, I rose to my feet and moved away from him.

It felt wrong leaving him here. I cast a gaze over my shoulder as if I were taking in a final glimpse of him. Asleep as he was, I wondered if he felt my gaze on him. Did he know someone, if just for a few moments, was watching over him? In his unconscious state, did my attention give him solace?

"I'll head home now," I said quietly enough to sound as if I were murmuring to myself. "Thank you for this."

Rick, now hovering near the front door, gave me a stiff nod. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Anything on his mind could be expressed through the air. It was obvious he knew Edward hadn't been merely drunk.

After locking the front door of Edward's apartment behind us, he waved a casual goodbye in my direction. Tired and half-heartedly, I waved back. I was sure the smile I tried for appeared more like a grimace. I passed him and took off down the hallway, climbing down the stairs with a different sort of determination than before.

Somehow, I found myself back at my motel room. This felt strangely more like a home than the apartment I was just in. My stuff was scattered everywhere, making the quaint room look lived in. The place was trashy, and now in my sobered state of mind, I peered around the room as if I were seeing it for the first time.

The CRT-TV sitting on top of a dusty cabinet looked like a museum relic. The carpet, a mix of colors resembling something pulled from a video store, inspired a wave of nostalgia—almost as if the bright, insincere color scheme was attempting to unlock an old, forgotten memory. The bed had cheap sheets that felt like the ones I had back home—wherever "home" had been before this. Still, I was living from my suitcase. Clothes were everywhere, haphazardly piled up. All of the books and trinkets I had bought recently were resting on the random chair placed in the corner of the room. Looking at that empty chair everyday had an odd way of making me feel entirely alone. So, I had purchased random items to fill the space, hoping that books and random merchandise could fill the unavoidable void.

However, nothing filled this void, and I found myself in bed every night curling up with a mountain of pillows. While I had never felt particularly attached to any place, this one felt like some sort of home. Maybe it was because, unlike the other places I dwelled in, this one represented something greater than myself. This place, as small and shitty as it was, felt like a new start.

Here, I was building a new life. Even if that life lasted no more than an instant.