Two Hours Later: March 25
Lydia awakens from a vivid nightmare with a gasp. A sharp pain causes her to clutch at her sternum in the pitch dark of her bedroom. She reflexively reaches in front of her while a familiar name parts from her lips. Stiles. Her light in the darkness.
He is not there.
She extends her hand over the sheets on his side of the bed. They are unforgivably cold, yet the frigid contact feels like a burn. She quickly pulls her hand away.
He is not there…and he hasn't been for a while.
It can't be more than a few hours since she fell asleep, and Stiles was there – she remembers. He was there. He was holding her so close; a strong arm encircling her rib cage, a large hand caressing her face. And she was warm, and safe, and so relieved that he understood.
Where is he?
As she sits up to check the time, blurry red digits that read 1:31 a.m. glow on her alarm clock. She blinks, but her tired eyes, which are stinging with tears, refuse to clear. She moans with the awareness that her body is tense and aching all over. Her arms and legs feel as heavy as lead, her neck and back are sore, her throat is parched, and her head throbs with pulsing discomfort. Lifting a shaky hand to push her hair from her face, she is met with beads of perspiration that cling to her temples and dampen her hairline. Her loose-fitting sweater has adhered to her spine with the moisture that has collected on her skin, and she is conscious of a narrow river trickling down her heaving chest.
The sensation of being completely and utterly alone strikes her heart like a lightning bolt, leaving her stunned. It weighs down her lungs, so she can't fully expand them. It tightens the knot in her stomach, but she shakes her head and silently reminds herself, He wouldn't have just left.
"Stiles?" she repeats.
Lydia switches on her crystal lamp, squinting at the harsh artificial brightness it creates. She scans the cavernous space, rubbing her eyes and pursing her lips. It merely gives her confirmation of what she already knows to be true.
He is not there.
When her weary eyes are finally able to focus, she glances at her nightstand where her half-empty cup of tea still resides, next to the photo of Stiles and herself. It looks much less comforting now.
Lydia lifts the cup and stares into honey-colored liquid. It reminds her of Stiles's eyes. She gulps down the remainder, even though it's cold and tastes awful to her that way. The wetness against her throat at least grants her the ability to swallow.
As she sets the cup aside, her gaze lands on a small box and the sight of it relaxes her.
Stiles has a habit of leaving Lydia notes. Ever since the night she pushed Stiles and Scott out of the way of a blazing fireball, torn pieces of notebook paper, etched in ink, have been materializing throughout her day. The messages range from a simple Hi…to a sweet You're so smart or You look extra pretty today…to a cynical What the hell is a cosine and when will I ever actually use it? Sometimes she has to stifle a laugh when they are marked with amusing comments such as I think Derek Hale is in love with me. Don't you? Others instill worry in her. Those are the kind that read: WE NEED TO TALK, always in big bold print.
Stiles never signs the notes. He doesn't have to. Lydia recognizes his unique scrawl, and it makes her heart beat faster. He leaves them everywhere and anywhere he can – slides one in her locker, casually drops another on her desk during class, sneaks one into her handbag or onto her lunch tray. Each one unexpected. Each one igniting a spark within an otherwise mundane moment. She loves them all, but her favorites are those she finds scattered around her bedroom after a full day of research or a late-night study session. She always discovers those notes later on – pressed into a book, tucked under her pillow, tied to Prada's collar with blue string…because blue is pretty, rather than unsolved. Sometimes the notes appear days later…hidden in the pockets of her cardigan sweaters, slipped into one of her boots, or folded compactly enough to fit into her jewelry box; these are the buried treasures that reveal themselves to her slowly. Just like her love for him.
Lydia is committed to saving every single note. She keeps them safe in the embossed paper box that resides next to their photo.
Upon opening it, she carefully runs her hands through the confetti of paper and dried lilac blossoms contained inside. It reminds her that Stiles was here, that he thinks about her, that she matters to him.
He wouldn't have just left, she repeats to herself. Then, she closes the lid and takes a second look at the tabletop, still searching...
But there is no note to be seen.
When a metallic flash catches her eye, Lydia suddenly feels foolish for not having thought to check her phone. She realizes that Stiles probably didn't want to wake her; he wouldn't have wanted to fumble around in the dark looking for paper and a pen. She quickly lifts the device from the nightstand.
He is not there.
Her heart sinks. No texts. No emails. No voicemail. Nothing. Nothing to explain his absence.
Worry begins to take hold. What if Scott needed him? Or his dad? What if something happened? Some other awful thing that can't be explained by sense or reason.
As a flood of upset rises in her chest, she catches her quivering lip in her teeth and bites down. The pain snaps her out of the developing panic. She thinks she must be more tired than she thought, not to have considered that Stiles could be downstairs.
Pushing out an abbreviated breath, she slides out from under the covers. It is a relief to be free of the confining heat of her side of the bed. Phone in hand, she crosses her room and opens the door.
He wouldn't have just left, she thinks once again.
"Stiles?" she calls.
He is not there.
She steps out into the long dark corridor and heads for the staircase, tightness in her muscles beginning to build with each step. She is halfway down the hall when a hushed sound from behind makes her jump.
Turning abruptly, she finds Prada at her heels, innocently looking up at her with perked ears and a wagging tail.
Lydia rubs her face with her hands. "Pra-da...you scared me," she admits, with a sigh.
She continues with Prada following alongside, impending sense of urgency rising within as she descends the stairs. When she reaches the bottom, she spots a glow of yellow light emanating from the kitchen.
He wouldn't have just left, she reminds herself, and it's beginning to feel like a mantra.
She calls out for him. "Stiles…are you there?"
He is not there.
While she proceeds to search the entire first floor of the house, the voice that has been telling her that Stiles would never leave without saying something to her gets quieter and far less convincing. Her vision is blurring with each second that passes.
She remembers her phone and decides to call him, but when she pulls up her speed-dial list, the first name she sees gives her pause.
A droplet lands on the screen directly over the letters that spell Allison.
Allison is gone.
Lydia's free hand instinctively moves to her cheek, which is already wet with tears she hadn't realized were falling. She lets the grief in – lets her face crumple underneath her fingertips as she counts to three. One…two…three. Then she takes another light breath, scrolls to Stiles's number, selects it, puts the phone to her ear, and waits...
It rings. One...two…three…four times… Then it connects.
Her heart leaps…and stutters within half of a beat.
"Hey, it's Stiles and you missed me..." she hears.
He is not there. That's his voicemail.
Lydia stands in the kitchen once more, though she doesn't recall deciding to go back there. The tile floor has made her bare feet numb with cold. Her dampened sweater, that only minutes ago made her feel too hot, now intensifies the chill that has crept up her spine. She shivers.
He left. He left, and he didn't say anything, or leave a note, or send a text, or call. Something must have happened.
It has become work to convince herself of this now, because the nagging sensation she had earlier in the evening has returned. It told her that something was different.
She moves to the picture window in the living room, wipes the foggy pane with her sleeve, and peers through the glass. As expected, the streetlamp illuminates an empty space where the Jeep should be. The black hole of pavement glistens with dew. It sparkles like his eyes, and it taunts her.
He is not there.
She pushes the unpleasant thoughts from her mind.
He wouldn't have just left, she insists.
Lydia is about to call Scott because she is sincerely worried that something terrible has happened, but instead she decides to call Stiles one more time. She needs to hear his voice. Her eyes hesitate over the name Allison before she selects his number and waits...
It rings. One...two…three times. Then the call connects, and Lydia holds her breath…
But he is not there.
Instead, she hears the voice of a girl on the other end.
"Hello," the girl says a bit too loudly.
"Kira?" she questions.
Maybe he is with Scott and Kira. It doesn't sound like her, but who else—
"No, this is Mal-ia," the girl answers curtly, as if Lydia should have known that.
Without listening to another word, Lydia ends the call with a quick tap of her thumb.
Malia. As in, Malia Tate. It is almost two in the morning...almost two in the morning…and Malia is answering Stiles's phone.
Bewildered, her body jolts and shudders.
After a while, she robotically picks up Prada, who has remained by her side, and slowly walks back upstairs. She sets her pup on the bed and sits next to her.
The terror from her nightmare has infiltrated her waking hours. As she sits frozen in disbelief, she can feel the world tilt on its axis. Nothing is what she thought it was.
Stiles is gone. He left me. He left with no explanation. He promised to help me, and he left. He is with someone else. Everyone leaves, but Stiles is supposed to be different. Turns out he isn't.
It feels like blasphemy to think ill of him. But he has always – always — been so good to me. It doesn't make sense.
She needs to know why. She needs an explanation, so she can analyze it, hold it up to a bright light, put it under a microscope, dissect it, pull it apart…until it looks the way she feels, but Stiles is not there to give her one.
What could have changed? There is no reason for him to be gone.
Unless…it has to do with what she said to him. She begged him to understand her, and she thought he did, the way he always does.
But now, Lydia considers that maybe she was wrong…or maybe it's worse than that. Maybe Stiles did understand, and that is why he left.
Maybe he doesn't love me. I opened up too much, let him in too much. He saw the real me – broken, and tainted, and unworthy of someone so good – and he doesn't want me. Maybe he had already moved on…and all the love I saw, and felt, and heard was actually…pity. He has a good heart. He felt sorry for me, so he stayed until the funeral – Allison's funeral. Now it is over, and he wants to get on with his life – his life without me. So, he left. Stiles left...and he's not coming back.
For a while, Lydia paddles between believing that the love she saw in his eyes, felt in his touch, and heard in his words was real…and being painfully convinced that she imagined it.
He held me so tightly. (He loves me.)
But he left. (He loves me not.)
He wiped away my tears.
But he left.
He told me he'd be devastated.
But he left.
He kissed me back.
But he left.
He made the sun come out.
But he left.
He gave me lilacs.
But he left.
He told me I was smart and beautiful.
But he left.
He said he would always understand.
But he left.
Lydia can practically see daisy petals scattering all over the carpet. She ends on He loves me not…and decides that it's her fault. She must have done something wrong. She leaned on him too much, let him see her ugly scars. She needs him too much. She loves him too much. Now, she is a cliché – a girl who clung to a boy like he was going to be her salvation and only managed to scare him away.
The fissure that cut across Lydia's heart when Allison drew her last breath is beginning to branch out. She can feel the muscles of her heart stretching, tearing, coming apart into a fully-fledged rift. It hurts so bad.
She can't breathe.
She clutches at her chest gasping and attempting to massage an unbearable ache with the heels of her hand. Her fingers make contact with a loose thread of creamy white yarn from her sweater. She looks down at it curiously.
What does this color mean? she wonders. It's not solved or unsolved. It's not to-be-determined or pretty. Maybe, it means undesirable, or unloved, or just plain insignificant.
She picks at the thread until she can loop it around her finger. Continuing to pull at the slackened fiber, she watches it unravel from its mate – the one to which it should have been permanently anchored. She coils the yarn more tightly, until there is a visible hole in the center of her sweater.
One thread. One single thread that had been woven so deeply into the knit, making the whole stronger – complete. One single thread that has now pulled away and weakened the stability of the cloth; its absence ruining the entire piece, turning it into something marred, frayed, unwanted – something people discard or leave behind. Like her.
Exhausted and bleary-eyed, Lydia releases the thread and slips under the uncomfortable cold sheets. She spends the next few hours beside herself with grief, unable to sleep, aching for the dream inside the nightmare she had been living. The place where even though she was immeasurably heartbroken over the loss of her best friend, she was able to experience the pure and innocent bliss of falling asleep next to Stiles every evening and waking up slowly with his arms surrounding her every morning.
She knew something so perfect couldn't last. She just didn't think it would end so soon.
Lydia closes her eyes, and Stiles is there. She reaches for him, but he slips through her fingers, quickly vanishing from sight…concealed by a mass of fog and mist.