Hope is a dangerous thing. It holds you close like a lover, whispering promises it never intends to keep, and just as soon as you relax into its arms, it lets you go. Sending you spinning into an abyss of nothingness. When I sent him away four years ago, he promised he would come back to me, and even as I asked him not to, I hoped that he would.

Hope. I tucked it deep inside of me, underneath the scars of our before, beside the dreams of our after. Hidden like contraband. Guarded like a treasure. Broken like every promise that ever fell from his lips and hit my ears. Eventually, I got tired of hoping, of waiting for him, and I plunged my hands inside my own heart, ripping past scar tissue and muscle, veins and arteries to root it out.

Hope. He conspired with it to make a fool of me, and when I freed myself from it, exorcised that pointless dream, I promised myself that no one would get the chance to do that to me again. Then, and only then, did he appear.

My promise, a spell that conjured him. My determination, a challenge. My heart, the only prize he hopes to win.

Christopher

Life without Mallory Kent has taught me that time doesn’t heal wounds. It turns them into scars. Jagged tissue that grows around your pain, covering it with raised skin that will never again be smooth to the touch. My first scar formed when I was just a child. Too young to fully understand what my mother’s loss would mean for my life but old enough to remember the echo of the pain inside my empty chest. It was a unique agony. One I never expected to feel again.

But that was before I loved her. Before I let things that had nothing to do with us cost me everything.

It’s been four years since I decided to honor her request to stay away. To move on with my life and give her a chance to move on with hers. And she might not agree, but it was more than enough time for us to try and do the impossible. The only thing our time apart has done is remind me that wherever she is, is where I’m supposed to be.

Now I just have to make her believe it.

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