Chapter 40 Chapter 39: Hollow Victory
I was dreaming. A perfect, sun-drenched dream. Silver and I were running, breathless and laughing, along the edge of a vast, glittering lake. Our hands were entwined, our fingers laced together so tightly they felt fused. We tumbled into the long, soft grass, a tangle of limbs and shared joy, the world reduced to the scent of her hair and the warmth of her body against mine.
Then the dream curdled.
A shock of uncomfortable pins and needles ignited at the point where our hands were joined, a searing current that shot up my arm. It wasn't a gentle awakening; it was an invasion. The pleasant ache of the dream became a real, cellular agony that spread through my chest, my legs, my very core, a violent rewriting from the inside out. I woke with a jolt, gasping, the phantom feeling of grass replaced by the cool cotton of the sheets.
Silver was already awake. She was sitting up in bed, cross-legged, propped on a pillow. She wasn't sleeping or reading. She was just… watching me. The pale pre-dawn light filtered through the window, casting the room in a soft, grey monochrome that made the moment feel surreal, like a paused film.
When my panicked eyes met hers, she didn't look alarmed. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face, tender and full of wonder. "Welcome back, sweetie," she whispered, her voice husky with sleep.
I didn't need to look under the sheets. I knew. The familiar, softer weight on my chest, the subtle shift in the landscape of my own body, it was an answer to a prayer I’d been screaming into the void for days. All my problems, the trip to Sylva, my mother’s disappointment, it all seemed suddenly, miraculously manageable.
"Hi," I croaked. It was the only syllable my stunned brain could form.
"I've been watching you for the last two hours," she said, her voice filled with a scientific fascination that was utterly at odds with the intimacy of the moment. Her hand reached out and began to stroke my arm, not with a lover's affection, but with the curiosity of a naturalist observing a rare metamorphosis. "It's so… fascinating. The way your features just… soften." She paused, her brow furrowing in thought. "I think it might be the alcohol," she ventured. "You've been drinking every single time it's happened."
Her words should have been a breakthrough, a shared moment of discovery. But they landed like a lead weight in my stomach. I was dumbstruck, but not with joy anymore. A cold, sharp clarity was cutting through the euphoria. If she was right. And she could be wrong, then my presence here, in her bed, was a variable in a terrifying experiment. This newfound stability was a house of cards, and the slightest misstep, a glass of mack, a moment of stress, or sex, could blow it all down.
She mistook my silence for shared wonder. Leaning in, her arms cradled my face, and she moved in for a kiss. It was meant to be a celebration.
I flinched back. "I can't," I heard my own voice whisper, strained and foreign.
She frowned, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. "Don't be silly," she murmured, and pressed forward again, her kiss deeper this time, full of a passion meant to bridge the sudden distance I was creating.
I pulled away more forcefully this time, scrambling back from her touch as if it were electrified. "I can't. Not now…" The fear was a cold knot in my throat. "What if-?"
I didn't finish the sentence. I practically leapt out of bed, the sheets tangling around my legs. The room felt suddenly suffocating. I started gathering my things in a frantic, disorganized hurry, my hands trembling as I shoved them into my bag.
"Nanda, what's happening?" Silver's voice had lost its softness. It was sharp with confusion and a dawning hurt. She sat upright, the sheet pulled to her chest, her eyes wide.
I felt so low, a coward fleeing the scene of his own salvation. But the instinct was primal, a desperate need to preserve this fragile state at any cost. "I can't be here," I stammered, unable to meet her gaze. "I have to go. I have to… solidify this."
"What the fuck, Nanda?" The words were a whip-crack in the quiet room. The betrayal on her face was a physical blow.
I tried to find the words, to explain the terror, the irrational but overwhelming conviction that staying would jinx it, or her touch might turn it all back, that I needed to face the world alone in this body to make it stick. But speech was lost to me. All that came out was a choked, pathetic whisper. "Sorry. I'll… I'll call you."
With that, I turned and fled. There was no kiss goodbye, no lingering touch. Just the sound of the door clicking shut behind me, a sound as final as a guillotine. And as I stumbled down the hallway, the only thing I felt was a vast, echoing emptiness, a hollow victory that tasted an awful lot like loss.
The cool morning air hit my face like a slap, but it did nothing to clear the static screaming in my head. I stumbled down the street, my mind a wreck of colliding thoughts. I got what I wanted… I’m a Polli… So why does it feel like I’ve just destroyed the only good thing I have? Her face, the look of pure, uncomprehending betrayal, flashed behind my eyes.
My pace increased from a hurried walk to a frantic power-walk. I needed to put distance between me and that apartment, between me and the crushing weight of what I’d just done. I needed to get away from here, away from the one person I might love, because my love for her felt like a destabilizing force, a variable I could no longer control.
The power-walk broke into a jog, my breath starting to hitch in my chest. Then the jog became a run, a full-on, desperate sprint. The world began to blur at the edges, the neat hedges, the sleeping dwellings, the early morning portys, all melting into a smear of colour as my muscles took over. My thoughts, so loud and punishing just moments ago, began to drift away, drowned out by the rhythmic pounding of my feet on the pavement slabs and the ragged sound of my own breathing. This was the only language my body understood right now: flight.
Before I knew it, the familiar residential streets had given way to the taller buildings of the city centre. I skidded to a halt, chest heaving, sweat plastering my hair to my forehead. I had run right past seven hopper stops in a blind panic. What am I doing? The logical part of my brain reasserted itself, sharp and critical. You need to get home. You can't run from this forever.
My pace slowed to a heavy, exhausted walk, each step an effort. My legs trembled with spent adrenaline. And there, just up the road, was a hopper stop, its red light glowing like a promise of sanctuary, of a place to sit and be carried away without having to think, or feel, or run anymore.
I looked over my shoulder, a reflexive gesture half-expecting to see Silver's furious or heartbroken figure chasing after me. The street was empty, save for the morning mist and the first signs of the city stirring. But rolling towards me, its electric hum a gentle promise of escape, was a hopper. It was a small, almost miraculous piece of luck. I didn't have to wait, to stand still and let the guilt catch up with me.
My tired legs found a final burst of purpose, matching my pace to the vehicle's slow, scheduled approach. The hopper and I reached the stop at the same time, as if our meeting was preordained. The doors hissed open with a sigh of compressed air, offering a cool, dimly lit interior that felt like a confessional booth.
I boarded, the simple act of stepping up feeling heavier than the entire run. The few other passengers, a tired-looking Polli with a cleaner's uniform, an old Nate staring blankly out the window, barely glanced my way. I was just another ghost in the city's morning. I slid into a seat by the window, the vinyl cool through my clothes, and as the doors sealed shut, cutting me off from the world outside, I felt the first true, shuddering wave of what I had done crash over me. The running was over. Now, there was only the ride home.