Chapter 130: Breathing room
The initial time we met with a therapist as a couple, the distance between Caspian and myself was more audible than any words. I remember the manner in which his hands fidgeted in his lap, the manner in which his jaw would lock occasionally. He did not glance in my direction—not yet.
We did not hold hands. We did not sit beside one another. There was a weird feeling in the air.
But we were present. That was something.
Later on, when we returned to the villa, he didn't check with me whether I was okay before releasing me to go up. That was something as well.
He was beginning to understand that I needed space—not distance, not chill, but room to breathe. And I was beginning to understand that space was not the same as abandonment. There were days when that lesson held more than others.
I started writing once more. Not for coherence, not even for healing—but because I had no idea where to deposit all the words that dwelled in my chest like coils of wound-up wire. Writing unwound the knot, at least a little. I left the book on my bedside table and never locked it, but Caspian never opened it either. He respected it the way one respects a shut door.
We were beginning to move like dancers learning each other’s rhythm again—cautious, aching, but curious. Some mornings I’d find a cup of tea on the windowsill, the steam still curling toward the glass. Some nights I’d find him standing in the hallway, staring at our bedroom door like he didn’t know if he had the right to knock.
Then the message came.
I hadn't updated my email—not my work one, or reminder for flights, or forgotten receipts I never did manage to delete. Habit, perhaps, and a mistake.
The subject line was blank. The sender was a string of numbers and hyphens that signified nothing.
But the message.
If I die, it'll be on your conscience.
That was all.
No name. No signature. But I didn't need those. I knew who it was.
My fingers trembled so hard I almost dropped my phone. I blinked over and over at the screen, as though hoping against hope that it would vanish somehow. As if by focusing harder, I could distort it into something else—something benign.
But there it sat, softly pulsed in the dull light of the study.
And then, this time, I didn't delete. I didn't block. I didn't hide.
I found Caspian in the kitchen, barefoot and half-inadvertent, filling a glass of water. The villa was hushed—too hushed. There was no sound but the soft clinking of glass against marble.
"I need to show you something," I declared, and my voice cracked mid-sentence.
He turned round immediately, wrinkles on his face sharpening into focus. Distressed look on his face as he removed the telephone from my hands and read.
He didn't say anything for a long, long time. Just sat there, looking at the screen. His lips opened, like he was about to speak, but nothing came out.
When he finally looked at me, there was something unreadable in his eyes. Not anger. Not sympathy.
Something quieter. Sadder.
He set the phone down and moved closer. "Thank you for informing me."
I swallowed. "I didn't know if—"
"Don't need to do this alone," he whispered.
And then he did something I didn't anticipate—he leaned in, slow and gentle, as if I were delicate glass. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, and I let my forehead rest against his chest.
"I'm so tired," I whispered into his shirt.
"I know," he breathed.
We stood there for what felt like an eternity. The world didn't shift, and neither did we.
Later that night, Caspian started a fire in the living room. He did not question it. He did not need to.
I copied the email. I couldn't explain why—I just felt like it was symbolic or something. Like making it into something tangible made it okay to destroy.
We stood shoulder to shoulder by the fire, as the flames flickered low and hungry. I held out the page wordlessly to him, and he took it.
The paper burned quickly in the fire, the edges darkening as autumn leaves do. The words vanished second by second.
If I am killed, it will be on your mind.
Lost now. Ash only.
I didn't cry. I was going to, I was positive. But I felt lighter instead. A string had been cut through—one of countless, but it counted.
Caspian gazed at me, his face aglow in the murky orange light. "We burn every one he sends. Together."
I nodded. "Together."
We didn't need to say more.
He pulled me down with him onto the rug beside the hearth, and we sat there, legs outstretched, shoulders touching. The fire cracked, sending a flash of light around the room.
Outside, the wind wandered between the trees. Inside, it was cozy.
I felt his gaze before I turned my face to meet it—soft, quiet, studying me as one might study a painting one has seen a hundred times and still do not fully understand.
I did not look away.
"I did not want to see you afraid again," he whispered.
"I do not like being afraid," I replied. "But more than that—I resent hiding it from you."
His fingers wrapped around my hand. Our fingers curled into each other, slow and tentative.
"Not anymore," he told me.
And I believed him.
The flames on the fire danced and cast shifting shadows on the walls, keeping pace with the shaking hope that was growing between us. It wasn't perfect—this peace. It was shattered and new and quivering. But it was there.
We did not sleep together that night. We did not even kiss.
But he rested his head gently on mine, and I nestled into his warmth.
And somehow, that was enough. It was a start and it would have to do for now.