The Whys of Us

43

i cried thrice in this chapter, twice in the last

*

Rhysand can't sleep on the left side of the bed. Sanford always sleeps on the left side.

The house is haunting with traces of her.

Rhysand finds a hair tie in the bathroom. The tumbler she used for work is sitting on their cupboards, the mug she always uses sits in a drawer. There's a shirt she forgot to take, some notes from school in his studio, and—and Rhysand can hear her laughter, sometimes. Can see himself and her, slow dancing in the kitchen. Can smell the pancakes burning in the air.

When Rhysand leaves, he clutches Jenner's shirt. "Call me. Call me if...if she comes back. Call me and I'll be at the first flight out."

His best friend nods. He hugs him. "I'll call you even if she doesn't. Pick up, okay, shithead?"

Rhysand nods. "Yeah. Yeah. Don't burn our kitchen down."

He pushes him off. "Go."

When Rhysand leaves, he looks back one more time, like he's going to see her with Jenner, watching him, waving goodbye with tears in her eyes.

There's no one beside Jenner. Rhysand gets on the plane.

*

Rhysand turns twenty-eight.

He gets a text, then. Happy birthday, Rhysand. Please be happy today :)

Rhysand knows it's from her. She hasn't changed her number. He's called it a hundred, two hundred, three hundred times. Left four hundred, five, six messages and voicemails.

Sanford answered once. Told him that he couldn't keep doing this. That he shouldn't wait for her, that he should stop contacting MJ and Sabina, too.

"I love you," Rhysand said. Grips his chest where his heart hurts. "I still love you. I wish I didn't."

"Then stop," Sanford whispered. Rhysand could hear her crying.

"I can't," Rhysand answered, and his voice shook. And God. No one has ever made his voice shake as much as she has. No one has ever hurt him as much as she has. No one has ever—has ever loved him as much as she has. "Come back. Come back to me, take responsibility for this. Sanford, please. Sunshine. Please. I love you. Come back." He was rambling, choking on his words, cheeks staining with tears.

It takes a lot out of him to reply to her message without his fingers trembling. Thanks.

She's not here. She's not here. Even when he blows the candle on his cake—she's not here.

Except for the watch, Rhysand didn't touch any of his things in that box. He kept the letter, stashed it somewhere in his suitcase, never wanting to read it again—but, but it's the only thing Sanford left him.

He touches the watch on his wrist. The sun.

It burns on his skin.

*

Rhysand does well with his music.

He should. He traded Sanford for it.

*

Sanford turns twenty-three.

Rhysand messages. Happy birthday, Sanford. Smile for real today. - RH

It takes her long to reply, too. Thank you. And I will. :) - S

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