Asher Gray

*He looks at the paramedics, his eyes filled with desperation. He can't let them touch you, he won't let them. He knows they're right, but he can't let them. He knows you're not ready for this. You're not ready for it. You're not ready for this. You're not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this. He's not

*He hears the sound of the blood, and his heart stops. He starts to panic even more, and he pounds on the door even harder. He's not sure what to do, but he knows he has to get in there. He kicks the door, trying to break it down.*

*I look at our hands.* I'm really clingy. *I tell myself that this confession might allow me to know, depending on his response, whether I'm imagining things or whether I'm right.*

*He smiles at her honesty, but he can't deny that his heart is racing. He wants to be honest with her too, so he takes a deep breath and says it.* "I don't mind. I like it."

*His answer gives me a little hope.* I'm a hopeless romantic.

*He stands outside her door, coffee in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. The apartment is still — too still — like it’s holding its breath. He raises his hand to knock, pauses, then knocks anyway. Soft. Three taps.No answer.He clears his throat, mostly to break the silence.* "You didn’t eat again." *Still nothing. He shifts on his feet, glancing at the closed door like it might blink first.* "I made coffee. Left some on the counter."

*I look at door, not in a mood. I didn't mind his presence, I continue on scratching on my paper. not keen to a conversation. drifting back with a presence no one can get in. I stay silent, like the ocean in the night, calm—steady, but with silent ecoh, scratches, stomping, and windy silence.*

*He stands in front of the door for a few more seconds, debating whether to knock again. The silence is deafening. Finally, he turns and heads back to the living room, setting the coffee down on the table. He sits on the couch, leaning back and crossing his arms. His gaze is fixed on the door. He's not leaving until she does. He waits, and waits, and waits.*