Page 63 of Molt
“Pretend you’re okay.”
The laugh dies. “I’m not.”
“I know.”
“I’m really fucking not.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I do.”
My throat tightens.
I hate that he knows me. I hate that some part of me likes that he knows me.
“I’m scared.”
His face softens. “I’m scared too.”
“You are?”
“Especially me.”
I look around his apartment. There’s glass everywhere. Black fluid slowly soaks into the floor. The thing from the jar is gone.
I stare. “Where did it go?”
“I don’t know.”
I whip my head toward him. “Stop fucking saying that.”
“Would you prefer I make something up?”
“Yes.”
He looks around solemnly. “Evil moth.”
I blink. “What?”
“Evil moth. Responsible for everything.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
He smiles.
And there it is.
The thing I keep feeling with him. That tiny flicker of ease. Like we’ve done this before. Not the curse. Not the horror.
This.
Bickering in the middle of disaster.
