Page 76 of When the Sky Falls

Slowly.

Like he’s underwater and it takes effort just to exist.

When he turns around, my breath catches. His eyes are the same deep, stormy gray I remember—only tonight they’re glazed. Off. Like he’s here and not here all at once.

“Mya.” His voice cracks like old vinyl. “You found me.”

“No,” I say quietly, “you left me.”

We stand there, suspended between silence and something heavier. Three months since I saw him. Ninety-one days of absence carved into my bones like tally marks. And now he’s here—but he’s not.

“I’m right here,” he whispers.

His eyes are wild. Frantic. Haunted. “Come back to me.”

My spine stiffens. “What are you talking about?”

But he doesn’t answer. Just takes a shaky step forward, eyes locked on mine like I’m the only solid thing left in a crumbling world.

“I tried to hold on,” he says, voice hollow, gutted. “But you—you stopped showing up.”

“Fletch…”

“I’ve been waiting,” he murmurs, reaching out, fingers brushing mine. They’re warm. Too warm. “You stopped singing. You stopped seeing me.”

Something cold and oily slithers down my spine.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He exhales a laugh. It’s broken. Bone-deep. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

He steps closer. And now that he’s in front of me, I notice things I shouldn’t.

His skin’s too smooth.

His lips don’t move quite right.

His eyes flicker—literally flicker—like light struggling through static.

And then the hallway glitches.

Just for a second.

The ceiling ripples like water.

The lights blink.

The floor blinks.

Fletch blinks.

And I blink so hard it hurts.

“What is this?” I whisper.

He takes my face in both hands, and they feel real. He feels real. But none of this makes sense.