Carry You

The warmth that had filled the room before the phone call was gone.

When they’d both finally calmed down, dinner forgotten and the air thick with exhaustion, they silently agreed that they’d had enough for one day. They headed for bed without another word.

The darkness of the room couldn’t hide Mele’s red, swollen eyes as she lay close to him, their heads sharing the same pillow. He couldn’t bring himself to smile at her. There just didn’t seem to be anything left to smile about.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other - two tired souls clinging to the same breath. Then her voice came, soft and trembling.
“If… if I make you my reason to live… will you make me yours?”

He nodded, a faint smile finally finding its way to his lips.
“You already are.”

She blinked, her expression thoughtful, turning his answer over in her mind.
“And… you’ll protect me? If everything turns to custard?”

He nodded again, gentle but certain.
“Of course. I already try to.”

She paused, then murmured,
“And… you’ll hide me?”

He frowned slightly.
“Hide you?”

“Yeah. From the eyes.”

He smiled, understanding what she meant.
“Yeah. I can do that.”

A small, fragile smile appeared on her face. It wasn’t much, but it was progress.
“Thank you. And… I love you too. I’m sorry, again.”

It felt like déjà vu, but he brushed it aside, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Don’t be sorry. You’re going through a lot.”

She sniffled softly.
“Maybe… but it can’t be easy for you, having to deal with this all the time.”

He shrugged faintly.
“I’ve seen it before. But this time’s different.”

Her tired eyes blinked.
“How so?”

He smiled faintly.
“Because this time, I actually care about the person who’s hurting.”

That broke her composure. She sniffed again and nodded, whispering,
“Thank you…”

He shifted a little, voice softening.
“Time for bed?”

She nodded.

“Goodnight, honey,” he whispered.

She smiled - a small, wobbly thing, but real.
“G-goodnight, darling.”

He rolled onto his side, waiting for her to reach for him. When her arm finally slipped around him from behind, the tension in his body melted away.

Soon, sleep claimed them both, the void untroubled by the ghosts of the day.

The butter in the frypan sizzled as Fali poured in a cup of homemade pancake mixture. Mele sat at the table, watching him work, her expression soft but distant.

The phone rang. He forced himself to pick it up, hoping it was the call he’d been waiting for. A minute later, he returned the receiver to its cradle. Mele looked up questioningly.

“Agent,” he said with a small smile. “We now own the shop.”

A faint smile flickered across her lips, but it vanished just as quickly. It hurt him more than he wanted to admit. Still, he knew it was his turn to carry the weight of their shared dream - to pull them forward when she couldn’t. So he smiled brighter.

“We really need to find something to put in it,” he said lightly.

She murmured, “We could sell your art… and my records.”

He looked over, surprised. “Records? I didn’t know you had those.”

She nodded. “My manager’s been wanting to sell them for ages. I think he’s already started, since I don’t plan on going back on stage anytime soon.”

“So you can sell them, then?”

“Can,” she said. “And they’ll sell better if I’m the one selling them. But I worry it’ll turn the shop into a tourist attraction.”

He shrugged. “Kinda unavoidable, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, then dropped her head onto the table with a soft thump. “I just want to be normal…”

He chuckled. “You threw that away the day your manager found you.”

“I know…” she said quietly.

He didn’t want the silence to swallow her again. “You mentioned selling my art. Do you really think it’s good enough to sell?”

She smiled faintly, shaking her head. “Not yet. But it will be. You just need to paint what you love. That’s the key.”

He grinned. “In that case, I’ll paint you.”

Her cheeks colored, but she didn’t look away. “Want me to pose for you? ’Cause that might be a little difficult right now.”

He laughed softly, relieved to see the spark of humor. “Sure. Let’s do that today.”

“If you want to.”

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he said gently.

“No no no, it’s fine,” she mumbled, rocking her head on the table. “I just can’t decide on anything. But… I’d love it if you painted me. Or tried to.”

He smiled. “Alright then. Sounds like a plan.”

It wasn’t much. But it was a step - a small, fragile step forward. One of many to come. Each one pulling her a little further from the edge, as he reached for her hand and refused to let go.

“Hey, that doesn’t look half-bad.”

Mele examined his attempt at painting her, surprised by how naturally he’d managed to capture the fine, human details - the little creases, the softness in her expression, the light. She disliked that he’d included the wheelchair, but even she had to admit it was impressively done.

Fali smiled nervously. “You think so?”

“I know so.” She tilted her head, an idea forming. “Hey, how about this - paint me again, but without the wheelchair. Make it look like I’m floating. I think that’d look beautiful.”

He blinked. “You think so?”

She smiled, eyes glinting with faint excitement. “I know so. Come on - grab another canvas. Let’s give it a go.”

She wheeled herself back into place and picked up her book, flipping to her bookmark as he set up again. He mixed his paints carefully, glancing at her every so often, trying to see through her eyes - to capture not just her image, but the freedom she imagined.

An hour later, she rolled forward to see what he’d done. Her breath caught.

He’d done it exactly as she’d pictured it - her body suspended midair, drifting across the canvas, legs trailing behind as though she were being led by her own heartbeat. Her eyes were closed softly, peaceful. It only needed a background.

“You could sell that,” she said, grinning.

He looked uncertain. “You reckon?”

“Definitely. And people will pay more since it’s you painting me.”

She patted his shoulder, her smile gentle but proud. “I told you. Paint what you love.”

He couldn’t help but grin at her enthusiasm. “So you think I should paint Freyla next?”

“Ooo! Yes!” she said, snapping her fingers. “You could be like one of those war artists, the ones who paint all those really cinematic moments. That’d look awesome!”

He turned the idea over in his mind, nodding slowly. “Alright. I’ll try that. Thank you.”

She beamed. “Anytime.”

But inside, his smile was even brighter. Even through the fractures in her mind, she was still her - still able to encourage, to dream, to see beauty. Maybe she wasn’t as much of a shell as he’d feared.

Maybe, just maybe, she was finding her way back.