“Karina, these are...breathtaking,” Ace says, his gaze is filled with some kind of strange awe that feels heavy on my skin. “This poem, ‘Unshakeable’? Is it finished?”

I know exactly which poem he’s talking about, and it causes my heart to race uncomfortably, until I can hear the staccato beat in my ears. No one was ever supposed to see that. Usually, I write poetry as a response to the world around me. Rarely do I ever put myself on the pages.

The poem “Unshakable” is the one time I dared to try, and I couldn’t find it in myself to finish.

somewhere there are birds that fly free

here, I am caged and can barely breathe

there is so much to say

these thoughts never fall from my lips

I am scared of so goddamn much

afraid these flames will burn

my fingers, they hurt from clinging so hard

I’m lost, I’m bruised, I don’t know what to do

I never thought I’d give up

but I’m starting to think I’m going to lose

it’s dark, it’s light, a hand reaches out

.........

“Ace, that’s personal,” I say, voice cracking. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. My heart feels exposed, lying on the pages for Ace to poke and prod at as he pleases. “Can you please give it back?”

“Hey,” Ace says, his voice quiet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to... I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”

He slides my journal across the table, and I catch it with shaking hands. The irony of the moment isn’t lost on me.

“I’m sorry,” Ace repeats, reaching across the table and slowly taking one of my hands in his. His rings are cold against my skin, jarring me out of a strange sense of dissonance.

“No, it’s not your fault,” I say, shaking my head in abrupt, agitated movements. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to freak out on you like that.”

His fingers slowly slide against mine, interlacing them and bringing our hands to the center of the table. The longer we touch, the less I hear my heartbeat in my ears. The less I feel out of breath.

“Don’t apologize to me,” he says, his voice fierce. I look up and find his strange and beautiful eyes blazing in the sunlight coming from the windows behind me. The fire he keeps insisting I have inside of me is alive in his gaze.

I exhale deeply and sit back in my seat. “Sorry.”

“No apologizing,” Ace insists, squeezing my hand. “If you’re feeling up to it, we can keep studying. I still want to see your favorite poem.”

You’re something else, I think to myself. The thought makes me feel both hot and cold.

“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Ace says and lets go of my hand. I almost wish he hadn’t.