88

---

The sounds of Jamila’s bustling household wash over me as I step through the door – a comforting cacophony of raised voices, sizzling pans, and the occasional wail of a baby. It’s a stark contrast to the eerie quiet of my own empty home these days, but I find myself leaning into the chaos gratefully.

“Sam! Over here!” Jamila’s voice cuts through the din, guiding me towards the rickety staircase that sits in the corner of the cramped living room, curled up like a dehydrated caterpillar. She’s waving from the landing above, the sleeves of her loose tunic billowing with the motion.

As I carefully pick my way up the narrow steps, mindful to avoid colliding with any of her rambunctious younger siblings and/or cousins (unsure) underfoot, I can’t help but marvel at how naturally Jamila seems to command this whirlwind of domestic madness. One minute she’s deftly catching a stray toy before it can brain an unsuspecting relative, the next she’s simultaneously refereeing a squabble and rattling off a flurry of instructions in rapidfire Arabic to her ever-present mother.

“Your place is looking, uh… cozy as ever,” I remark once I’ve joined her on the landing, quirking an inquisitive eyebrow.

Jamila just laughs, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement as she gives my forearm an affectionate swat. “As if you’d have it any other way, Samster. C’mon, let’s get you out of this madhouse before you have an aneurysm.”

She ushers me towards her room, momentarily shielding us from the chaos swirling in the hall. As soon as the door clicks shut behind us, that blessed sense of tranquility settles over me like a warm blanket.

“Thank God,” I breathe out on an exaggerated sigh, deflating slightly as I take in the familiar sights and smells of Jamila’s sanctuary. “It’s like an oasis of calm in here, you know?”

The words are out before I’ve fully processed the glaring irony of that statement. Because ‘calm’ is pretty much the last descriptor any sane person would use for Jamila’s personal space. The place looks even more catastrophically disastrous than the last time I was here – a whirlwind of mismatched posters, scattered clothes, and miscellaneous clutter strewn about with all the focused intent of a tornado’s path of destruction.

But amid the chaos, there’s an undeniable sense of warmth and personality, too. Little touches and flourishes that are so quintessentially Jamila it actually makes my heart flutter a bit just registering them. Like the battered acoustic guitar propped up in the corner, its faded ‘Smash the State’ bumper sticker juxtaposed against the well-loved and cared-for instrument itself. Or the bristling array of binders, sheet music, and old vinyl records completely devouring the surface of her desk, a minefield of creative inspiration waiting to be unpacked.

Every square inch of the walls is an explosion of color and imagery, plastered with an almost obsessive collage of framed photographs, concert posters, album covers, and assorted memorabilia. I spot familiar names and faces amidst the kaleidoscopic jumble – the snarling visage of Rage Brigade’s frontman Leon Riot, the iconic poster art for Mythmongered’s platinum-selling concept album, Celestial Lore, of which Jamila has told me every last minute detail. But for every recognizable icon, there’s a dozen more arcane sigils and symbols, esoteric band logos that might as well be hieroglyphs for all I can decipher them.

It’s all so beautifully, iconically her that I can’t help but grin in sheer adoration. Sure, to the casual observer this place might resemble the habitation bunker of an eccentric metalhead hoarder. But I know better – every crumpled t-shirt and stray guitar pick is a puzzle piece in the mosaic that is Jamila.

She slides up alongside me, draping one deceptively strong arm around my shoulders as she gestures lazily at the anarchic collage surrounding us. “I put a lot of thought into which new pieces of sonic artistry to put up this month.”

The unexpected formality of her phrasing coaxes a startled laugh from me. “Is that what they’re calling Hot Topic posters these days?”

Jamila scoffs in mock offense, jabbing me playfully in the ribs. “You jest, but these walls represent the bleeding edge of the underground indie avant-garde scene, Small. One of these bands could be the next big thing!”

I arch a skeptical eyebrow. “And just which visionary aural sculptors do you think are primed to take the world by storm? Flenser Leviathan?” I point to a particularly skull-laden logo, all spiked letters and malevolent red imagery. “Or maybe Nomicon Nox?” My finger shifts to indicate an album cover awash in grotesque, vaguely Lovecraftian designs.

“Those are pronounced ‘Flence-air’ and ‘Nom-ih-cone’, you uncultured cretin,” Jamila retorts without missing a beat, sticking her tongue out at me. “But I’ll let it slide, since you plain-folk aren’t expected to grasp the intricacies of the extreme avant-doom scene.”

We both dissolve into snorting laughter at that, any pretense of musical snobbery thoroughly shattered. I shake my head slowly, drinking in the lurid, eye-searing details of her self-curated fortress of solitude.

“You know, part of me almost expects to walk in here and find shrunken heads dangling from the ceiling, or like… an altar made of human bones tucked in the corner or something.”

Jamila cackles, swatting my arm. “Pretty sure sacrificing hobos for their skeletons would violate several tenets of my faith, darling.”

“Oh, so you do have some limits after all?” I smirk, dodging another playful jab. “Good to know.”

We continue to trade barbs and easy banter like that for a while, all thoughts of depositions and looming court cases temporarily banished to make way for simple, revitalizing camaraderie. Any lingering tension I’d been harboring seems to melt away in Jamila’s irrepressibly vibrant presence, and I find myself slipping into the sort of relaxed, unguarded state I haven’t truly experienced in far too long.

Eventually, though, Jamila lets out a contented sigh and disentangles herself, flopping backwards onto her unmade bed with boneless grace. She pats the rumpled comforter beside her invitingly.

“C’mere, you. I’ve got something I think you’ll appreciate.”

I quirk an inquisitive eyebrow but do as instructed, settling in beside her amidst the nest of blankets and pillows. Jamila reaches beneath the bed, rummaging around for a moment before emerging with a bulky pair of headphones clutched in one hand.

“Check these babies out,” she grins, holding them up for my inspection. The padded earpieces are a sleek matte black, all hard angles and midnight curves broken only by a few glowing LED accents. A decidedly more tasteful design than most of the occult metal insanity decorating her walls.

“Noise-canceling, adaptive surround audio, the whole nine yards,” she continues, practically purring with delight as she cradles the high-end cans. “You’re about to experience the auditory singularity, my friend.”

With a deft flick, she connects the headphones to her laptop and pulls up a music player, the sleek interface all harsh geometric designs and abstract glyphs. A few taps later and the unmistakable opening strains of some brooding symphonic metal-something begin to reverberate from the earpieces, all snarling baritone howls and thunderous percussion.

I can’t quite stifle my snort of amusement as Jamila slips the cans over my ears, engulfing me in a shockingly clear cocoon of auditory bliss. The music is… well, it’s certainly an experience, all right. Like being sonically beaten about the head and shoulders by the bastard offspring of Beethoven and a raging gorilla.

But as always, Jamila’s enthusiasm proves infectious. I allow myself to sink into the experience, letting the pummeling rhythms and indecipherable demonic vocals crash over me in waves of unholy grandeur. For a few blessed minutes, there is nothing else – no legal eagles circling overhead, no existential burdens weighing me down. Just Jamila and her sacrilegious gospel of bleeding-edge tunesmithery.

When the convulsive maelstrom of aural extremity finally tapers off amidst one last thunderous percussive flourish, I turn to find Jamila studying me intently. Her deep brown eyes glitter with unbridled mirth in the muted glow of her laptop, lips quirked in a bemused half-smile as she awaits my inevitable reaction.

“Well?” she prompts, arching one elegant eyebrow in challenge. “What did you think? Didn’t I tell you it would blow your freckled little mind?”

I affect a pensive frown, stroking my chin in comically exaggerated contemplation. “It was… certainly an experience, I’ll give you that.” A wry grin tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Although I can’t say I really picked up on any discernible melodies or songcraft, per se. More like someone repeatedly caving in a church bell with a sledgehammer for seven straight minutes.”

Jamila scoffs, swatting me with a pillow as I dissolve into snickering laughter. “Ugh, you’re hopeless! No appreciation for the nuances of bombastic misanthropic expression.”

I shake my head, still chuckling as I shrug off the headphones. “Oh, I appreciated the bombast just fine. More of a philistine when it comes to the misanthropy, I guess.”

Stretching out on the bed beside her, I allow myself to savor this moment of simple tranquility amidst the enduring maelstrom. No depositions to agonize over, no daunting courtroom clashes looming on the horizon. Just two teenagers indulging in the kind of inconsequential banter and low-stakes teasing that used to encompass my entire world, once upon a time.

I turn my head to study Jamila’s profile, admiring the elegant curve of her jaw, the slight upturn of her nose, the way the warm glow of her laptop casts kaleidoscopic shadows across her rich brown skin. A fierce surge of affection swells in my chest, almost overwhelming in its intensity.

“So, how’d it go the other day?” Jamila asks after a comfortable lull settles between us. Her tone is carefully casual, but I detect an unmistakable undercurrent of curiosity simmering beneath the nonchalance.

I shrug, aiming for a practiced indifference that feels increasingly forced with each passing day. “About as well as can be expected, I guess. Jerry Caldwell is certainly… thorough.”

An unconscious frown tugs at the corners of my mouth as fleeting memories of the deposition drift through my mind’s eye – Caldwell’s relentless questioning, the inexorable push to revisit those traumatic final moments in agonizing detail. A tremor runs through me, my fingers instinctively clenching in the fabric of Jamila’s comforter.

She must notice my sudden tension, because she shifts closer until our shoulders are just barely brushing. The hint of contact is electrifying, startling me from my momentary brooding funk. When I chance a sidelong glance, her expression is unreadable, those warm brown eyes regarding me with a curious intensity.

“Hey,” she murmurs, voice pitched low and soothing. “You don’t have to get into specifics if you don’t want to. I know how much of a mind-job this whole thing has been for you.”

My initial reaction is to deflect, to brush off her concern with a flippant joke or a reassuring platitude. But something in the gentle sincerity of her tone gives me pause. I find myself meeting her steady gaze, searching those fathomless depths for the empathetic understanding I know rests there, just waiting to be tapped.

With a slow exhalation, I feel the vice-like tension gripping my chest loosen ever so slightly. “Yeah, it’s… it’s been rough, for sure. But nothing I can’t handle.”

A wry smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I nudge her arm playfully. “Besides, you know me – I live for dramatic confrontations and emotionally eviscerating legal proceedings. It’s like a day at the beach.”

Jamila snorts indelicately, rolling her eyes. “Ugh, don’t even joke about that. I can only imagine how insufferably smug you’d be if courtroom theatrics were legitimately your calling in life.”

“Oh come on, you know you’d find it incredibly charming,” I shoot back with an exaggerated leer. “Just picture it – me in a crisp power suit, dominating the proceedings with my rapier wit and legal acumen. You’d never be able to resist my eccentric barrister energy.”

She shoves me lightly, her expression caught somewhere between disgust and reluctant amusement. “Yeah, that’s a real panty-dropper for sure. ‘Hey baby, wanna come back to my place and subpoena these buns?’”

We both crack up at that, any lingering tension effectively shattered by the absurdity of the mental image. For a few blessed moments, we’re just two giggly teenagers again indulging in some shameless low-brow humor, the weight of the world lifted from our shoulders.

But, like all reprieves these days, it’s only temporary. As our laughter tapers off, a contemplative quiet settles over us once more. I can sense Jamila studying me out of the corner of her eye, gauging my state of mind.

“So was it… really bad?” she asks at last. “Like, worse than you were expecting?”

I let out a slow breath, rolling onto my back to stare up at the familiar pockmarked expanse of her bedroom ceiling. Jamila has always been able to cut through my bravado and bullshit like a hot knife through butter, disarming me with her intuitive emotional perception.

“It wasn’t great, I’ll be honest,” I admit after a beat of consideration. “Having to relive those moments in such clinical detail, with Caldwell probing at every angle, looking for weaknesses to exploit… it was brutal. Like emotional sandpaper on an open wound, you know?”

I shudder, the phantom echoes of Caldwell’s calm, measured intonations replaying in my mind. Beside me, I feel Jamila shift closer until her leg is pressed flush against mine, radiating reassuring warmth.

“Hey, you made it through though, right?” she says softly, resting her hand atop my own and giving a gentle, comforting squeeze. “That’s what matters, darling. One step at a time, one horrendous experience closer to sticking that smug asshole behind bars where he belongs.”

The steel underpinning her words lends them a grounding potency, providing me an anchor to latch onto amidst the roiling tide of unpleasant recollections. I nod, turning to meet her gaze with as much conviction as I can muster. “Yeah, you’re right. I just have to keep my eyes on the prize, you know? As much of a battle as these pre-trial hurdles are, they’re nothing compared to what’s coming.”

Something flickering behind those luminous eyes, some unspoken emotion I can’t quite parse, but it’s gone in an instant. Jamila squeezes my hand once more before reluctantly withdrawing, her expression settling into a look of fond exasperation.

“Well aren’t you just a regular little Templar, storming the breach against injustice and villainy everywhere you go.” She flashes me a quick grin, all sparkling teeth and mirthful confidence. “It’s seriously impressive, you know. Your tenacity, I mean.”

I can’t quite stop the flush of warmth from spreading across my cheeks at the sincerity behind her words. Jamila has never been one to deal out excessive praise or empty platitudes. If she’s saying something like that, she genuinely means it.

“Thanks, Jam,” I murmur, holding her intense gaze and pouring every ounce of my gratitude into those two simple syllables. Then, I ruin the moment with a whisper. “I think it’s weird to call a Jewish girl a Templar, though. Just FYI.”

She bursts into laughter and swats my shoulder back and forth, with love taps, none of them even breaching the threshold of an itch, much less pain. “Fine. Now we’re even.”

For a long, suspended heartbeat, the world around us seems to compress down to this single point of connection between us. Everything else – the looming legal showdown, the specter of Illya’s lingering menace, the entire churning cosmic clusterfuck that is my daily existence – falls away into blessed insignificance.

Then, like the shattering of a fragile soap bubble, the moment passes. Jamila blinks and just like that, the spell is broken. She leans back, putting a sliver of polite distance between us that feels utterly alien after the closeness we’ve shared so many times before.

My subconscious prickles with unease at the subtle shift, a swirling intuitive disquiet that sets my nerves jangling in that frustratingly ineffable way. But on a conscious level, I can’t discern anything overtly amiss, nothing solid enough to put my finger on. Just… something in the quality of Jamila’s smile, maybe. Or the arch of her brow. Little microfractures in the facade that whisper of some deeper, unknowable fissure lurking beneath the surface.

For a few seconds, uncertainty wars with willful obliviousness in my mind. There’s that nagging urge to pursue the matter, to dig and probe until I unearth the root of that simmering unease. But the easier path, the well-trodden rut of willful ignorance, ultimately proves too tempting to resist. Easier to rationalize, to brush aside those vague, insubstantial twinges of doubt rather than risk unearthing some unpalatable truth I’m not ready to confront.

So I swallow my trepidation, forcing a casual half-smile in response to Jamila’s own slightly too-bright expression. “Don’t get too impressed just yet, sparky. The real fireworks are still to come.”

She snorts indelicately, tension fracturing as the façade of normalcy reasserts itself. “Please, you live for putting on a show. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And just like that, the current shifts once more into the warm, familiar waters we’re both so accustomed to navigating. I relax into the flow of our easy back-and-forth, bantering and teasing and steadfastly ignoring the dull, insistent pulsing of unease still lurking at the very edges of my subconscious awareness.

For now, at least, I can keep those niggling doubts buried beneath the comfortable fiction we’ve so carefully constructed around us. The illusion that everything is still fundamentally okay, still tenuously under control despite the enduring madness swirling at our periphery.

A comforting lie, perhaps.

But a necessary one, nonetheless.

---

The night outside Jamila’s window has deepened to an inky, velvet blackness by the time our musings drift to the latest crop of up-and-coming heroes making waves on the national scene. We’re curled together amidst the rumpled blankets of her bed, voices pitched to conspiratorial whispers so as not to disturb the rest of the sleeping household.

“Okay, but be real – how badass would it be to have Stellarion on the team?” I murmur, unable to contain the fangirlish edge of awe from creeping into my tone. “Dude’s basically a goddamn human sunbeam. We’d never have to worry about stealth or night ops again.”

Jamila snorts softly, waving a dismissive hand. “Please, that pompous ray of sunshine wouldn’t last a week before driving us all certifiably insane with his lofty sermons on the cosmic glory of truth and justice or whatever.”

I arch an eyebrow, feigning wounded offense. “Hey now, the guy still seems pretty legit! Sure, maybe a tad… grandiloquent in his vernacular, but you can’t deny his raw power is off the charts.”

“I need you to know that you just used the phrase ‘grandiloquent in his vernacular’. I’m just pointing that one out while also agreeing with you. Just so we’re clear,” Jamila concedes with a slight incline of her head. “Although if we’re talking sheer devastation potential, nobody’s topping Maelstrom these days.”

I shudder involuntarily at the mention of the Seattle-based elemental juggernaut, my mind automatically conjuring footage of her apocalyptic rampage through the ruins of Portland last year. Jamila must sense my unease because she gentles her tone, draping one reassuring arm across my shoulders.

“Hey, it’s all good, babe. No way a big fish like that would have any reason to come sniffing around our sad little pond, right?” She punctuates the rhetorical question with a playful squeeze, coaxing a reluctant chuckle from me.

“Ugh, I sure as hell hope not,” I groan, rolling my eyes dramatically. “Pretty sure the only effective countermeasure we peasants would have against that kind of biblical fury would be to, like, beg for a merciful death or something.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Jamila tuts with an air of exaggerated affront. “Don’t sell yourself so short, darling. You got Chernobyl to turn himself in, remember? I’m sure you could figure something out with her. Don’t you have, like, saltwater immunity or something?”

I cough a couple times, blinking. “Illya is not quite the same as Maelstrom. And, yes, but, you know, I still have to breathe water and stuff. No gills. You would know more than anyone else!”

We dissolve into breathless snickering at the sheer ludicrous absurdity of the notion, our hilarity no doubt fueled in part by the late hour and the comforting cocoon of Jamila’s bunker-like sanctum. For a few stolen moments, there’s nothing but uncomplicated mirth echoing between us, a fleeting respite from the crushing weight of our day-to-day existences.

Eventually, though, the laughter peters out and a more contemplative lull settles over us. I can’t quite smother a jaw-cracking yawn, the bone-deep weariness of recent days finally catching up to me now that my guard has been lowered.

Jamila stifles a sympathetic yawn of her own, leaning over to plant a soft, lingering kiss on my forehead. “Sounds like someone’s run out of steam,” she murmurs affectionately, carding her fingers through my sweat-damp hair. “We should probably call it a night, huh?”

I open my mouth to protest on reflex, loath to surrender these increasingly rare pockets of serenity and levity we’ve managed to carve out for ourselves. But the words die on my lips as another potent yawn wrenches its way free, robbing me of any semblance of conviction.

“Yeah, I… yeah, you’re probably right,” I mumble, flushing slightly at how petulant I sound. Like a cranky toddler resisting naptime rather than a young woman rapidly approaching the rigors of legal adulthood.

Jamila simply smiles that soft, enigmatic little smile of hers and gathers me close, her strong arms surprisingly gentle as she enfolds me in their protective embrace. I go willingly, allowing the comforting solidity of her presence to dispel any lingering wisps of reluctance.

As I nestle into the contours of her body, fitting against her like two long-separated puzzle pieces at last reunited, a stray thought niggles at the back of my mind. A tiny, innocuous query that nonetheless carries the faint whiff of potential awkwardness.

I let it percolate in silence for a few beats, relishing the languid ebb and flow of Jamila’s breathing, the steady thrum of her heartbeat against my ear. When at last I can’t resist voicing it any longer, the words slip out in a hushed murmur against the shadowed stillness.

“Hey, uh… it’s cool that I’m crashing here tonight, right?” My fingers pluck absently at the fabric of her sleep shirt, a nervous tell I can never quite shake. “Like, your folks won’t mind or anything?”

The question hangs in the air for a few suspended heartbeats, suddenly seeming to smother the space between us with its weighty implications. Jamila’s body goes rigid against mine, every muscle abruptly taut as an over-tuned guitar string.

I have a very sudden feeling that I shouldn’t have asked that.

When she responds at last, her voice is carefully measured, all traces of affectionate warmth shuttered away behind an inscrutable mask. “Don’t worry about it, Sam. They’re… aware of our situation, you could say.”

Despite the studied neutrality of her tone, there’s an undercurrent of tension there that sets my nerves jangling in that preternatural, ineffable way once again. Like emotional tripwires fanning out in every direction, attuned to the slightest hint of discordance.

Swallowing hard, I shift in her arms to better study her expression. But she keeps her features angled away, pointedly avoiding my probing gaze as a pall of uneasy silence settles between us.

“O-Okay…” I finally manage, my mouth suddenly dry as a bone. The urge to pursue this newfound disquiet is a physical itch beneath my skin, burning and insistent. But warring against it is the far more habitual impulse to brush these kinds of nagging doubts aside, to cling to the fiction of okayness for as long as humanly possible.

Jamila doesn’t give me a chance to decide one way or another. With a brusque shift, she disengages from our embrace and rolls onto her back, slipping free of the tangle of sheets and blankets to sit upright. I blink up at her, suddenly chilled by the loss of her warmth.

“We should get some sleep,” she declares, her tone clipped and businesslike in a way that feels utterly alien coming from her. When she finally does meet my gaze, her expression is unreadable, her wonderful kaleidoscope irises now flat and opaque as smoky quartz.

She holds my gaze for a beat too long, wordlessly inscrutable. Then she twists away, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed as she reaches for the hem of her sleep shirt.

“I’ll change in the bathroom,” she murmurs, her voice little more than a hoarse rasp in the gloom. “Make yourself comfortable.”

And just like that, she’s up and moving, slipping from the room with an eerie, gliding silence. The door clicks shut behind her with a sort of hushed finality, leaving me alone amidst the rumpled bedding with nothing but the thunderous cadence of my own bewildered thoughts for company.

I tell myself she’s just tired, worn thin by the tumult and relentless pressures of late. That whatever fleeting tension now hangs between us like a suffocating fog is merely the product of our battered psyches crying out for respite, no more significant than that. But even then, a faint rebuttal gnaws at the back of my consciousness. A soft, persistent keening that something deeper is happening here, some looming sea change I’ve willfully blinded myself to until now.

The silence that descends after Jamila’s abrupt departure is suffocating, a yawning void that seems to swallow every scrap of oxygen in the room. I lie there in the gloom, unmoving, scarcely daring to breathe as the weight of that portentous stillness bears down on me like a physical force.

Then, at last, the rasp of the bathroom door opening cuts through the tense hush like a eulogy bell toll. I tense instinctively, every nerve ending afire with anticipation as Jamila’s measured footsteps draw nearer, nearer—

The door creaks open once more and there she is, a silhouette framed by the dim glow spilling in from the hall beyond. For a handful of suspended heartbeats, she simply stands there unmoving, inscrutable. Then she steps fully into the room, pulls the door shut behind her with a note of finality that makes my breath catch in my throat.

She doesn’t look at me at first, her attention seemingly elsewhere as she moves with the slow, almost ritualistic precision of an automaton. Situating herself on the edge of the mattress, palms braced against her knees, shoulders squared – it’s the same drill I’ve seen athletes and fighters adopt when they’re preparing themselves for something big.

Jamila takes a deep, steadying breath, lets it out in a shuddery exhalation. Then, finally, she turns to face me. Even in the low light, I can make out the taut lines of strain etched into her features, the knot of consternation pinching her brow.

“Sam, I… there’s something I need to say,” she begins, her voice low but clear, devoid of its usual warmth and affection. “Something I’ve been… grappling with for a while now, I suppose.”

It hits me then, a sudden electric tingle prickling across my scalp and down my spine. That ineffable, inexplicable sense of dread from before, now metastasized into a full-blown pit of cold, yawning apprehension blossoming in my stomach.

My first instinct is to stop her, to beg her not to say whatever it is she’s steeling herself to unleash. Because deep down, in that primal burrow of my subconscious where human intuition still reigns supreme, I know – I know exactly where this is headed, can sense the looming shape on the horizon.

But the words shrivel on my tongue before I can give them voice. I can only lie there, frozen in place, as Jamila closes her eyes and powers on with obvious, grim determination.

“You know how much I care about you, right Sam?” Her eyes find mine in the gloom, glittering with some ineffable emotion that cleaves at my pounding heart. “How special our relationship is to me, maybe even… sacred in a way?”

Mutely, numbly, I nod. It’s the only thing I can manage through the steadily rising tide of emotion rapidly swamping me on all sides – fear, confusion, trepidation. Whatever tumblers are steadily spinning into alignment, they’re doing so in the shadowed chambers of Jamila’s unfathomable depths. All I can do is wait for the final, rattling click that will leave me changed in some fundamental way.

For the first time since we’ve known each other, Jamila’s liquid brown gaze skitters away from mine like a startled animal, unable or unwilling to meet the intensity of my regard. A muscle works in her jaw, a taut cord of tension that betrays just how profoundly whatever’s roiling inside her has managed to shake those normally unshakable foundations.

“I…God, Sam, I…” She falters, the veneer of composure splintering even further as she grapples with whatever emotional leviathan lurks within, slowly dragging her beneath its inky depths.

Despite myself, despite the tooth-gnashing anxiety currently clawing at me from the inside out, I feel an almost overwhelming urge to comfort her, to gather her into my arms and shield her from the raging torrent ripping her asunder. Because that’s what Jamila Fayad has always been to me – not just my lover but my protector, my haven against the darkness when it encroaches too close.

But something stays my hand. Some preternatural ward plucked from the deepest filigree of my subconscious, screaming at me to maintain my stillness, to weather this onslaught until its purpose is made clear. So I hold myself rigid, fingernails digging convulsively into my palms until I can feel the sting of broken skin, and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Then—

“I can’t do this anymore, Sam.”

The words hit me with the force of a physical blow, a cataclysmic shockwave that rips the very foundation from beneath me. Everything I thought I knew, every certainty and conviction I’d clung to as my bedrock in these churning seas of misery, crumbles into so much gravel in the wake of those eight baleful syllables.

My world spins, endlessly spiraling down into infinite blackness as shock crests into visceral, gut-punching agony. I open my mouth to speak, to howl my anguish to the uncaring heavens, but only a pitiful croak emerges. Besides, I can’t wake anyone up right now. That wouldn’t be fair to her family.

Jamila isn’t looking at me – can’t look at me. Her head is bowed, hands clenched into tense knots between her knees, framed locks of dark hair hanging in wild disarray around her pinched features. Her shoulders rise and fall in time with the measured cadence of her breathing, a contrast to the maelstrom of quaking loss and ruination raging through me.

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Sam,” she whispers, the words quavering and indistinct, like transmissions beamed from some far-flung, alien reality. “Please know that this has nothing to do with how I feel about you as a person. You’re one of the most incredible, admirable human beings I’ve ever known, and you’ll always have a sacred place in my heart.”

Her eyes flick up, catching mine for one fleeting, visceral instant. They shimmer with an ocean of pain and loss, a veritable wellspring of grief she’s only barely managing to hold back by sheer force of will.

“But… but as for us, as more than just friends… I can’t, Sam,” she rasps, the words catching like barbs in her throat. “I’ve tried, God knows I’ve tried to make it work, but in the end… I can’t keep lying to myself. There’s just so much. I mean. Like… I’m not… Attracted to girls. Or boys. Or maybe anyone. And it doesn’t feel fair to you that I don’t think we could ever have, like… a sexual relationship. I mean,”

The lead weight in my chest congeals into an icy, stabbing crystal, driving itself deeper and deeper into my core with every juddering syllable. I want to lash out, to rage and rant against these truths she’s so dispassionately firing off like shrapnel ripping into me, like a grenade. I want to yell at her. I want to start screaming. But I don’t. Because that’s not a good thing to do. She trails off.

But even as the impulse surges, a more primal part of me understands the truth underpinning Jamila’s words. That flicker in her eyes, the ragged edge of muted anguish scraping at the edges of her voice — this isn’t some petulant flight of fancy or fleeting impulse she’s given in to. This is a deep, elemental need, a hunger clawing at the very sinews of her being. As inexorable as the turn of the tides, as immutable as the cycle of the seasons.

“You know? Like… I don’t mind holding your hand. And cuddling with you. And kissing you. But I think that’s… that it’s something you want more than something I want. And at this point there’s… for me, it… I mean… What’s separating us from ‘good friends’?” She asks, and I want to say ‘we make out sometimes’, but it doesn’t come out.

Some shred of rational thought manages to assert itself amidst the whirlwind of emotion tearing me asunder. I know what’s coming, even before the words form on Jamila’s lips. My throat tightens as I brace myself for the blow, the coup de grace that will rend what’s left of my world into glittering shards of ruin.

“You and I… we want different things, Sam. No, more than that.” Jamila shakes her head, lips compressing into a wan, tremulous line. “We need different things. Things that, no matter how much we care for each other, are fundamentally at odds.”

She swallows hard, steeling herself. I can see the effort it takes for her to hold my gaze, to pour those acid words out from wherever they’ve festered in the deep hollows of her heart.

“You’re a born warrior, darling. A fighter through and through, someone who’s not just comfortable with violence and conflict but who actively craves it as an expression of their higher purpose.” Her voice remains level, almost clinically detached. But in her eyes I can glimpse the storm of roiling emotion threatening to breach the thin veneer she’s putting up. I wonder if it’s for my sake or hers.

“And that’s… that’s beautiful, Sam. Truly. Your courage, your selflessness, your sheer indomitable spirit – those are gifts, superpowers in their own right that the rest of us can only dream of.”

A faint, melancholy smile ghosts across her lips, cinching my thundering heart with a web of longing so visceral it leaves me breathless.

“But me… I’m not like you, Sam. Not even close.”

She closes her eyes, nostrils flaring with a long, shuddering inhale like a diver preparing to plunge into the depths.

“When I think about all the death and destruction these last few months, all the brushes with oblivion both of us have weathered… God, Sam, it terrifies me.”

Her voice cracks like splintering glass, the façade beginning to crumble at last. Tears well in her eyes, and then roll down her cheeks. She slowly shuffles herself onto her bed, flopping down next to me.

“I don’t want that life. I can’t want that life, not and still be true to who and what I am.” She shakes her head vehemently, the last tattered vestiges of her composure unwinding like fraying yarn. “All I want… all I’ve ever really wanted is to help people, to make the world a little brighter and easier to bear. I signed on to heal and protect, to be a beacon of hope and solace, and to help people where they need it. And now…”

Jamila’s hands clench and unclench, groping at something intangible yet maddeningly, viscerally real. I can see the muscles in her jaw flex and release, clenched with the effort of holding everything together in the wake of whatever reckoning is devouring her whole.

“I look at you, at the path you’re so resolutely carving through this nightmare of ours, and I… I can’t keep pace, Sam. I’m so afraid of dying. And you’re not.”

A great, heaving sob forces its way free from deep within her, causing her whole body to tremble like a leaf caught in a gale-force tempest. “I don’t wanna die,” she whimpers. “I don’t. I don’t wanna die,”

The tears are flowing freely now, and she bundles up a blanket and pulls it to her face to hide from me. “I can’t…” she whispers, the remainder of the thought trailing off into a hitching wail of pure, distilled misery, muffled in cloth.

At last, I find my voice – a hoarse, broken croak that barely registers above the thunderous keening of my own shattering heart.

“Please…” is all I can manage, a wordless entreaty devoid of substance or form, little more than an inarticulate expression of the scourging anguish rending me asunder from the inside out. “Please, Jam, don’t…”

She’s already shaking her head, convulsive jolts wracking her slender frame as her shoulders hunch inward in a futile attempt to shield herself from whatever debilitating deluge is even now breaking against her.

For a long moment, I think she’s beyond any attempt at words, completely consumed. “What are we even doing here?” I hear her mumble. Then, she pulls her face up, eyes already red and puffy. My own face stings.

“You throw yourself into harm’s way with such ease, like – like it’s nothing!” The words emerge in a sudden, stricken, painful whisper. “Every battle, every insane, heart-stopping risk you take on without so much as batting an eye…”

Even through the blinding haze of confusion and despair whiting out my consciousness, a dreadful understanding settles in my gut like a ball of smoldering lead.

The brutal truth is, with everything i’ve endured, every life-or-death crucible I’ve weathered, I’ve come out different. Jamila may be steadfastly traversing her own path of light and healing, but for me? She’s right. I can’t live without it.

She sucks in a shuddering breath, then fixes me with eyes that seem to bore straight through to my very soul, searing their truth into the foundations of my being with ruthless, incandescent intensity.

“You won’t quit. I know you won’t quit, because you can’t – this crusade of yours, this need to sacrifice yourself over and over again unto the altar of some higher calling, it’s in your blood. And that’s what I love about you… but it’s not my path. I can’t walk it with you.”

Her words thrum through me with the resonant, bone-deep finality of a judge’s gavel, reverberating in the hollow cavities of my ravaged subconscious like sonar pulsed through the lightless deep. An immutable truth, hammered home with such weary conviction that denying it would be a futile and ultimately meaningless exercise in self-deception.

So I don’t even try. Can’t even summon the willpower to mount such a ludicrously transparent performance.

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. Jamila’s words hang in the air like acrid smoke, slowly seeping into the deepest recesses of my consciousness to set every nerve ending alight with a searing, soul-deep anguish.

For long, teetering moments, I lay there motionless, mind utterly blank save for the endless reverberating echo of that cataclysmic revelation. I can feel the tears welling, hot and stinging, threatening to spill down my cheeks in a torrent of unrestrained grief. But I refuse to give in, to surrender the last shreds of my dignity to this relentless, pitiless tide of misery.

I’m a fighter. A born warrior, as she’d so aptly put it. The adrenaline, the thrill of battle, the transcendent catharsis of putting myself on the line to protect the innocent – these things make up the very bedrock of my identity, the core drives that compel me forward day after day. Jamila is the exception, the rare oasis of peace and stability in the endless cyclone of conflict that has become my life.

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” Jamila whispers, her voice little more than a wet, ragged rasp. “I know… I know this must be devastating for you, and I wish I could make it easier. But I just…” She trails off, shoulders hitching with a fresh wave of tiny cries.

I watch her, transfixed, some distant part of my mind cataloging this sight as if through a pane of frosted glass – Jamila, the pillar of unwavering strength and resolve, reduced to a trembling, inconsolable wreck. It seems so impossibly wrong, a perversion of the natural order, and I find myself reaching out before I can even register the impulse.

“Jamila, I…” The words die on my lips, choked by the unyielding vice of emotion constricting my throat. Frantic, I search her face, desperate to find some thread, some glimmer of hope to cling to amidst the all-consuming darkness. “Please, I… I can change. I can stop, I can –”

But Jamila is already shaking her head, a watery, sorrowful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Her hand finds mine, squeezing gently. “This isn’t about you not being good enough, or me not loving you enough. It’s about the fact that we want such fundamentally different things. Things that are irreconcilable. I don’t think you can.”

Jamila shifts closer, and I find myself instinctively curling into the comforting warmth of her embrace. It’s a poor imitation of the countless times we’ve sought refuge in each other’s arms, but I’ll take what I can get.

“When I joined the Young Defenders, I thought I was ready for that life. Ready to be a protector, a warrior for justice,” she murmurs, fingers idly carding through my hair. “But after everything that’s happened, I realize now that I was just… kidding myself.”

I shake my head mutely, the tears I’d so stubbornly fought to contain now spilling freely down my cheeks. I want to argue, to beg her to reconsider, to find some way to reconcile the irreconcilable. But even as the words form on my tongue, I know it’s a lost cause. Jamila is resolute, her path laid out before her with an ineluctable, inexorable clarity.

“I can quit,” I whisper, the words so fragile and tremulous they seem to crumble even as I voice them. “I can give it all up, Jam. The superhero stuff, the fighting, the dangers – I’ll leave it behind, I swear. Just… just please, don’t leave me.”

Jamila’s arms tighten around me, and I can feel the feather-light press of her lips against the crown of my head. “Oh, Sam,” she sighs, the words barely audible. “Can you?”

She pulls back, gently cupping my tear-streaked face in her hands. Her eyes are shining with a complex, unfathomable emotion that makes my heart lurch painfully in my chest.

I open my mouth to protest, to insist that I’ll do anything, be anything, if only she’ll stay.

Can I?

It’s been a year. I’ve ‘tried it out’, like I told Diane I would.

Can I quit?

…

No. I can’t.

So I do the only thing I can right now – I surrender. I collapse into her embrace, burying my face against the crook of her neck as the last vestiges of my composure dissolve into great, shuddering sobs. Jamila holds me close, rocking me gently as she murmurs soothing words of comfort that do little to assuage the maelstrom of agony ripping me apart from the inside.

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” Jamila whispers, pressing a soft, achingly gentle kiss to my forehead. “But you’re going to be okay. I know you will. You’re stronger than this, stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

I want to argue, to insist that no, I won’t be okay, that I can’t be without her. But the words catch in my throat, smothered by the leaden weight of resignation slowly settling in my gut.

Because deep down, I know she’s right. As much as this is tearing me apart, as much as the loss of her feels like the very foundation of my world crumbling to dust… I’ll endure. I’ll survive, because that’s what I do. That’s who I am.

I survived a nuclear reactor. Why does being broken up with hurt more?

Jamila seems to sense the shift, the subtle resignation in my posture. With a sad, bittersweet smile, she pulls me closer, tucking my head beneath her chin. I go willingly, too spent, too empty to fight it any longer.

“It’s going to be okay, Sam,” she murmurs, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I promise. Even if it doesn’t feel that way now.”

Jamila holds me close, rocking me gently. She murmurs soft, soothing platitudes against my hair, her own tears falling in silent rhythm.

“Sleep, my darling,” she murmurs, pressing a soft, tremulous kiss to my sweat-damp brow. “You’re safe with me. Always.”

And even as my traitorous heart clenches at the bittersweet irony of those words, I allow myself to succumb to the siren call of oblivion, drifting off to the comforting rhythm of Jamila’s breathing and the memory of a love that, for all its faults, had shone as a beacon. Tomorrow would come soon enough, with all its attendant horrors and heartaches. But for now, at least, I can take solace in this one final, fleeting respite – the last embers of a fire that has been extinguished, but whose warmth I will cherish until the end.

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