Celeste sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the thin, almost invisible crack on her wrist. It wasn't deep, didn't hurt, but it was there—something wrong, something impossible. A fracture in something that wasn't supposed to break.
The air in the apartment felt heavier than usual, like a storm lingering just beyond the walls, waiting for the right moment to break. Amelia paced the room, her fingers tangled in her hair, pulling at the strands as if the pain might wake her from whatever cruel dream this was.
"She's lying," Amelia muttered, more to herself than to Celeste. "She has to be lying."
Celeste didn't answer. She didn't want to. Because if she spoke the truth, if she admitted what her heart was whispering—then it would become real. And she wasn't ready for that.
You weren't born here. You were summoned.
Celeste traced her fingers over the crack, as if she could smooth it away, erase it, pretend it had never been there in the first place. But it remained, a thin, mocking reminder that something inside her was coming undone.
"Amelia," she said softly.
Amelia froze mid-step. She turned to face Celeste, but her expression was a mess of emotions—anger, desperation, fear.
Celeste lifted her wrist, letting the dim light catch on the fracture. "What if she's right?"
"No." Amelia's voice was sharp, immediate, a blade cutting through the room. "We don't know anything yet. She could be making it up."
Celeste hesitated. "But… what if she isn't?"
Silence.
Amelia's jaw clenched. She turned away, gripping the back of the chair, her shoulders rising and falling with each uneven breath.
"I don't—" Amelia's voice cracked. She exhaled sharply, trying to steady herself before she spoke again. "I don't care what she says. You're here. You're real. That's all that matters."
Celeste wanted to believe that. Wanted to cling to the certainty in Amelia's voice. But as she stared at the crack—her own crack—she couldn't stop the creeping doubt that curled in her stomach.
A crack in a painting. A fracture in something never meant to be.
"But for how long?" The words slipped out before she could stop them, barely above a whisper.
Amelia stiffened. Her fingers dug into the chair's worn leather, knuckles white.
And then, with a quiet, fierce determination, she turned.
"Then we figure it out."
She strode toward Celeste, dropping to her knees in front of her. The movement was so sudden, so intense, that Celeste forgot to breathe. Amelia reached for her hands, covering them completely—warm, firm, grounding.
Her thumbs brushed against Celeste's knuckles, her touch almost reverent.
"You're mine, Celeste."
Celeste's breath hitched.
Amelia's voice softened, but her grip tightened, as if she were holding onto something fragile but precious. "I don't care what she says. You belong here. With me."
Celeste's heart ached. She wanted to believe it. Wanted to melt into Amelia's touch, to let those words wrap around her like a protective cocoon.
But beneath it—deep, hidden—was fear.
Because the crack was real.
And she had no idea how many more would come.
They stayed like that for what felt like hours, Amelia's hands warm against Celeste's skin, her gaze searching for something—reassurance, belief, hope.
Finally, Amelia moved, shifting to sit beside Celeste on the bed. Their shoulders touched, the warmth between them a stark contrast to the cold weight of uncertainty hanging in the air.
"I don't know what to do," Amelia admitted, voice barely above a whisper. It was rare to hear her sound so vulnerable, so unsure. "I don't know how to stop this."
Celeste closed her eyes, tilting her head slightly to rest against Amelia's. "I don't think we can stop it."
Amelia tensed. "Don't say that."
Celeste swallowed, her fingers curling into the sheets. "If I really was summoned… if I wasn't meant to be here…" She took a breath. "Then maybe this is just… what happens."
Amelia jerked away slightly, turning to face Celeste, her hands gripping her arms. "No. No. You don't get to say that. You don't just… disappear. I won't let you."
Celeste opened her mouth, but Amelia shook her head.
"We'll find a way," Amelia insisted, her eyes burning with desperation. "I'll find a way. Even if I have to paint you back into existence, even if I have to—" Her voice caught, and she bit her lip hard. "Even if I have to fight whoever did this, I will."
Celeste's breath shuddered. She had never seen Amelia like this—so terrified beneath all that stubborn defiance.
"Amelia…"
"No." Amelia cupped her face, her fingers trembling. "You're not fading. You're not leaving. You're mine, Celeste."
Celeste felt it then—that pull, that ache, that deep, consuming love that had snuck up on her the moment she had stepped out of that painting.
She wasn't sure who moved first, but the next thing she knew, their lips met, slow and soft, a silent plea wrapped in warmth and desperation.
Amelia kissed her like she was trying to keep her anchored, as if sheer force of will could keep her from slipping away. Celeste kissed back just as fiercely, hands tangling in Amelia's hair, pulling her closer, grounding herself in the taste of paint and coffee and something uniquely her.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Amelia whispered, "I won't lose you."
Celeste swallowed hard, fighting the sting behind her eyes.
"I don't want to lose me either."