As always, the door popped into existence out of nowhere. By now, I wasn't surprised anymore.
Instead, I felt a strange mix of excitement and sadness. I was going back, and Eric's cute face hovered in my mind. He was fine. I trusted Cael's words.
Cael.
He was the reason for the heaviness in my chest. I knew I would miss him.
But an uncertain thought pressed at me: would I be able to remember everything?
I wanted to remember him.
I stopped walking, and he bumped into me. I almost laughed.
But when I turned abruptly, his lips nearly brushed mine. The shock jolted through me like electricity, and I jumped back. Heat rushed to my cheeks. Do souls blush?
I steadied myself and saw Cael frozen, his surprise turning him into a statue.
"Cael," I said.
At the sound of my voice, he snapped out of his trance. He straightened quickly and looked at me.
"You should eat more regularly."
He blinked. "Souls don't require sustenance."
"I wasn't talking about food."
His eyes softened. For the first time, I saw something other than sadness in them.
I didn't look away.
"You've been doing your work for… I don't even know how long."
My voice was plain, not a speech. Just the words I'd been carrying since I asked if he wanted something different.
"At some point, you're allowed to want something for yourself."
He didn't answer.
That was right. He shouldn't. Some things don't need a response. They only need to be received.
And he received it.
I smiled, then turned back toward the door.
Each step was one step, my feet pressed against the nothing floor.
As I reached for the handle, I thought, I should just go. That was the sensible thing. That was what I said I would do.
I paused.
I didn't turn around. My hand stayed on the door.
I could feel him behind me, not watching with his file, not watching with his notebook. Just there. Still there.
I spoke to the door.
I whispered his name first — just his name, the way he said theirs.
"Cael? Will I remember you?"
"Maybe," he answered.
I nodded, straightened, exhaled, and continued.
"Someone should say your name out loud sometime," I murmured.
My voice was quiet, almost like when I talked to myself while making lists, reminding myself what needed to be done next.
"The way you say theirs."
I didn't wait.
I stepped through.
The door closed behind me.
I didn't look back.
I didn't need to.
I knew he was still there—in the swirling black and white, in the gray nowhere. With my words beside him, the way he had sat beside me when I cried.
I didn't know what came next. Not really. I never did.
That was the thing about doors—you never knew what was on the other side until you walked through.