Mitch unlocks his front door; he pauses and smiles at me. I smile back shyly. He pushes the door open, then locks his keys and hangs them on the wall. I close the door quietly behind me and follow him to the kitchen.
His mum and dad are seated at the table.
"Hope you don't mind me bringing a friend for pre-drinks and to get ready?" Mitch asks as he opens the fridge.
His mum smiles and looks at his dad, who gives me a once-over.
"So is this your new boyfriend?" she asks sweetly.
My eyes widen. I glance at Mitch. He grabs four bottles of beer and turns around, laughing.
"Early days, Mum."
"Nice to meet you, my name is Eden," I say politely, trying to keep the nervousness from my voice.
"He's the newbie I'm training up. He was a late starter," Mitch explains with a grin, tossing me a wink as he hands his mum a bottle.
His mum continues smiling and nodding. She seems over the moon, like Mitch hasn't brought anyone home in a while. Her joy is infectious, even if it makes me feel like an outsider.
Something flickers in my chest—hollow, but still there, like the memory of warmth. Her kindness feels undeserved, but I don't know why.
"Come on, let's head upstairs for a bit," Mitch says, leading the way.
I step into Mitch's room. It's huge—gaming stations, a computer, a couch. It's perfect. It looks like something out of a magazine.
"Get comfy, we're chilling for a few hours," he says, placing the beers on the bedside table.
I nod, taking in the wide screen TV and game consoles. I want to relax, but I can't. My body goes rigid, breathless in a way that isn't just nerves—it's who I am now. It's everything I can do not to step away, not to tell him the truth.
"I'll put some music on," Mitch says, turning on the TV and PlayStation. He steps back to stand beside me, tossing the controllers onto the couch, then kisses me on the cheek as he passes to grab the beers.
I smile, following him to take one. Suddenly, he grabs my hand—the one holding the bottle—and opens it.
"No!" I scream, quickly putting the bottle down.
Mitch jumps in fright, his eyes wide with concern. "What's wrong, Eden?"
"You… touched my hand…" I stutter, panic building in my chest.
"It's not a bad thing, is it? Why are you panicking?" he asks, his voice soft with confusion.
"You could die and I don't want you to!" I cry, my voice breaking.
Mitch sets his bottle down and walks over. He places both hands on my cheeks and smiles gently, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. "I'm not going anywhere, Pup," he whispers.
I pull away and turn, trying to keep myself steady. My eyes sting, but they stay dry. Even grief doesn't work right anymore. It doesn't come in the same way it used to. The ache inside me is too deep.
"You won't want me if you knew," I mumble, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
"Knew what? Eden, you're scaring me."
"I'm better showing you and explaining…" I trail off, swallowing hard as I face him again. I can see the tears in his eyes. He's hurting—and I hate it. I never wanted him to hurt.
"I'll give you the honour of taking my fleece and top off. Probably the first and last time you'll want to," I say, attempting to crack a joke. My voice sounds hollow to me, but I know it's my only defense.
He nods, his eyes still holding that mix of concern and confusion. Slowly, he unzips my fleece, carefully pulling it off. I raise my arms, and he lifts my polo shirt over my head. He drops it to the floor without a word and stares at my body, his expression unreadable.
"I knew it," I say, grabbing my fleece and shirt from the floor.
"Stop," he mutters, his voice thick with emotion.
I look at him and see the silent tears falling. He sits on the bed, eyes still on me, as if he's trying to figure out what to do next.
I walk over and kneel in front of him, swallowing the lump in my throat. The silence is crushing.
"Before any questions, I want you to check my pulse and feel my chest," I say softly. "Just refrain from touching my hands."
Mitch nods, his hands trembling just slightly as he reaches for my wrist. He presses two fingers against the inside, his brow furrowed as he tries to feel for anything. He looks at me, then back down, shifting his fingers, trying his hardest.
He places his other hand on my chest, his eyes wide with confusion and fear.
"I can't find a pulse… I can't feel your heartbeat… and you're ice cold…" he whispers, his voice cracking.
"What conclusion have you come to?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He looks me in the eye. "Signs that a dead body would give…"
I nod slowly, my heart—or what used to be my heart—giving a phantom thrum. It's not real. It never will be again.
"A phantom thrum echoes in my chest sometimes—like my body's trying to remember what a heartbeat used to feel like. But it's not real," I say, my voice quiet, as if confessing something I've buried deep.
Mitch swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as his gaze never leaves mine.
"I'm dead. I have been for almost a week," I admit.