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Jess does this thing whenever he’s tired and angry, a ritual of touch. She sings, long fingers combing through his hair quietly and her voice soothes. Sam feels the worries on his ears loosening when she sings to the stars and back, across the ocean where he would break himself open to coddle her whole. She sings in rhymes, her pronunciation is beautiful, even when her tone is off-beat. She sings lessons more than just rock or classical music, and he listens to her wholeheartedly.
When Sam first heard her voice rippling through the galaxy to his brain, it came in echoes of the forest, of her giggles from the camping site where he collected the woods and her department — medical students with black, black eyes bags — scorned over setting up shelters.
“Are you always this happy?” He asked, earnestly, because he had never seen her frown even in silhouette.
“What’s there to be upset about?” She knocked her head back and passed him the bottle with her lipstick still on.
He thought she was the happiest person in the world, loose buttons on a jean jacket and for some times, she was.
For some times, he has yet to think of her burning.
When he was eleven, dad smacked him on the back of his head once, and he packed his bags.
The first time Jessica asks him what’s wrong instead of arguing, he cries.
Turns off the TV and he’s exhausted. They’re two months into the relationship, six months and a half from being good friends and she’s still so gentle, it pains. “Let me sing you this song, Sam,” she grins, even when he can’t see it with his head on her laps and the world is kaleidoscopic behind this wetness. Her hair is golden, perfectly born into his vision as if sunlight, a good day, a nice life. “We can talk later, so let me sing you this one song.”
Pity is the softness that strips a man of his manhood, he knows and learnt and unlearns.
Jessica only has love to offer, so he listens to every word.
Whenever he dreams of better things, he sees her. She’s in the living room trying on different curtains for spring and he’s trying to bake something. A little less jam, Jess would pout, though she would finish her plate anyway. They buy a turquoise phone for the landline and he pictures it ringing, and it’s Dean. It’s never him, of course, never warmingly telling Sam that his brother is freed from claws and salt rings and a man who claims to shoot beasts. But he pictures and pictures and one of them has Jess taking a liking to her extended family too.
“They’ll come around eventually, your dad and big brother.” She murmurs on the balcony, waiting to see the full moon or a comet. She doesn’t know more than needed about his situation, and the girl thinks he’s too loveable to ever be left behind.
A star is bright.
“Make a wish, Sam. Close your eyes.”
He doesn’t. His wish is warm and tangible on his shoulder right now.
The first magic he showed her, not the supernatural daunting kind where kids whispered over the fireplace while she kissed him silly with a dizzying sense of marvel, had been a flower popping up from his sleeves and Jess tilted her head back with a loud laugh.
“You will never let me live this down, will you?”
He asks, slightly jittery with nerves and she kisses it better.
They’re in a talent show of sorts. Only a few close buddies and the banner is crooked in dim lights.
“The entire bar better fucking clap for you or else I will have complaints.” She grins, the crescents on her mouth give an appearance of everlasting happiness. She’s the brightest person, glistening in eden’s light, as he proceeds to dazzle a group of drunken audience with his card tricks from eighth grade. “That’s my boyfriend!” Jess shouts from three tables back and he’s awkward with her whistling. His cheeks are warm, like the palms of her hands when she cups him in for another kiss.
“Happy birthday,” she smiles.
Sam has never known what being healed through a touch felt like, until her.
He buys her a necklace instead of a ring. She will like the mobility, like it more than misplacing her hairpin and that one sock before work. It’s minimal, light. She has always liked the colour of his eyes and their spring, flowy curtains, so green green green is the rock’s glint .
He’s going to do this perfectly. He’s going to do it as soon as he gets the offer to move forward.
Sneaking back in bed after staring at the thing for hours, he hides fragmented worrying inside her hair.
Dean comes. Which is never good news when he’s sneaked in and not, having a normal conversation or a schedule the way most siblings would do prior to entering any housing on and near campus.
He should have kissed her again.
It’s a minute of calmness. Then dripping and she’s on the ceiling with her stomach cut.
Ragged breathing, he can no longer hear her singing across the ocean to his ears.
You’re not real, he tells himself when he’s inside a room and her singing is soft.
She still smells of burning, of never knowing how much he loved her.