Kismet

Thirty Three [The Photograph]

Callista is none-the-wiser and complacent at ten o'clock on a sunny Wednesday morning, a beam of light shining from within her that you predict will dull the instant she comprehends your dejected expression. It's likely that this is your first time speaking today and maybe even in a couple days based on how astringent your throat feels, "hey Callista-"

She wraps her arms around you in a hug and frowns when you slump pathetically against her for a weak embrace in return. Her hands dig into your shoulders in an attempt to perk you up before she leans back to get a comprehensive view of your face, "what? What is it, darling?"

When you teased Harry and said that you and Callista were to become best friends, this is not the circumstance you had in mind.

This morning as you watched the sun pop up over the skyline, you had thought you were finally strong enough to leave Harry's cramped apartment in search of solace from another human being, but the hysterical breach in your tone of voice might suggest otherwise, "they took him! They took him away, they stole him right from my hands. They-"

Callista's chest opens up like the drain in a bathtub, the entire contents of her insides rushing down the conduit to splash into her stomach in a split second, "who took who?" She knows. She already knows and she doesn't need you to explain but she asks anyway, "the Emissary?" Her throat dries out when you nod and choke on a cry in your throat, "...Harry?"

When you pause before ticking your head downward in another defeated nod, her hand reaches up to cup her mouth and stifle her emotion. She throws her arms around you again and this time you're able to return the sentiment with just as much intensity, the two of you holding each in an agonizing embrace as strangers avert their focus and side-step around your conjoined figures on the sidewalk.

"Couldn't sleep without you last night. Breathtaking sunrise... reminded me of you."

His voice circles and swirls and surges through your chest and sternum until it's forced up in the manifestation of wretched sobs. The regret and guilt you feel for ever spending a single moment away from him eats you alive and chews holes through your skin, the apparition of a baton battering his kneecaps as his legs buckle and his body shakes while he struggles to be brave lights your skin on fire before dousing you in rotten gasoline to burn you alive.

"That's it. That's why - that's why I call you Nova... it's because we're the same... our stardust... it's the same."

His fists reaching into the air in victory upon the discovery of your surprise to spoil him with twenty minute showers, watching him race before you up the escalator inside of the movie theatre, crying on the water tower when he revealed his god forsaken secret, gripping his waist as he navigated your scooter through the dark rainbow of the city, your emotional first kiss and your disturbed last kiss, his confession of the truth behind your significance to him, your fingers slipping through his before he presses his lips to your knuckles, the repressed cry he attempted but failed to smother for your sake when the Emissary knocked the wind out of him with their fists. Churning and churning and churning.

Callista pushes through your rumination, "is... he dead-"

You shake your head firmly and step back to brush tears from your cheeks, "no." You want to believe that he's still alive because it's too painful to consider otherwise. But there is also one other robust fact that keeps you from having an absolute mental breakdown, "the government would never exhaust a resource like that. He's extraordinarily useful to them, a high priority Adroit."

Callista's brow furrows as her gaze traipses across your sunken features, "is he an Adroit?" She clicks her tongue and shifts her weight between her feet and continues before you have a chance to reply, "I should've known. That makes perfect sense. I can't believe I never realized it before."