On The Bound

028. Even children get older, and I'm gettin' older, too

He knows Sade is good. Goodness clung to her like an anxious child. Like Javi. She worried so much because she loved deeply. About him, about Lottie, about Taissa and Van, about the world that rattled around them in sharp, burning hues. She was strong in a way that made his skin crawl, a low thrumming that mapped itself along his spine whenever she comforted him.

Sometimes, when he has to herd in the sheep in, Travis is still stumbling through those caves, pretending not to feel his dead brother's wide, juvenile eyes piercing through him. A wreck. Sade went too, and came back quieter. Scarier. Stronger than him. Her silence was not gentle. It never was. Something scorched black and left to cool in the wind, a silence that watches. Her strength is feral, not rehearsed, the kind born from too many nights spent listening to something breathe just beyond the firelight.

He forgave Natalie, even when the best piece of himself drowned for her safety. Only after becoming a man of grievance, he fully understood Sade. Because grief is the animal you feed in the dark. Because love taught him how to hold a knife with both hands and not flinch at the pulsing vein. Sade, who walked out of the mouth of God with blood on her ankles and no apology. When the others turned to her, he stayed as well.

There had been silence in the cave—thick, breathing silence. It folded over them like wet linen, stifling every prayer before it could bloom. Sade had stood at the threshold, eyes empty, mouth smeared with truth she could not unsay. He watched her then, not as a disciple or a savior, but as a witness. She saw Javi. Spoke to him.

After rescue, he had written first. Admitted he hated her for the choices she made. Loved her because no one else could have survived them. And when he saw her again—weeks, months, maybe lifetimes later—he wouldn't ask if she was sorry. He only asked if she was warm. She wrote back months later: I'm always warm now. They didn't speak of the caves again.

Still, God lives at the front of his mind, stubborn and bright as a wound that never fully heals. If Sade was made in God's image, then Travis could be the shepherd—the tender of their shared dead, the bruised custodian of what remains. A never-ending war is still raging inside of his mind. Javi is in their teeth and hands. At least that part is real.

Tears pricks at the eggshell white of his eyes, knuckles meet the rough surface. The door cracks open. He sees.

"Sade? Is that you?" Travis says gently. He hasn't always been gentle with Sade, but they've grown past all that. The name is a reference. A hidden place, being wedged open with a rusty crowbar. Shadows under her eyes, hands clutched together. It itches. She looks reborn. Not angry anymore, but at real peace. Happier. Cravings for a cold cigarette hit him like a truck.

Sade smiles, morning light blending into her brown skin. "Travis." A flood. Travis's lungs fill with water. He hugs her. Crushingly.

"How are you—"

"How have you—"

Their voices overlap, both offering half-bridges. Travis watches as Sade's jaw tightens, rendering some composure.

"Come in, Trav. We can talk about. . . things inside my room." She hums, grabbing at his rough hands, and leading him further into the chapel. Nuns bow to Sade as they walk, eyes roaming Travis's frame with muted curiosity. His footsteps echo down the corridor. The place oozes with melancholy, checkered and wood paths clanking at their feet.

Sade's steps make no noise. She doesn't speak, but her breath seems to recite slow hymns. Travis follows. Always.

When they reach hers, she pushes it open—
—hinges moan like mourning widows.

Roaming in the small space awkwardly, Sade's room is eerily clean. Free from any nailed Cocteau Twins or Mazzy Star posters in her teenage years. No jeweled curtains or faint smell of exotic weed bought from Kevyn Tan (that always conveniently disappeared whenever Lottie slept over) weaving in her pillows. Now only lay a singular twin bed with pristine white sheets. Jesus Christ shined above the window, beams of sun acting as his halo. It was all grey. The only splash of color was an obviously dead crimson colored plant. Weird.