Purest Blue

The rain began just after dusk.

It wasn't heavy, just soft enough to tap against the windows like a lullaby. The estate had already grown quiet—no hum of machines, no distant echo of footsteps—only the rhythm of the rain and the faint scent of chamomile that always clung to Alisa's side of the house.

I sat at my desk, staring at the half-finished melody on my tablet.

The notes were simple. Too simple. A sequence of quiet harmonies meant to feel like home. But it didn't. It felt hollow, like I was trying to reach something with hands that didn't know how to touch.

I sighed, tapping the screen off, and leaned back in the chair.

My door clicked open.

"Still awake?" came Alisa's voice, soft as ever.

I turned. She stood in the doorway in a long white robe that shimmered faintly beneath the hallway lights. Her silver hair, usually tied back, fell freely tonight over her shoulders like silk, and her bare feet made no sound as she stepped in.

"I didn't want to sleep just yet," I said.

She said nothing at first, only walked across the room and stood beside me, looking down at the closed tablet.

"Writing again?" she asked.

I nodded. "I wanted to make something for you."

Her fingers, light and pale, brushed across the top of my head in slow strokes. I closed my eyes.

"You already do," she whispered. "Every time you speak. Every time you smile. That's a gift to me."

I opened my eyes and turned slightly, unsure what to say.

There was a silence, but it wasn't awkward. Alisa's presence was never awkward—it was weightless and constant, like breathing.

She pulled the second chair closer and sat beside me, folding her legs up with a kind of grace I never understood. She looked at me, and though her eyes were the same soft blue, something deeper lingered there—something quieter, warmer, and unspoken.

"I used to wonder," she began softly, "how much a person can give before there's nothing left. I thought… maybe if I gave everything, I'd become invisible. Like I'd disappear."

She paused, then smiled faintly.

"But with you, Noah… I never disappear. You see me."

I swallowed.

"Of course I see you."

"I don't mean with your eyes," she said. "I mean… you feel me. You always have."

There was something in the way she said it—not heavy, not demanding, just… true.

She leaned a little closer.

"I want to be beside you forever," she said, so quietly I almost missed it. "Even if you never ask me to be."

I glanced at her. Her robe had slipped slightly off her shoulder. She didn't seem to notice.

"I don't understand everything," I admitted. "Sometimes it feels like I'm walking through this world and everyone else already knows where to go."

She smiled gently.

"But you always end up where I am," she said. "That's enough."

We sat there a little longer in the silence, listening to the rain.

Then, almost shyly, she said, "May I hold you?"

It caught me off guard. Not because I was afraid, but because it was so unlike her to ask for something so openly.

I nodded.

She stood slowly, walked around the chair, and eased behind me, arms wrapping around my shoulders from behind. Her cheek rested lightly against the side of my head.

I felt her warmth—the softness of her breath on my neck, the quiet weight of her presence.

"You're growing so much," she whispered. "And I keep thinking… someday, maybe you won't need me."

I turned my face slightly, brushing her cheek without meaning to.

"I'll always need you," I said honestly. "You're part of me."

She held me tighter.

Then she did something unexpected.

Her lips—soft, delicate—pressed against the side of my neck.

I froze for a second, not in fear, but in something I didn't yet have a word for. Her touch wasn't demanding. It wasn't heavy. It was reverent. Gentle.

But it lingered.

Long enough to feel like a vow.

When she pulled away, her fingers gently brushed the spot, and her voice came low and warm.

"I'm sorry," she said, even though she didn't sound sorry. "I just wanted to mark a memory. Something only we share."

I reached for her hand and held it.

"You don't need to be sorry."

She smiled—a real, soft smile—and kissed the top of my head.

Later, when she left the room, I stood in front of the mirror. The faintest mark remained—barely visible, more of a warmth than a color.

But I felt it.

Like a secret folded under my skin.