Emersyn

The morning light seeps through the curtains, giving my room a golden glow. I drag myself out of bed, feeling heavy and clouded from the remnants of last night's events that refuse to fade away.

I stand before the mirror, seeing a different woman. The person staring back at me seems more alive but also caught in a mess of confusing emotions and desires. I shake off these thoughts and memories, but they stick to me, stubbornly lingering.

Marx. Just thinking his name sends a shiver down my spine, igniting a fire I'm not sure can be put out. The kitchen, the darkness, his touch - it all mixes into a heady cocktail of emotion and raw passion.

I brush my wavy brown hair, trying to bring some order to it. Each stroke seems to match the rapid beat of my heart, a reminder of the blurred lines and tested boundaries.

I choose a simple outfit, a pink blouse with black pants, to bring some normalcy to my chaotic life.

As I put on a bit of makeup, my mind drifts to Marx's deep gaze that seemed to see right through me. I can almost feel his breath on my skin, a warm contrast to the cool morning air.

I grab a granola bar, unable to eat anything more. My appetite seems lost amidst the storm of feelings inside me.

As I head to work, the city is awake and buzzing with activity. Work offers a break from these overpowering thoughts. But even here, Marx's silence seems to fill the spaces around and within me, louder and deeper.

Why did he walk away? Why hasn't he said anything?

These questions mix with memories of his touch, his gaze. It leaves me with a mix of desire and doubt, leaving me restless.

During lunch, I sit at a quiet corner table, a solitary spot where I can deal with my thoughts away from the curious eyes of the bakery customers. Carol could sense something was wrong with me, but she didn't pry. I'm thankful for that. 

I try to eat a cinnamon roll, but it tastes bland.

The afternoon drags, the clock ticking slowly, echoing my heavy heartbeat.

Driving home, the city lights flicker sadly, reflecting my emotional state. The vibrant daytime hues give way to the evening's deep blues and grays.

Once home, the silence of the house is both comforting and suffocating.

I wonder if he's home.

I find myself in the kitchen, where Marx and I shared that intense moment. I can almost feel his hands on me.

I lean against the counter, closing my eyes, letting the memories flood back, as real and intense as the night they occurred. The warmth of his hands, the fire in his eyes, the electrifying connection we shared. Warmth starts to pool in the lowest part of my stomach and I know I need to stop.

But why did he leave? Did I do something wrong? Did he not want me?

Thinking this feels selfish. I already have Fowler, Locke, and Cruz in my life, even if those relationships are undefined. Adding Marx feels... greedy? Unrealistic?

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the doubts, the questions. I refuse to be consumed by the unknown, by the stretching silence.

I head to the bathroom, burdened by thoughts that seem to grow heavier with each step. In the shower, the warm water feels like it's washing away the confusion and longing buried deep within me.

The steam surrounds me, a moment to feel, ache, and desire. I close my eyes, letting the water trace lines on my skin that remind me of Marx's touch.

I lose track of time, caught in a sea of longing and uncertainty. Finally, I step out into the cooler bathroom air.

I dry off and change into a comfy nightgown, the soft fabric a comfort against my skin, which still remembers the fiery touch.

I walk into my room and climb into bed. The sheets are cold against my warm skin.

Sleep doesn't come easily. The wall shadows remind me of Marx, stirring a deep desire within me, whispering promises of what could be. Why am I so fixated on him?

As I start to give in to dreams filled with Marx's warmth, I hear the front door. The familiar sound brings a touch of home and comfort.

I hear soft footsteps getting closer. The door opens, letting in a streak of light before closing again, immersing the room back in darkness.

The bed shifts under Fowler's weight, bringing me back to the present. His presence is comforting, a stable anchor in my emotional storm.

He gets into bed, his body fitting next to mine in a familiar way.

Fowler has become my best friend, aside from Valarie.

He pulls me close, his chest against my back feeling protective. His breath on my neck is a gentle, rhythmic comfort, calming me.

As he holds me, my mind drifts back to Marx and the attraction that seems to call to me, both thrilling and frightening.

But here, with Fowler's steady heartbeat in my ears, I relax, finding comfort in his embrace.

I close my eyes, letting Fowler's breathing guide me to sleep.

I shouldn't let Marx affect me this way. But I can't help it. I thought we were friends. His behavior at my brother's wedding was different from his usual quiet self. But last night, I thought maybe we were becoming more.

I'm unsure which hurts more: being left alone in the dark after sharing such a vulnerable moment or wanting it to evolve into something more.

As I slowly drift off, a tear slips out.

I feel a mix of sadness and regret mingling with the warmth Fowler provides. It feels like I'm at a crossroads, with each path leading to unknown potential heartaches.

Another tear escapes, acknowledging the complex feelings swirling inside me. I wish I could understand Marx's thoughts, his true desires.

Fowler tightens his grip on me, perhaps sensing my distress. His presence is comforting, but it also reminds me of the complex web of relationships I'm entangled in - Fowler, Locke, Cruz, and now possibly Marx. It's a mess of emotions with no clear solution.

I hide my face in the pillow, seeking a brief escape from my confusing feelings. The pillow offers a brief break from the chaos inside me.

In the quiet darkness, my mind returns to the moments with Marx, the electric connection between us, the attraction that pulls me to him with both exciting and terrifying intensity.

The night moves on, silently witnessing my internal struggle. The moon casts long shadows in the room, adding a surreal touch to the night.

As sleep finally takes over, I find myself caught between reality and dreams, where Marx waits, a silent figure in my mind's shadows.

I want to reach out, to ask him all the burning questions inside me. But in this dream space, words seem useless. Instead, we communicate through touch, a silent conversation that says more than words ever could.

But the dream changes, and Fowler appears, a grounding presence, reminding me of the friendship and comfort in my life. His smile is warm, his touch familiar, but I find myself drawn back to Marx. Back to the unknown, to the shimmering possibilities just out of reach.

But as dawn approaches, I realize that some choices are never easy, that sometimes the heart wants what it wants, despite the mind's warnings.

**

I sit on the couch, mindlessly eating a bowl of cereal. The house is quiet, except for the crunching noise that fills the room.

I feel a bit lost, my mind replaying the other night over and over. No matter what I seem to do, I can't stop thinking about it. My mind continues to return to thoughts of Marx.

Fowler walks in, breaking my cycle of thoughts. He sits down beside me, his presence always so comforting. He tries to chat, asking about my plans for the day. I can only shake my head, words seeming too much of an effort right now.

He can tell something is wrong. I can see it in his eyes. There's concern etched on his face. "Emmie, what's going on?" he probes, his voice filled with worry.

I avoid his gaze, pretending I don't understand his question. "I'm fine," I say, but my voice betrays me, coming out more like a whisper.

But Fowler knows me too well, and he doesn't buy it. He insists, his voice gentle yet firm. I can feel his hand on my knee, a gesture that always brings me comfort. "I know you. I can tell something's bothering you," he says, his eyes holding mine, urging me to open up.

I try to hold back, to keep everything locked inside. But his caring gaze, his persistent questions, they break through my defenses. With a shaky breath, I finally let the words spill out. "It's Marx," I admit, my voice barely holding steady.

I see a mix of emotions flash across Fowler's face. Concern, a touch of sadness, and understanding. He waits, giving me the time to gather my thoughts and continue.

I pause, feeling a strange mix of relief and fear as I venture into this confessional territory. The room feels suddenly too small, my skin too tight for my body. I swallow hard, trying to find the right words.

Fowler's grip on my knee steadies, his thumb drawing small circles, a soothing pattern that encourages me to continue. His face is an open book of concern and readiness to understand, to stand by me.

I take a deep breath before speaking. "The other night, after my brother's wedding," I begin, my voice quivering with the weight of the memory. "I went to the kitchen to get some water. Marx was sitting there, in the dark, drinking."

I can feel Fowler's attention, his entire being focused on me, a pillar of support as I navigate through the murky waters of my confession.

"I tried to talk to him, but he didn't say anything. He was quieter than normal. So, I was just going to get my water and head back to my room," I continue, my voice gaining strength as the memories flow, vivid and almost tangible. "He seemed like he wanted to be alone."

I look at Fowler, his face a mask of understanding and concern, urging me to go on, to share my burden with him.

"But when I turned back around, he was behind me. He was so close," I say, the words hanging heavily in the air between us, charged with an array of unsaid feelings and implications. "Next thing I know, he had me on the counter. His hands were all over me, his fingers-," my voice breaks under the weight of the emotions that threaten to overflow.

Fowler's hand tightens slightly on my knee, a silent promise that he's there for me.

I continue, my voice a whisper now, "After he... finished me, I thought we were going to go further. But then he just... left. He walked away without saying anything, leaving me standing there, confused and... and hurt."

Tears start to pool in my eyes, the memory too fresh, the wound too deep. I feel vulnerable, exposed, but at the same time, a strange sense of relief washes over me as I share my secret with Fowler.

He remains silent, absorbing my words.

Finally, he speaks, his voice gentle, yet filled with a depth of understanding that only Fowler could offer. "Emmie, I'm so sorry you're going through this. Tell me what I can do to help. Want me to talk to Marx?"

I shake my head, tears streaming down my face as I lean into him, seeking comfort in his embrace. "No, don't," I whisper. His arms wrap around me, holding me close, offering reassurance in a world suddenly turned upside down.