Following the novel's sequence, Mansh turned to Ankhush with a practiced calm, though his heart thudded relentlessly in his chest.
"Do you want something to drink? Or food?" The words felt hollow, spoken out of habit rather than desire, yet they carried with them the smallest sliver of hope. It was how the book had instructed him to say it, and Mansh had come to rely on that. The book had always been right, hadn't it? It had promised that this would work, that this would be the turning point--the moment when everything could finally change.
Ankhush, sprawled across the bed with his eyes distant, made no immediate move. He looked like he hadn't heard a thing, his body slumped in exhaustion or maybe something deeper. His expression was vacant, hollow--a portrait of someone drifting far from the room they were in. The silence stretched between them, unbroken, filling the space in ways that Mansh couldn't describe. The absence of any response was heavy, pressing down on Mansh's chest like the weight of an anchor, something that could keep him locked in place forever.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, Ankhush's voice emerged. It was quiet, almost like he was speaking to the air around him more than to Mansh. "Do you have anything sweet?"
Mansh's breath hitched at the question. His fingers twitched around the edge of the plate in his hands, the cool porcelain pressing against his palm. Sweet. Ankhush had said sweet. He hadn't asked for anything complicated, hadn't asked for something extravagant. It was simple, really. But that simplicity, those few words, felt like a fragile thread in a storm. Mansh could almost feel the weight of the request settle on him--sweetness was a memory, something that once held meaning but had since been buried in the quiet chaos of their lives. And yet, Mansh nodded quickly, almost without thinking, the hope that had been dimming inside him now flickering into something almost alive.
Without a word, he turned away, his heart beating faster now, pounding in his throat. He needed to get it right. The cake. The chocolate bar. He moved quickly, almost too quickly, his feet carrying him down the stairs in a rush of movement. Each step echoed in his mind like a drum, louder and faster. It has to be right. The book had said this was the moment when everything would fall into place--the moment when Ankhush would remember. But how could he make it work? The weight of the task pressed on him like the world itself, making his hands feel clumsy, unsure.
In the kitchen, the cool, sterile air wrapped around him. He moved mechanically, opening cabinets, pulling out the slice of cake that had been wrapped in foil so carefully. The chocolate bar, too, dark and rich--the kind Ankhush used to crave, the kind they both used to share on quiet evenings. Mansh placed them side by side on the plate, taking his time, ensuring each was placed just so. The cake, soft and creamy, the frosting swirled in perfect, decadent spirals. The chocolate bar, still wrapped, a promise of sweetness to come. He lingered over the arrangement, a fleeting thought about the way everything had once been--how small things like this had meant so much.
And then, once it was perfect--or as perfect as it could be--he stood back and stared at it. His chest was tight, his breath too shallow as the silence in the house pressed in on him. He had to wait. He had no choice but to wait.
He moved to the base of the stairs, holding the plate between his hands like an offering, the weight of it grounding him, yet somehow, adding to the pressure. The air in the house felt still, suffocatingly so. He could hear the soft sound of his own breath, ragged in his chest, every exhale slower, tighter, as if his lungs couldn't get enough of the air. The novel had promised this moment. It would happen.
The scream. The realization. The jolt of recognition.
But nothing came.
The silence between them stretched thicker. He waited, his legs rooted to the floor, and his gaze fixed upward toward the stairs. His heart was so loud in his ears, it was a wonder Ankhush couldn't hear it, too. This is it, he told himself. It's supposed to happen now. But instead, he stood still at the bottom of the stairs, barely able to move, barely able to breathe, because this was the moment where it would either shatter or fade into nothingness.
His fingers trembled around the plate, the chill of the ceramic too sharp against his skin, reminding him of the weight in his chest. Every minute stretched into infinity. He could almost taste the bitterness of it--the way he'd wanted this moment for so long, only to have it stall, teetering on the edge of something he couldn't quite reach.
The silence remained. Thick. Suffocating.
Mansh took a step forward, his foot lifting, the soft groan of the old staircase beneath him the only sound in the room. The first step creaked, the sharp noise like a small betrayal, and Mansh flinched, his eyes darting nervously toward the hallway. He paused for a fraction of a second, then pressed forward. His movements were slower now, more deliberate. Each step felt heavier. More uncertain. The air around him grew thicker, pressing down on him as he moved, tightening his chest. The book had told him it would work. The book had promised it. But now?
Now he didn't know what to think.
He reached the top of the stairs, and the hallway stretched before him, narrow, cramped. The bedroom door stood slightly ajar, a wedge of light spilling out into the dim corridor, and for a second, he wondered if he was really ready to face it. To see it. To see the nothingness that had been growing between them for so long. But he forced his hand to push the door open with his foot, a small, soft creak as it gave way.
The bedroom was as still as it had been when he first entered, with Ankhush lying on the bed exactly the same. The same vacant stillness in his eyes, the same desolation written across his face.
No scream. No shift. No realization.
Just silence.
It was worse than it had ever been before. Mansh stood there, frozen, watching the gentle spin of the pen between Ankhush's fingers. Not just any pen--his pen. The one he'd kept on the shelf for so long, untouched, just the way it was meant to be. The heavy brass cap, the fine craftsmanship. He had never used it, not once, always keeping it perfectly aligned on the edge of the shelf. It had been a gift, something to remind him of the order he used to crave before everything fell apart.
And now… now it spun carelessly between Ankhush's fingers. No attention. No meaning. No care. Mansh felt his chest tighten even further, the sharp edge of panic beginning to creep in. The world seemed to shrink around him. His breath caught, and a pulse of anger, sharp and foreign, shot through him.
His legs moved forward before his mind had a chance to catch up. He didn't know why, but his feet carried him across the room, towards the bed. Each step felt like it was dragging him through wet cement. Slowly. Reluctantly.
He set the plate down. The ceramic knocked softly against the blanket, a dull sound that seemed to pierce the air between them. The cake shifted slightly, and the edge of the chocolate bar grazed against the frosting, leaving a small indent.
Mansh's eyes never left the pen, the object that seemed to be spinning out of his control, out of everything he had worked for. With a sudden, sharp motion, he reached forward and took it from Ankhush's hand, his fingers closing around it with a tremble.
There was no resistance. No fight. Ankhush's fingers simply released the pen, as though it had never mattered, as though it had always been a forgotten thing. Mansh's breath came out in a rush, the air leaving his chest like a balloon losing air.
He didn't speak. There were no words. There was nothing to say.
His hands were shaking as he turned, making the short journey to the shelf, where he placed the pen back in its exact spot. He adjusted it once. Twice. And then again. The fine-tuned alignment, the subtle shift of it all--he couldn't help but make sure it was just as it had been before.
For a long moment, he stared at it.
It looked right. The world looked right. The pen was exactly where it should have been.
But nothing inside him was right.
Something was wrong. And he couldn't fix it.
The knot in his chest tightened, pressing so hard he thought he might crack. There was an ache, a deep, hollow ache in his chest, a gnawing sense of betrayal--something that went beyond just the pen or the cake. Beyond the silence between them.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to shake Ankhush awake, to make him feel. He wanted to break the glass barrier that separated them, the invisible wall that had been growing higher every day. He wanted to wake him, to bring him back.
But the novel had promised that today was a good day. A fragile, delicate day.
Mansh closed his eyes for a long second, steadying his breath. The air in the room felt thick, too heavy. His hands still trembled as he turned away and walked back to the small wooden table. He placed the plate down gently, making sure it settled correctly, just as he always did.
The legs of the table creaked beneath him. The uneven floorboard caught the plate, tipping it slightly, but he didn't correct it.
***
A/N: what it is not like the novel.
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