The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

by V.E. Schwab

Estele used to call these the restless days, when the warmer-blooded gods began to stir, and the cold ones began to settle. When dreamers were most prone to bad ideas, and wanderers were likely to get lost.

But it is a lonely thing, to be forgotten. To remember when no one else does.

She is simply moving forward, because she cannot bear the idea of standing still. So Addie walks.

Henry is fourteen the first time he steals a swig of his father’s liquor, just to turn the volume down. He is sixteen when he swipes two pills from his mother’s cabinet, just to dull the ache. He is twenty when he gets so high that he thinks he can see the cracks along his skin, the places where he’s falling apart. His heart has a draft. It lets in light. It lets in storms. It lets in everything.

“I’m fine,” he says again. And they both know him well enough to know it is a lie. They know about his broken heart. They’ve both coaxed him through his storms. They are the best people in his life, the ones who hold him together, or at least, who keep him from falling apart. But right now, there are too many cracks. Right now, there is a chasm between their words and his ears, their hands and his skin. They are right there, but they feel so far away.

Addie pulls him away from the edge. “What’s wrong?” His eyes are dark, and for a moment, he looks haunted, lost. “Nothing,” he says softly. “Just thinking.” Addie has lived long enough to recognize a lie. Lying is its own language, like the language of seasons, or gestures, or the shade of Luc’s eyes. So she knows that Henry is lying to her now. Or at least, he’s not telling her the truth. And maybe it is just one of his storms, she thinks. Maybe it is the summer heat. It is not, of course, and later, she will know the truth, and she will wish she’d asked, wish she’d pressed, wish she’d known.

Addie lets out an audible gasp, sinking to her knees, runs her hands over the dead and splintered wood. No. No, not this. She has lost so much, and mourned it all before, but for the first time in years, she is struck with a loss so sharp it steals her breath, her strength, her will. Grief, deep as a well, opens inside her. What is the point in planting seeds? Why tend them? Why help them grow? Everything crumbles in the end. Everything dies.

It is just a storm, he tells himself, but he is tired of looking for shelter. It is just a storm, but there is always another waiting in its wake. It is just a storm, just a storm—but tonight it is too much, and he is not enough, and so he crosses the roof, doesn’t slow until he can see over the side, doesn’t stop until the tips of his shoes graze empty air. And that is where the stranger finds him. That is where the darkness makes an offer. Not for a lifetime—for a single year. It will be easy to look back and wonder how he could have done it, how he could have given away so much for so little. But in the moment, shoes already skimming night, the simple truth is that he would have sold his soul for less, would have traded an entire life of this for just a day—an hour, a minute, a moment—of peace. Just to numb the pain inside his chest. Just to quiet the storm inside his head. He is so tired of hurting, so tired of being hurt. And that is why, when the stranger holds out his hand, and offers to pull Henry back from the edge, there is no hesitation. He simply says yes.

“Is it such a bad thing…” His mouth trails along her jaw. “… to be savored?” His breath brushes her ear. “To be relished?”

All she knows is that she is tired, and he is the place she wants to rest.

“You see only flaws and faults, weaknesses to be exploited. But humans are messy, Luc. That is the wonder of them. They live and love and make mistakes, and they feel so much. And maybe—maybe I am no longer one of them.”

“Want?” he sneers. “Want is for children. If this were want, I would be rid of you by now. I would have forgotten you centuries ago,” he says, a bitter loathing in his voice. “This is need. And need is painful but patient. Do you hear me, Adeline? I need you. As you need me. I love you, as you love me.”

He simply holds her tight, and says, “Enough,” says, “Promise me,” says, “Stay.” And none of them are questions, but she knows he is asking, pleading with her to let it go, to stop fighting, stop trying to change their fates, and just be with him until the end. And Addie cannot bear the thought of giving up, of giving in, of going down without a fight. But Henry is breaking, and it is her fault, and so, in the end, she agrees.