Layla

by Colleen Hoover

Their expressions make it look like they’re dying inside.” She wipes water from her eyes with both hands. “That’s what you looked like up there tonight. Like you were dying inside.”

“Does the song mean something to you?” “I wrote it using pieces of my soul.” “Then you have nothing to worry about,” she says quietly.

“We met two months ago and we haven’t even come up for air yet. Surely you’re sick of me crowding your space by now.” She has no idea how not sick of her I am.

“You used to hate my sandwiches.” She shrugs. “People change,” she says between bites. “You also used to be a loving boyfriend who didn’t hold me hostage, but look at you now.”

Sometimes I feel like her memory loss is worse than she admits. I’ve thought about testing her—maybe bringing up something that never happened just to see if she’d pretend to remember it. That’s conniving, though. I already feel enough guilt as it is.

Willow and I have grown comfortable with one another . . . to the point that I’m starting to prefer her company over Layla’s. I’m not proud of that. Layla means so much to me, but I’m fascinated—obsessed, even—with the idea that this life isn’t the only one that matters.

We’re communicating through a girl we have no right to be using like we have been.

If she leaves, I won’t get to see Willow again.

what an absolute motherfuckr

“Captive is a strong term,” I interject. The man turns his attention to me. “What other term would you suggest?” I try to think of an alternative, but I can’t. He’s right. We’re holding Layla here against her will, and there’s no soft way to describe that.

I run my palms down my face, flooded with guilt for what this has done to Layla’s mental stability. I knew this was affecting her, but now that I’ve put myself in her shoes, I feel even worse.

Not to mention, I still have her tied up like she means nothing to me. I can’t believe I’ve been letting Willow do this to Layla.

“I would have known if Layla wasn’t Layla.” “You did know,” the man says adamantly. “It’s why you started falling out of love with Layla after her surgery. Because she wasn’t the Layla you fell in love with when you met her.”

But if he’s right, and Willow is Layla, that means . . . I shake my head. It would mean Layla is dead.

It would mean it’s Layla who has been stuck in this house alone.

I turn and look at Willow. “What’s the deadliest time of day?” “Eleven in the morning,” Willow says instantly. I stiffen at that answer.

She leans forward and grips her forehead. “Leeds. All these memories of you and Layla meeting here. The kiss in the pool, the song you played for her . . . is that me? Are these my memories?”

I no longer feel like I’m falling out of love with Layla, because I’ve been falling in love with her this whole time in Willow. Layla is Willow, and now that I’m looking at her, I have no idea how I didn’t see it before tonight.

“Her body is exhausted,” Layla says. “It’s not her body. It’s yours.”

I don’t want her to let Sable take over again, but it’s inevitable. It’s the only way her body can recuperate.