Black Sheep

by Alexa Harlowe

“I love you, Bria Brooks.” Air flees my lungs. I search every memory, but I don’t find it anywhere. I already know it was never there. No one has ever said that to me before. I shake my head. My eyes sting and burn. “No,” is all I can manage to say. Eli’s smile erupts with a laugh, as though this is endearing and sweet and not monumental and tectonic. “Yes.” “You can’t.” “I can. I do. Sorry, not sorry.” My breath is unsteady. Eli kisses the bridge of my nose and I press my fingertips into the firm muscles of his arms, willing myself to hold on and not tap his shoulders. He doesn’t know me. He thinks he knows enough but he doesn’t. And yet he seems so sure. Is this how it works? Do people really just feel some kind of magic and they put it out into the world and it’s real? I want to ask how. I want to understand the alchemy of it. But I’m afraid. I'm afraid that if I ask, it will vanish, nothing more than a mirage on the horizon.