Day 62:

You leave the file with the pictures and the names with his food supply this morning, so he can see it.

He shakes as he lifts up the picture, a wobbly frown deepening on his face.

Your heart wrenches in your chest. "I didn't put them there to hurt you," you say, darting forward. "I just thought you had a- I mean, I thought you'd want to see them."

He looks up at you, then back down at the file, shaking in his hands.

"I know it might make you shift," you say, taking a shuddering breath and sinking down into your usual spot, by his wall. It feels warm, right, like coming home, and you know this is just an excuse, but it almost doesn't matter anymore. "So I'll stay here, with you, just in case."

His eyes don't leave yours, holding the file, and he sits down next to you. You hear your breath shaking in your chest, the glass wall the only separation from you and the monster. It's closer than you've been in days.

Something in your chest aches violently, and you can't move your eyes to look away from the soft curve of his jaw as he reads, the way his face crinkles or even the way his jacket fits around him.

He finishes reading the files, then sets them aside, leaning his head against the wall behind him. "I think you've done enough, Y/N," he says. "Go back upstairs."

You almost don't hear him at first. "What?" you whisper.

"You heard me." He stares straight ahead, towards the door that leads to the rest of the Bubble. "Go back, warden."

"Oh," you say, voice breaking. You push yourself up from the ground with your fingers, and stand up, bracing yourself against the wall.

The words you don't want me here? scream in your head, but of course he doesn't. He never did.

You start towards the door, heart splintering into a thousand pieces. You glance back at him over your shoulder to find him watching you, and for a second, your eyes meet.

You pull away, eyes heavy as though pulling away from molten steel, and walk up the stairs, arms wrapped around yourself as it hurts, it hurts.

Day 68:

You've been dreading today.

Today is the day of the monthly video call with Sheriff Galpin. You slog through your fitness reqs and run through your daily list of chores, the thought pressing at the back of your skull. 

USOAT doesn't give an official list of what to do until Move Out Day, but you're going to live in the Bubble for the entire sixth months. Especially since almost everything in the Bubble is white, you don't want to risk not cleaning.

You vacuum, sweep, clean.

But even that doesn't keep you occupied. Ten minutes before the call starts, you find yourself pacing in your living room, trying to read, bedecked in a fuzzy white sweater.

The TV dings, and you rush over, clutching your father's journal. "Sheriff, hi."

He blinks, as though surprised to see you, then offers you a heavy smile. "Y/N," he says, adjusting the coffee cup on your desk. "How is life on the Bubble?"

You pause, eyes flickering down to the submarine door. The two of you haven't talked since he told you to go. The thought of stepping down there again sends your heart beating into a frantic tailspin.

"Good," you say, pulling away to look back at the webcam, forcing a smile and wrapping your arms around yourself. "It's been good."

The humming of the distant circulation fan fills the room.

"Good," Sheriff Galpin says, nodding to himself. "That's good to hear."

"Yes," you say, then pull yourself up and grab the laptop. "Let's get you down there."

The door creaks as you pull it open, descending the once-familiar stairs into the room. You avoid eye contact with the monster, propping Sheriff Galpin's computer on the conveyor belt and stepping back.

You cross your arms, trying to block their conversation, the monster's familiar voice- like the sound of caramel coffee over ice- weaving through the room, soft and sweet as apple-red forbidden fruit.

"How has everything been with Y/N? Do you have what you need?" the sheriff is asking, his voice somewhat distorted by the tinny sound of the computer speaker.

The time around us seems to freeze, the sound of the blood in your ears reaching a crescendo, and as much as you can't bear to see the answer, you find your eyes tracing along the concrete of the floor, up the glass, and-

And into his eyes.

Those eyes. Green, oceansize, as they meet yours.

You hear the soft hff of your exhale as it hits the chill-filled air that rustles along the hairs of your arms like an ocean-kissed breeze.

The rest of the room peels back until it's the two of you, and when he speaks, the words cascade and twine around your shivering body as though they're meant for you, like no one else is there.

"Y/N," he says, reaching a hand behind his neck. "She's good to me."

Your breath catches in your throat. Your eyes can barely leave his for the rest of the call. The Sheriff says his goodbyes, and you close the laptop, the silence ringing through the cell.

For a moment, all you hear is your breathing. Then:

"Wait," the monster says as you turn towards the door. He digs something out of his coat, holding his hands out so you can see them. He carefully sets the white stack down, not looking away from you, and sends it over on the conveyor belt. He swallows. "I'd like to have these letters sent."

You nod, gathering the stack of papers from the belt. "You understand that I have to read all of them first?"

He looks down, nodding. "Yes."

He pauses, eyes flickering down, then says, "I didn't do it for you. Just in case that wasn't clear."

Your brow furrows. "What-"

You gather up the stack, and the print on one of the letters catches your eye. Declan Urmazd.

"Oh," is all you can manage, then you gather them up and carry the letters and laptop up the stairs.

To the family of Declan Urmazd, the letter reads, when you open it in the mix of candle and daylight by the stairs to the outside. I'm sorry.