What Was I Doing?!
What did I just do?
Why am I so foolish? I thought— I thought I could make him like me. Why did I act that way? Why?!
"Seb? You alright?" Torie's voice broke through the darkness, her silhouette framed in the doorway. My room was a cave, the blinds drawn tight, and I was buried beneath layers of blankets, hoping they could shield me from the reality of my actions.
But they couldn't. The weight of what I'd done pressed heavily on my chest.
Maybe it was his concern for me that threw me off balance. In a moment of vulnerability, I mistook his kindness for an invitation. Now, I felt as if I had betrayed Silas. I could almost feel the disgust radiating from Shira; she must have known it was deliberate.
Goddammit. What is wrong with me?
"Seb, hey," Torie's hand rested gently on my shoulder, drawing me from my cocoon. I peeked out, meeting her worried gaze. "You're scaring me. What's wrong? You came back looking like you might throw up." She ran her fingers through my hair, a soothing gesture that only deepened my shame.
I shook my head, forcing a shaky smile. "I just feel sick, that's all… I might not go to school tomorrow, if that's alright…" I mumbled, my throat tight.
How could I face Silas after what I'd done? Not only had he helped me, but I'd tried to seduce him, testing the waters of his compassion. What kind of person does that? Had I truly taken advantage of his kindness?
I am the worst of the worst, aren't I?
"Okay, just rest. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call me, okay? You don't have to pretend," she said softly.
I nodded, sinking back into the blankets, pressing my face into the pillow, wishing I could simply vanish from existence.
That night, sleep evaded me. I lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling until dawn broke. I didn't know it was morning until I heard the chirping of birds and the familiar bustle of my family outside my room.
I strained to catch snippets of their conversation.
"Seb said he's not going to school today; he's sick," Torie said.
I heard my mother hum in response, my father's sigh cutting through the air. "Again? Doesn't he always use that as an excuse to avoid studying?"
I turned away, wishing to block out their words. Maybe it was better not to hear them at all. I wanted to force myself to sleep, but the restlessness surged within me. I felt charged, like a coiled spring ready to snap.
Perhaps this was why I needed to avoid drinking so much blood—the intoxicating allure of claiming everything for myself was overwhelming. What I'd done to Silas was unforgivable, disgusting.
He had trusted me, and I had betrayed that trust.
"Disgusting," I whispered to myself, burying my face under the covers once more. I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth as I felt my nails elongate, digging into my wrist in a futile attempt to distract myself from the self-loathing that consumed me.
I winced from the pain, yet even that couldn't drown out the revulsion I felt.
Then, silence enveloped the house. They had all left.
I stared blankly at the wall, my eyes blinking slowly, lost in the haze of my thoughts.
—
A loud pounding at the front door jolted me awake, pulling me from the depths of a restless slumber. Panic surged through me as I sprang from my bed, nearly losing my balance but somehow managing to float gracefully back onto my feet. I stumbled toward the front door, my mind still hazy and my body sluggish, as if moving through molasses.
When I opened the door, I was met by Silas's familiar face, bright and unassuming.
"..."
"Seb, hey! Why didn't you come to school today?" His grin was wide, as if nothing had transpired between us the day before.
I froze, caught in the gaze of his vibrant eyes. A nervous swallow followed as I searched for words.
"I—I don't feel so good," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. Silas's expression shifted, concern flickering across his features.
"Can I come in?" he asked, and I bit my lip, hesitating before nodding.
I closed the door behind him, feeling the weight of the world shift slightly as he made his way to the couch. I followed, standing awkwardly beside him, unwilling to take the seat next to him. Silas, noticing my reluctance, patted the cushion invitingly.
Reluctantly, I sank down beside him.
"Seb, I understand that what happened yesterday was an accident. I'm not mad at all; in fact, I think it's kind of cool," he said, crossing his arms and shooting me a playful smile.
My lips pressed into a thin line. Cool, huh? Would he still think that if I confessed it was deliberate? The urge to feel his warmth, to experience the comfort of his embrace, had consumed me. How pathetic was I, craving his touch like a lifeline?
The memory of his hug lingered, an intoxicating sweetness that left me yearning for more.
"I'm sorry," I repeated, the words feeling inadequate.
Silas chuckled softly. "There's nothing to apologize for, Seb. You didn't do anything wrong. I think when you charmed me, what I felt was a desire to hug you." He giggled, the sound light and infectious.
"Is that what you feel, Seb?" he asked, his tone teasing but sincere.
I blinked in surprise. "What?"
Silas's smile widened. "People say that vampires can charm others, channeling their desires. Yours was the wish to be held. Do you want a hug?"
Heat flooded my cheeks, and I felt my body tremble slightly. He knew. Oh god, this was mortifying. Was I dreaming?
"Seb?" Silas placed a hand gently on my shoulder, and before I could process it, I found myself leaning into him, wrapping my arms around him. "Is this okay?" I mumbled into his shoulder, feeling his laughter vibrate through me.
"Yeah? Duh! If you wanted a hug, just ask!" Silas replied softly, his voice warm and inviting. I remained quiet, savoring the heat radiating from him.
Blood provided warmth, but nothing compared to the comfort Silas offered. It had been so long since I felt anything close to warmth; I could barely remember what it was like to bask in the sun like a normal person.
"I've missed this," I admitted quietly. "Thank you, Silas… and I'm still sorry."
As I started to lean back, Silas tightened his hold. "Hush, just enjoy the hug," he said, patting the back of my head.
My heart raced as I nestled against him, my eyes drifting to his neck. He was insane to offer his neck to a vampire. Did he not realize the danger?
I sighed, inadvertently breathing against his skin. "Thank you, Silas, but I think this is enough," I murmured, embarrassment creeping in. The emotional turmoil I had felt earlier now seemed trivial, almost childish.
Yet, I was grateful that Silas understood me with such ease. It was a stark contrast to the discouragement I felt around Shira. Her piercing looks and cutting words had a way of draining me, pushing me to the brink of wanting to vanish from existence. Perhaps that was her true power.
A soft chuckle escaped my lips at the thought, drawing a curious glance from Silas. "I'm glad you're okay now. But you're scaring me a bit with that sudden laughter," he said, raising an eyebrow.
I rolled my eyes, exhaling a huffed breath. "I'm fine, I guess. Thank you. I haven't had a good hug in a while."
I wasn't the type to ask for affection, but with Silas, I found myself craving it, an insatiable hunger for something I'd long denied myself.
"Hey, they call me the professional hugger," Silas boasted, giving my shoulder a playful pat. I couldn't help but smile.
"I'm so glad you're back, man. You looked terrifying earlier," he said, his tone light.
Terrifying?
—
When I was a child, I rarely wanted for anything—not because I had everything, but because I was the kind of child who didn't know how to want. Or perhaps, I was simply content to let others decide what I should want. People were always handing me their version of happiness, their idea of what might make me smile. And, more often than not, I accepted it without question.
I was easy to please. Hand me a piece of candy, and I'd light up as though I'd been given the world. It didn't even matter if it was one of those awful, chalky candies that left a strange aftertaste. I'd still cradle it in my small hands, grateful and delighted. That was me: simple, uncomplaining, and eager to make do with whatever was offered.
But there was one thing I truly wanted. I still remember the first time I saw it—a toy, shaped like a dog, nestled among a cluttered shelf of toys in a small shop we passed on a quiet afternoon. Its fur was a soft, buttery yellow, and when I reached out to touch it, it felt like a cloud had been woven into fabric. I remember staring at it for what felt like forever, mesmerized by its little beady eyes. They were the most brilliant golden yellow I had ever seen—so bright that when sunlight hit them, they seemed to glow.
I wanted it. For the first time, I felt that longing pull inside me, so unfamiliar and strange. I picked it up and carried it to my mother, holding it out with both hands, as if it were the most precious thing I'd ever touched. "Can we get it?" I asked softly, unsure of how to ask for something I truly wanted. And to my surprise, she smiled and said yes.
I named it "Sunflower." It just made sense. Its color reminded me of the sun, warm and radiant, and the way it seemed to come alive in the light felt almost magical. For weeks, Sunflower was my constant companion. I took it everywhere with me—tucked under my arm when I went to bed, perched beside me at the table during meals, even squeezed between my hands when I felt nervous or shy. I loved that toy with the kind of innocent, wholehearted devotion only a child can muster.
But then, one day, Sunflower was gone.
I was seven years old when it happened. My family had taken a trip to London in December to visit relatives. It was the first time I'd ever been somewhere so far from home, and everything about it felt like an adventure. I brought Sunflower with me, of course—I couldn't bear to leave it behind.
The days in London were a blur of excitement. I met other children—cousins, maybe, or the children of family friends; I can't quite remember now. We played together in the snow, our laughter echoing through the cold, crisp air. My sister and I built snowmen and had snowball fights, our cheeks red and noses numb from the chill. It was the kind of joy that swallows you whole, leaving no room for anything else.
Somewhere in the midst of all that happiness, I forgot about Sunflower.
I don't know exactly when or how it happened. Maybe I set it down on a windowsill while we sipped hot chocolate to warm our frozen hands. Maybe I left it behind on the sofa where we'd been watching cartoons, or dropped it in the snow while we ran through the garden. All I know is that when it was time to leave London, Sunflower wasn't with me.
I searched for it, of course. I looked under beds and behind cushions, retraced my steps as best as a seven-year-old could. But it was gone.
For a long time, I cried. I couldn't understand how something so precious to me could just disappear. My mother tried to comfort me, saying we'd find another toy, maybe even a better one. But I didn't want another toy. I wanted Sunflower.
Even now, I can still picture it so clearly—the way its fur caught the light, the way its golden eyes seemed to hold some quiet, secret life. I wonder where it is now. Is it sitting forgotten in a dusty corner of that house in London? Or did someone else find it and take it home, giving it a new life?
My memories of that trip are hazy, blurred by time and the fog of childhood. I can barely remember the names or faces of the children I played with. But there is one boy I do remember—his face stands out in the haze, bright and happy, with eyes almost the same golden color as Sunflower's.
I wonder about him sometimes, too.