Book 18: The Night He Left

Fallon

My wavering, uncontrollable emotions and utter lack of a rational brain are confirmed directly after supper, when I feel the sudden urge to curl into a ball and cry. My moon cycles are incredibly regular–to the day, to the hour. Back home in Moonrise, I could give myself a ten-minute countdown to the grand event. But here? 

I manage to pull myself out of bed and scrub my hand through my hair, glowering at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look exhausted. Run through. The works. I should go to bed. I should raid the kitchen for anything sweet. I shouldn’t be slipping into a nightgown while eyeing the magic journal Zayn keeps on the dresser, which is open, waiting for the moment I finally summon the courage to write to my family. 

Zayn has been the one corresponding with them. I’ve read the letters, of course. Naomi and Zayn