That was the problem with obsession, really. He wanted her. She wanted him. They just never seemed to quite make their emotions sync up for very long. Passion was a pendulum and it swung both ways. One encounter and they were burning for each other, the next and she was cold, distant and her contempt for him bordered on loathing.
Still, she was so beautiful it made his soul ache to be with her.
He closed his eyes and listened to her breathe. The steady inhalation and exhalation, the rhythm of her slumber and the sighs of her dreams.
He should go.
"No." The voice was only in his head. He knew that. He'd spent years hunting for the source of that voice, talking to his reflection, seeking the advice of experts who gave a dozen explanations that all rang false before he finally accepted that it was a voice only meant for him.
The trouble was deciding if the voice was his friend or his enemy or merely a wisp of imagination that refused to go away.
His hands ached as they often did when the voice talked to him.
A dozen feet away she lay in perfect repose, the sum of his desires.
Somewhere in his head the voice said he should reach not for her, but for the blade he knew she kept under the pillow. One swift move and the blade could be his.
And then he could decide for himself whether or not she was as important as he believed she was, or if the voice was right and he would be better off without her.
One swift move. He could leave. He could stay and they could speak and try to mend everything between them, or the voice could have its way.
All he had to do was open his eyes and decide.