She was standing in front of the bookcase, reaching for a book, and then the pain hit her out of nowhere, knocking her to her knees. One hand braced her, her fingers splayed on the hardwood floor, and the other clutched at her heart, trying desperately to ease the tightening of the string tied around it. She pulled at it, but that only seemed to make it cut deeper into the beating flesh.
The air passed through her lips in small, unsteady breaths. She closed her eyes and begged: "Please. Please. Make it stop."
And then she tipped herself forward, setting her forehead on the floor, one hand still held to her heart.
At the same moment, across the country, he was washing his face in the bathroom sink, half-dressed for bed, tired after a long day. He had just grabbed a towel when suddenly he doubled over. He steadied himself against the edge of the bathtub, momentarily disoriented. The pain wasn't in his head, as it usually was, instead in his heart. And that's when he felt the old pull.
He forgot about it most days, but just because it wasn't always on his mind didn't mean it wasn't still there. He wrapped his fingers around the string, trying to draw it out of his heart, where it was anchored.
But it was no use. He had tried a hundred times before and it was no use.
"I can't," he whispered, closing his eyes. "You know I can't."
"Cut it," she begged, her lips barely moving through the pain.
She had eased herself all the way down on the floor, laying on her right side, both hands at her chest. She cradled the pain like a child, holding it gently, seeing his face in the blood that dripped through her fingers.
"It hurts too much."
But she knew. She had tried, herself, to cut the string a thousand times before. Nothing worked -- nothing would break it or snap it -- not knives or scissors. They had even traveled part way around the world, sometimes in opposite directions, but even the distance wouldn't snap the string the joined them.
"I can't," he whispered again, pulling himself up from the tub and leaning against the sink. He tilted his head back, forcing his eyes open to stare at the ceiling. "And even if I could...I wouldn't."
Her right hand balled into a fist and she hit the floor with it, a single blow, like a hammer falling. A shiver seemed to run up the bones in her arm, but it barely distracted her from the other pain.
"I know," she said, loosening her grip on both heart and string.
Once free, the organ beat erratically a few times before resuming a steady rhythm, the pain somehow growing fainter though she swore her heart was swelling back to its normal size, the string gradually giving way to it.
"I miss you."
He put a hand up to the side of the mirror, reaching out toward his own reflection as if he was somehow reaching out to her.
"I miss you, too."
"I wish it didn't always have to be like this," she said.
She was able to stand then, pulling herself up slowly, holding on to the shelves. She couldn't even remember what book she had been looking for. It didn't seem to matter anymore. She tugged idly at the string, as if to test it, to be sure the pain had truly passed. The string went taut in her hands and then slack again, her heartbeat steady all the while.
She let out a long sigh, her shoulders, which had hunched themselves involuntarily, slumping forward in relief.
For a moment, the string vibrated in her hand as she held it. It pulsed, not in rhythm with her own heartbeat, but with his. She could feel his body heat in the room. She could almost smell him, freshly showered.
And in the silence she heard his voice, close to her ear, a whisper.
"Good night."
She brought the string to her lips and said, "Good night" back, knowing he would hear it across the miles. In her head she said I still love you and she hoped he heard that, too.
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