Who Is Micah Liu?

Micah stared at the plastic bags Damian had placed on the bedside table and whatever appetite he might have had before waned with their very presence. He wanted to feel relieved, comforted by his boyfriend's familiar presence, but all he felt was a low, creeping unease. 

Damian sat in the chair beside the bed, leaning forward slightly as if studying him. His usually soft and warm blue eyes were attentive, scrutinizing the scars on Micah's face and arms. 

"Don't worry," Damian said finally, sounding oddly determined. "I'll call a few people. My dad knows some of the best doctors. They'll get you fixed up in no time." 

Micah blinked, the word catching him like a hook to the chest. Fixed?

"Fixed?" he repeated quietly, his tone barely above a whisper. 

Damian frowned, straightening in his chair like he just understood how that sounded and was switching to defense mode. "I didn't mean it like that, babe. I just thought… you wouldn't want the scars to be visible. Not after…" He hesitated, then continued carefully. "Not after what your dad did. I figured you'd want them gone." 

Micah's stomach twisted. The reminder of his father—the scars on his back, the years of cruelty—made his skin crawl. But this wasn't the same. He didn't need to be "fixed." He wasn't broken. 

Micah's mind flashed to Callum, to the way the man had looked at him just hours ago, his gaze soft and steady despite the mess Micah had become. To the moment in his office where Callum had just come off the edge of a panic attack and Micah had showed him his scars. 'You're beautiful through and through,' Callum had said and the words were a balm to the raw wounds Damian's comment had just opened. 

Micah forced a shaky breath, his voice trembling as he spoke. "Damian… do you think I'm broken?" 

"What?" Damian's eyes widened, his voice rising with surprise. "No, of course not. I didn't mean it like that." He reached out and his fingers gently brushed against Micah's arm. "I just… I want you to feel like yourself again." 

Micah pulled his arm away, his chest tightening. "I am myself, Damian. Scars and all." 

The room fell silent, the tension thick and heavy. Damian looked taken aback, his lips parted as if searching for the right thing to say. But before he could, Micah spoke again, his voice quieter now. 

"When did you know?" he asked. 

Damian tilted his head. "Know what?" 

"Who I was," Micah clarified, his gaze locking onto Damian's. "Before this life. Before all of this." 

Damian's jaw tightened, his expression unreadable. "I didn't know at first," he admitted. "But when I figured it out… when I realized you were him… I saw it as fate." 

Micah's stomach dropped. "Fate?" 

Damian nodded, leaning forward again. "Don't you see? Callum had you in the past, and he failed you. But I won't. I won't let you down like he did." 

The words hit Micah like a slap. He recoiled slightly, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "So what, I'm just some… prize between the two of you?" he asked, his voice rising. "Something you get to 'win' this time?" 

"No, that's not—" Damian began, but Micah cut him off. 

"Do I even have a choice in any of this?" he demanded. "Do I even get to decide who I am, or is that already written too?" 

"Micah," Damian said firmly, his voice low and tense. "You're being delusional. I love you. For you. Not for who you were or who Callum thinks you are. For you." 

Micah shook his head, his chest tight with frustration. "You say that, but I can't help but wonder if you don't see me, Damian." 

The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. They'd known. They'd known this wasn't his only life and no one had thought to tell him. Sure, he could understand that both Damian and Callum would fear that he wouldn't believe them and he could understand that reincarnation being real was an absurd concept, but he couldn't help but feel bitter about it. Like they thought him so close minded that, instead of being fully honest with him, they tiptoed around him and played with his emotions. Damian more so than Callum. Because Damian was his boyfriend and Callum wasn't.

Damian's expression darkened, his eyes flashing with that dark, possessive look that often overtook him like a mad spirit. "And you don't see how Callum is a screw-up. How he always was. He failed you before, and he's going to fail you again. He's—" 

"Stop," Micah snapped, his voice breaking. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "I can't do this right now. I can't…" He trailed off, his head swimming. 

"Listen to me, Micah," Damian pressed on. "You died because he was too dense to see the danger coming. I tried to warn him, I tried to save us all—"

Micah cut him off. "But you're the reason Aeryndale fell."

"My father was," Damian corrected, anger blazing in his blue eyes. "Callum, Caelan, would have you believe that all his problems are my fault but he's just bitter that I was right." He scoffed. "And now he's pissed I got to you before he even remembered who he was. I didn't walk into that workshop the day we met expecting to find you but I did. How could it be anything but destiny."

Micah pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his hands around his legs like he could fit himself into a peg that fit. He was so confused, so disoriented. Destiny? Fate? How much of him was Micah Liu and how much of him was Ashur the Stablehand? 

"I don't think we should see each other anymore."

Those were not the next words Micah was expecting to come out of his mouth, they shocked him even more than they shocked Damian who looked like a fish out of water with his pink lips shaped in a perfect, surprised 'O'. But Micah couldn't take the words back. It was the only thing that made sense in the complete chaos his life had become.

Damian leaned back in his chair, his mouth shutting and gaze hardening. "What are you saying?" 

"I'm saying we need a break," Micah said quietly, his voice trembling. 

Damian's fists clenched, his jaw tightening. "This is about Callum, isn't it?" 

"No," Micah said firmly. "It's about me. I feel like… like my life isn't even mine anymore. Like I haven't been able to think clearly since all of this started." 

Damian didn't respond, but his silence was deafening. 

Micah swallowed hard, trying to placate him before the tension boiled over. "I have two weeks before the game jam deadline," he said softly. "I'm already late, but… I want to finish it. I need to focus on something that feels mine. And after that, we'll talk." 

Damian's jaw tightened, but he nodded stiffly. "Fine," he said, his voice low and clipped. "Two weeks. But don't think for a second that this is over." 

Micah flinched at the sharpness of his tone but didn't say anything. He just watched as Damian stood, gathering the bags he'd brought with him. Damian's movements were quick and deliberate, his anger simmering just below the surface. 

"Take care of yourself, Micah," Damian said, his voice laced with tension as he turned toward the door. He hesitated for a moment, his hand on the handle, before looking back over his shoulder. His blue eyes, usually filled with charm or affection, were cold now. "I'll be waiting." 

With that, Damian walked out, leaving the room heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. 

Micah sat in silence, staring at the closed door. His chest felt tight, his thoughts racing in a whirlwind of confusion and doubt. He wanted to cry, but he was too exhausted—too drained from everything that had happened. 

Instead, he let himself collapse back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Two weeks, he thought. Two weeks to figure out who I am, what I want, and what the hell I'm supposed to do with all of this. 

His hand drifted to his chest, where he felt the faint thrum of his heartbeat. He thought about Damian's words, about Callum, about Ashur and Caelan. About destiny. About fate. 

"I just want to be me," he whispered to the empty room. But even as he said it, he wasn't sure he knew who that was anymore.