To Be Continued...

SEVENTY ONE

The flight to India was long, but it gave me plenty of time to think—maybe too much time. I kept replaying our last conversation over and over in my mind, his short, cold responses echoing in my head like a broken record. It wasn't his fault, I told myself. He was going through something, something that I couldn't fix, no matter how much I wanted to. But that didn't stop the gnawing ache in my chest.

I'd planned to work on the book during the flight, but now the words felt stuck, unwilling to come. It was supposed to be a love story, our love story—raw, real, and unfinished, just like us. But lately, I'd been questioning if there even was an "us" left to write about. I thought about dedicating the novel to him, gifting it to him on his next birthday, hoping that maybe it would remind him of the connection we once had. But deep down, I feared that by then, it might be too late.

I sighed and closed the notebook, setting it aside. I didn't have the strength to write right now. Instead, I stared out the window again, the vast expanse of clouds beneath me reminding me of the distance between Nicolas and me. I didn't know how to bridge that gap, how to make things right again.

The days leading up to the trip had been strange. I'd gone shopping with my mother, trying to pretend like I cared about the wedding we were attending, but my mind was always elsewhere. I sent pictures to Nicolas of every dress I tried on, hoping for a spark of interest, a glimpse of the old him. But all I got were flat, obligatory responses.

I knew he was struggling. I knew he had been through something traumatic, but it was hard not to feel like I was losing him in the process. And yet, I couldn't bring myself to ask him what was really going on. Every time I tried, the words would catch in my throat. What if I was pressuring him? What if pushing him only made things worse?

I tucked my phone away and rested my head against the window. My heart felt heavy, weighed down by all the things I wasn't saying and all the things he wasn't telling me. I closed my eyes, hoping that sleep would take me away from my thoughts, at least for a little while.

When I woke up, the plane was preparing to land. India. Maybe this trip would be a chance to reset, to clear my mind, and to figure out where things stood between Nicolas and me. But even as I thought that, a part of me knew the truth: distance wasn't our problem. It was everything that lay unspoken between us, the silences that grew longer with each passing day.

As we got off the plane and made our way through the airport, I felt a strange mix of emotions—relief at being in a new place, but also the familiar weight of sadness. I checked my phone again, hoping for some kind of message from Nicolas, but there was nothing.

We arrived at the hotel, and I barely unpacked before flopping onto the bed, exhausted. My mother was talking about the wedding and how I needed to get up early the next day to help with preparations. I nodded, pretending to listen, but my mind was elsewhere. I pulled my phone out and typed a message to Nicolas.

"Just landed in India. It's really hot here, haha. How are you?"

I hesitated before pressing send, wondering if he'd even reply. Lately, it felt like I was sending messages into a void. But I hit send anyway, hoping that this time, things might be different.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. Still no reply.

I closed my eyes and let out a shaky breath, my chest tightening with a familiar sense of dread. I couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how much I tried, I was losing him. And the worst part was, I didn't know how to stop it.