Together/Not

8 ⌛️The Last Time

As the night deepens, we settle into the hotel room, silence thick in the air. The soft lights fight against the sounds of the TV and Carlos's fingers tapping on his phone.

I 'm about to work in an hour and hope to find rest before duty calls. I glance at Carlos and ask if we can turn off some lights. He nods, but the silence feels heavy, as if I've disrupted something unspoken.

Minutes pass, and I notice Carlos isn't watching TV; absorbed in his phone. I hesitate, then gather the courage to suggest turning off the TV. He sighs, frustrated, shuts it off with a forceful click, slips on his shoes, and storms out without a word.

I'm left speechless.

Here we go again.

It feels like everything I do only fuels his frustration.
All I want is a moment of peace, but it stings to see how little he considers my feelings.
My hands shake, and tears threaten to spill.

Alone again.

Guilt washes over me for wanting to turn off the lights and the TV. I feel small and foolish, as if my needs are an inconvenience. Doubts creep in, gnawing at my self-worth. I think back on our time together, a tapestry woven with tears as I chase after him, adjusting to his moods, trying not to be a burden.

I can't sit with this silence, with so little time left together. My heart aches at the idea of parting ways without closure—I've always believed in ending on a good note, no matter what.

So I go looking for him, my heart pounding as I search the hotel. I find him in the lobby, his face tense, eyebrows drawn together. But beneath the frustration, I see something else—something closer to sadness.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, a desperate plea. "Can't we just figure it out?"
The silence stretches between us, and for a moment, I'm unsure if he'll respond.
"Go back and rest," he says softly, but there's weariness in his voice.
"Only if you come with me," I reply, holding his gaze.
"Mimia," he sighs, unsure what to do with me. But I can hear it—the care is still there, beneath the layers of frustration and silence. I feel it, even if he can't say it outright.

Why is it always so hard to mend things between us?

Why does it take so much to break through to him, every single time?

I wait, hoping. I see the tension in his face slowly unwind. I stay close, silently urging him to just let this go, to come back to me.

Finally, he nods. He stands, and without a word, we walk back to the room together. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Relief washes over me as the door closes behind us.

We slowly mend things, our bodies close, wrapped in warmth. In his arms, I feel like I belong. We start with small talk, reflecting on our trip. He mentions how much he enjoyed it, sounding sincere. After weeks with him, I've learned to read his eyes—they don't lie, and he's not one to sugarcoat. His honesty is startling at times.

I understand now why he walks away when he's angry. He's trying not to say anything he'll regret—no cruel words spoken in the heat of the moment. I don't know how I feel about that, though. It's like he's protecting me, but also shutting me out.

He admits he could've traveled alone, but that it would've been boring.

He was happy to be with me.

I want to believe him, but part of me doubts his words. His sincerity doesn't match his actions, or maybe we just think differently. Cultural differences, perhaps. I'm not sure. When he asks how I feel, I hesitate. I try to brush it off casually.