Desire

XXII.

Isabel

Hope.

It used to be this tender thing, a flicker of light at the end of a dark tunnel, something to reach for. Now? Now it feels like a blade, dull but relentless, pressing into my chest. The cruelest of illusions—just enough to keep me breathing, but never enough to heal the ache.

I replay that fight in my head, over and over, like maybe if I sift through it enough times, I'll find a version where we didn't tear each other apart. But no matter how many times I try to rewrite it, the words are there. Sharp. Brutal. Irreversible.

It's funny how hope lingers even when you've shattered everything around it. I didn't want to hurt her. I didn't want to say those things, but the words flew out, too fast, too angry. Now, all I can do is sit in the silence she's left behind, choking on the echoes of everything unsaid. And yet, in the midst of that silence, hope crawls back in, clings to the empty spaces, refuses to let go.

Hope that maybe... there's still time. Maybe she's as lost as I am, wandering through her own storm, waiting for the same light to guide her home. But it's a cruel kind of hope, isn't it? Because it asks for patience when all I feel is desperation, like I'm suspended between heartbreak and the faintest chance of redemption.

It hurts to hope. It claws at my insides, this gnawing ache that won't leave me alone. Because what if she doesn't come back? What if she's already moved on, while I'm still standing here, waiting for something that was never meant to be saved?

And yet I can't let it go. I can't stop hoping. It's the only thing left tethering me to her, to us. Every time I try to push it away, it creeps back in, whispering that maybe... just maybe... she's hurting too. Maybe she's thinking of me, fighting the same battle between pride and longing.

But then there's the fear. The fear that I'm alone in this, that she's fine while I'm drowning. And God, what if that's the truth? What if this hope is just a poison, keeping me from accepting that we're done?

I wish I could walk away from it, from her. I wish I could tear this hope out of me and let it die. But hope is relentless. It won't let me forget the way her voice softened when we weren't fighting, the way she looked at me when no one else was watching. It's in the quiet moments, the ones I can't erase no matter how hard I try.

I hate it for that.

I stumble through the doorway of my apartment, my mind still buzzing from the drinks I've had with Gio. Everything feels off, like I'm wearing someone else's skin, and the familiar weight of my own darkness hangs heavier than ever.

I kick aside a couple of empty bottles of beer, remnants of the nights I've drowned my sorrows in alcohol by myself. It's become a routine—each evening, I bury myself in the chaos of loud music and clinking glasses, surrounded by strangers whose faces blur together. I try to lose myself in the noise, but all I find is the echo of 's last words, the finality of our fight replaying in my head like a broken record.

When I walk into the living room, I'm confronted by the mess I've created. Clothes are strewn across the floor, empty pizza boxes piled high on the counter, and the air is thick with a stale stench. It mirrors the disarray in my chest—nothing feels right. I've always prided myself on being put together, but now? Now, I feel like a shell of my former self.

The bitterness twists inside me, an unyielding knot that tightens with every thought of her. I know I should reach out, apologize, but pride grips me like a vice. It's easier to hide behind my cold exterior, to pretend I don't care. I've been pushing everyone away, building walls so thick that I can barely see the cracks forming, the small spaces where Lea once fit perfectly.