Until my last breath

22

3rd of August
          Nice, France

"Here you go, Leclerc, for your little hangover." I hand Charles a coffee as I settle back into the driver's seat. He takes a grateful sip, leaning his head heavily against the window. "Thanks," he breathes, but he looks worse for wear—his hair a mess, his clothes a mismatched jumble, his skin pale, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He's not exactly ready for what we're here to do today.

I shoot him a look as I start the car. "Honestly, why would you drink so much when you knew we'd be up early?"

"Just drive," he grumbles, rubbing his temples. "Your voice is making my headache worse."

I roll my eyes, ignoring his deflection. "Fine. I just hoped you'd be a bit more...presentable. You know how much today means to me—how much it should mean to both of us."

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze finally breaking from the window. "Rita, it means just as much to me. It's just...I won yesterday, and I wasn't about to rot alone on my room..." His voice trails off, and he seems to realize the impact of his words a second too late.

My jaw clenches, and I look away, pressing my lips together to stifle a response. I feel his hand reach out, but I shake my head. "I'm driving, Charles."

He hesitates, then pulls his hand back, respecting my space. I know he didn't mean it the way it sounded, but it doesn't take away the sting. He knows what today is, what it represents, and though I'll let it go, I need a moment to feel hurt.

The rest of the drive is steeped in silence, broken only by the hum of the engine. When we reach the flower shop, I slip out to grab two bouquets—one for him, one for me—and then continue on to the day's real destination. The weight in the car shifts as we draw closer, tension threading itself between us.

When we arrive, I step out immediately, inhaling the salty, sun-drenched air. Charles trails behind me, his gaze distant, flowers clasped in his hands. Side by side, we make our way forward, stopping just shy of the gravestone. He glances at me, his voice quiet. "Do you...want to go first?"

I shake my head, finding my voice only after a beat. "No, I have a lot to say. You go first." With that, I step back, settling on a nearby bench to give him space. He takes a few steps forward, standing solemnly in front of the grave. I watch as he lowers his head, murmuring words too soft to hear. It's a beautiful day—the sun gleams over the horizon, casting the gravestones in a soft, warm glow, while a gentle breeze stirs the trees. Seagulls circle above, and somewhere nearby, I can hear the soft rush of waves crashing against the shore.

After a few minutes, he signals for me, stepping back to give me my turn. I take a deep breath and approach, feeling my heart beat faster with every step. I kneel down, setting the bouquet by the headstone. My fingers drift over the flowers, trailing across the polished stone that's been washed and adorned so many times in the past five years.

In loving memory of Jules Lucien André Bianchi
1989-2017
A loving son, brother, godfather, and friend
'I did what I love till my last breath.'

I trace the words slowly, feeling their weight sink into my heart. "Five years, huh?" I whisper, managing a shaky smile. "Feels strange. I can still hear you...lecturing me about running off when you're in the car." I chuckle softly, but the sound quickly fades as the gravity of the moment settles over me. I fall quiet, fingers fidgeting together as I try to gather my thoughts.

"Mummy's gone, Jules," I whisper, the words slipping out like a confession. "I lost all of you." The raw reality of it twists painfully inside me, an ache I try so hard to keep buried. "And once again...I didn't get to say goodbye."

The truth of that loss sits heavy in my chest, a grief I barely let myself acknowledge. It's easier to pretend it doesn't hurt, to push it aside and stay busy. But here, in front of him, it feels impossible to keep ignoring it. I let the silence stretch, each second loaded with the things I've left unsaid for so long.

"I'm not alone, you know," I continue, voice trembling. "I have people around me who love me, people who'd do anything for me. But it doesn't make me miss you, Mom, or Dad any less. You're all just...gone. Just like that." My gaze falls to the picture in front of the headstone, a faded photo of the four of us. Tears sting my eyes, spilling over as I stare at the only family I had. "It doesn't feel real...that you all left so soon."

I can almost feel his presence, his steady hand on my shoulder, the strength he used to give me when I felt lost. I wipe my tears away, taking a shuddering breath. "If you were here, so much would be easier. I wouldn't feel so..."

Alone.
But I don't let myself say it.

I sniffle, forcing a small smile. "Look what I brought for you." From my pocket, I pull out a miniature version of the trophy I won yesterday, the one that felt like it belonged more to him than me. "I did it, Jules. I almost lost everything yesterday, but I felt you there. I did it for you." I set it down beside the other tokens, trophies I've placed here through the years, each one marking a victory that I wished he could have seen.

My gaze falls on the oldest trophy, the U12 Karting Championship one—the last championship he prepared me for, the one he didn't get to see me win. I remember how hard we worked, how dedicated he was to making sure I was ready, even taking time from his own race weeks to train me. That win had felt like ours, and I had placed it here, just for him.

Attached to the trophy is a letter I wrote all those years ago. I pick it up, smiling at the messy, childish scrawl from a girl who'd just turned eleven. My eyes linger on the date.

3rd of August, 2016

Bonjour J,
I'm writing this sitting by your bed. You've been asleep for so long, but I won the championship, Jules! I won it!
Wake up so I can show you the pictures. I hope you're dreaming of something funny.
Happy Birthday.
Mummy and I blew the candles for you this year.
Je t'aime beaucoup,
– ta Rio.

The letter feels so distant, a relic of a different time, when I'd still had hope that he'd wake up, that he'd be here again. Year after year, I've written him a letter on his birthday, keeping the ritual alive even when I had no hope left.

I reach into my bag, pulling out the letter I wrote last night and tucking it beside the new trophy. "I'm no good at speaking," I murmur, "but somehow I can always find words to write. This one's for you."

I stand, motioning for Charles to join me. "You have it?" I ask.

He nods, pulling a small birthday candle from his pocket and lighting it. Together, we start singing, the soft, shaky notes filling the air. When we finish, he nudges me. "You blow it out."

"No, we do it together," I insist. "Three, two, one..." We blow out the flame, the smoke curling into the warm summer air. I laugh softly, the small act lifting something heavy from my chest.

"Rita..." Charles begins, his voice gentle. "I'm sorry."

I nod, brushing it off, feeling more at peace. "I know Charles its okay." He waits, sensing I need a moment. Then, with a final look at the grave, I turn, feeling lighter than I have in a long time.

"Happy fifth birthday in heaven, my angel," I whisper, then follow Charles back to the car, leaving the memory of Jules surrounded by flowers, love, and a piece of my heart.