Until my Last Breath

49

The storm rolls over Barcelona like a restless beast, its growls echoing through the city as rain lashes against the windows. The air is thick with electricity, charged with something unseen, something felt deep in my bones.

I sit curled up on the couch, my knees pulled to my chest, the dim light from my phone screen illuminating my face. My fingers hover over his contact, the cursor blinking in the empty message box.

I should text him.

I should at least say something.

But every time I start to type, Pascale's words loop in my head-

I think you both owe it to each other to be honest, even if it doesn't end the way you want it to.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing away the tightness in my chest.

I want to be honest.

But the thought of laying everything out, of making myself so vulnerable, of potentially losing whatever fragile thing we've built-it terrifies me.

So I do nothing.

I lock my phone and toss it onto the coffee table, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. I need to stop thinking about this. I need to stop driving myself insane.

I drag myself to bed, slipping under the covers, but my body refuses to relax. Its almost November and the storm outside is nothing compared to the one inside me-thunder cracking through my thoughts, rain pouring over my doubts.

Minutes stretch into hours.

I turn onto my side. Then onto my stomach. Then onto my back again.

My pillow is too warm. The blankets feel suffocating. The air in my lungs is too heavy.

Just sleep, Rita. Just-

A loud clap of thunder shakes the sky, and something inside me snaps.

I throw off the covers, sit up, and yank a hoodie over my head. I don't think-I just move, my feet carrying me toward the door before my mind can talk me out of it.

The air outside is thick and damp, the wind whipping through the streets with an eerie howl. Rain pelts against my skin, seeping into my hoodie, but I barely feel it.

I don't know where I'm going.

I just know I need to go.

To do something.

To find something.

And so, I walk into the storm, letting it swallow me whole.

The rain doesn't let up. It batters against my windshield, streaking past the streetlights as I drive through the empty streets of Barcelona. My knuckles are white around the steering wheel, my heart pounding against my ribs as I push the accelerator harder than I should.

I don't know what I expect.

I don't know what I want.

But before I can stop myself, I pull up in front of his building.

The storm rages on as I step out of the car, rain soaking through my hoodie in seconds. My breath comes out in shaky clouds as I walk up to the door, lifting a trembling hand to knock.

The sound barely fades before the door swings open.

And my stomach drops.

Amélie stands before me, her blonde hair a tangled mess, her lips swollen, her oversized shirt wrinkled. Her expression flickers with something unreadable, but I don't care.