Until my Last Breath

83

Paris, France

I've been awake since sunrise.

It's not nerves - not really. It's more like... hope. A fragile, flickering thing I keep cradling in both hands, terrified that if I breathe too hard, it'll go out.

I haven't looked forward to something this much in a long time. Not since... before everything fell apart.

I'm finally in Paris.

My suitcase is already open on the hotel bed, clothes strewn around in deliberate chaos as I shuffle through possible outfits. I've changed three times. I don't even know why I care so much - it's just a concert. It's not like the world is watching. But he will be. Gavi.

Gavi will be there.

My phone buzzes in my hand as I finish getting dressed.

- Hey I just made it to Paris. I think I'll have a bite then get ready. Please let me know when you land.

I hit send.

The message looks simple. Normal. But it isn't. Not to me. It's full of everything I'm too afraid to say - I want to see you, I miss you, please let tonight feel like it used to.

Ever since that call a week ago, things have... improved. Slightly. He responds to my texts now. Not with the same energy, not with the same teasing emojis or voice notes that used to make me laugh out loud in public. But it's something. He's trying - or at least pretending to. And I'm doing what I always do: holding on. Smiling through it. Choosing to believe in us.

Because this was supposed to be special.

We planned this months ago - two birthdays, one concert. A night where we could just be. Listen to the band that felt like us - Coldplay, our Coldplay.

I stand in front of the hotel mirror now, brushing a few loose strands of hair behind my ear. My heart beats a little faster. My makeup is soft but done. My outfit - his favorite color on me.

He hasn't replied yet.

I try not to let it get to me. I check the time again. Noon. He said he'd eat then get ready. Maybe he's just out of signal. Maybe he's busy.

But the silence creeps in like it always does - slow and unwelcome.

So I type again.

-It's noon where are you? why aren't you responding to my texts?

Sent.

I stare at the message a moment too long, then throw my phone on the bed and walk away. I grab my jacket. I can't sit still. I can't do the overthinking thing. Not today. I owe myself at least that much.

I check my reflection one last time, lips pressed into a brave smile. I grab the small clutch bag that matches my boots and pick up my phone.

Still no reply.

Fine.

I take a deep breath and type the last message.

-Okay guess I'll see you there.
B23 is your seat incase you forgot.
I'm on my way there. Can't wait!

Sent.

I leave the room.

My heels click softly against the hotel lobby floor as I step into the Parisian dusk - skies tinted gold and lilac, the perfect kind of light that makes everything feel just a bit more magical.

And I tell myself - over and over, like a prayer - He'll be there.
He'll smile when he sees me.
He'll remember why we came here in the first place.
He'll fight for us the way I keep fighting.