Until my Last Breath

84

Barcelona, Spain

I should be angry.
I should be storming around the apartment, smashing plates or tearing down framed photos of us or throwing his stupid Barcelona jersey into the fireplace.

But instead, I'm brushing mascara over my lashes.
Making sure the bruise beneath my right eye is perfectly concealed - even if it still stings when I blink. It's from training, from a flying piece of carbon in the pitlane that collided with my face in Hungary. Still, I won't let him see it. Not tonight. Not when I've worked so hard to look... fine.

I wear the black dress.

His favorite one.
The one with the delicate lace sleeves that hug my shoulders, cut just short enough to make my legs look longer. I never wear black on nights like this, but something about tonight made me reach for it anyway. Maybe because it feels final. Maybe because it makes me feel stronger than I am.

My hair falls in soft waves down my back - not a single curl out of place. My hands shake just a little when I apply perfume behind my ears. The scent he always used to bury his nose into when he hugged me from behind. I stare at my reflection for longer than I should.

"Come on," I whisper to myself. "You've survived worse."

But somehow, this feels like the worst.
Because no crash, no article, no sexist paddock whisper ever made me feel this worthless.

And yet... I still want to see him.

Even after all of this.

Even after the messages that went unanswered, the concert he missed, the call he never made to say I'm sorry I hurt you. Even after the silence and the distance and the damn tight knot in my chest every time I scroll and see he's online - just not with me.

Still.
I want to see him.

I want to see the look on his face when he sees me again.
I want him to look at me like he used to - like he used to feel me before he touched me. Like he meant every single word he whispered between kisses.

I want that boy back, even if just for a night.

So I set the table.

Two plates. Two glasses. A folded napkin over each. The candles flicker gently between us, casting a gold warmth across the table I barely recognize anymore. I'd spent the last hour in the kitchen, doing something I rarely do: cooking.

Pasta.

Because it's the only thing I can make without burning the house down - and because it's his favorite. Tagliatelle, with fresh tomatoes and basil and the exact brand of olive oil his mother once swore by. My chef helped me prep it, just to be sure it turned out okay.

I went all out, even though he never texted back.
He read the message. I saw it.
And somehow - I believed he would show up.

I don't know why.

Maybe because I've known his heartbeat against my own. Maybe because I've memorized every single way he says I love you. Maybe because I gave him every part of me and naively thought he'd never walk away from it.

Maybe because I've been working on his gift for months. Months.

Something I poured my heart into. Something sentimental, something almost too intimate - something I was so proud of I couldn't wait to see the look on his face when he unwrapped it.

It's tucked safely behind my chair now, hidden in soft wrapping paper with twine. Waiting.

Like me.

I pour the wine. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off what I might have to say tonight. What I might have to admit.