Until my Last Breath

85

Barcelona, Spain

A loud bang at the front door jolts me from sleep.

My breath catches in my throat, heart thudding like a drum inside my ribs as I blink against the darkness. My body is slow to respond, weighted by exhaustion and something heavier. Grief, maybe.

I sit up, disoriented, swiping at my face. My eyes sting.

Another sharp knock - louder, angrier this time. It rattles the hinges.
I flinch.

What the hell-
I glance around, groping for my phone, only to remember where it is.
Right.
Shattered. On the living room floor. Right next to the glass of wine I never drank.

The knocking grows more impatient - frantic now, like whoever it is won't stop until the door gives in or I do.

Shit.

I push the covers off and scramble to my feet, adrenaline cutting through the drowsy fog in my head. I stumble into the dressing room, hands flying to grab the first thing I find - a crumpled hoodie from the chair. I throw it over my sleep shirt and rush barefoot down the stairs, tugging the zipper up with shaking fingers.

The light from the kitchen spills just far enough for me to see the mess.

There it is.
The untouched wineglass tipped sideways, bleeding deep red into the cream carpet. The sharp glint of my broken phone in the middle of it. The candles burned down to stubs. The plates still on the table - untouched.

I feel the ache behind my eyes again but push it down.

3:23 a.m.
Who the hell-?

The banging continues, heavier now. Desperate.

I don't think. I don't stop.
I yank the front door open, fully ready to scream, fully ready to tear into whoever thinks this is the time to disturb me-

-but my words vanish in my throat the second I see him.

Those hazel eyes.
God.
I know those eyes.
Too well.

"Gavi?" I whisper, like saying his name might shatter the moment. Like I'm seeing a ghost. Like I'm still dreaming.

I stand frozen in place, lips parted, heart climbing so fast it almost chokes me. He's right there. In front of me. At my door. At 3:23 a.m.

I blink once.
Twice.
Still there.

"Oh, fuck no."
It escapes me before I can stop it.

I move to slam the door in his face, rage surging through the fog - but his hand presses flat against it, firm and steady, and the door bounces back open like it knows it doesn't have the strength to shut him out.

"Your time wa-"
"I know," he interrupts, voice low, hurried. "Trust me, I know. But we need to talk, Rita."

"No. YOU need to talk."
The name alone stings.

He flinches.

"Then let me in. Please. Let me explain."

"I don't-"

"Please." His voice breaks. "Let's not do this out here."

I hesitate. My fists clench at my sides, jaw tight. But something in me - maybe the ghost of who I used to be when I loved him without question - turns away, leaving the door wide open.

I walk back inside, not waiting to see if he follows.
But I hear his steps.
I feel them.

I stop near the table and turn around, watching him now - his hands buried in his pockets, those familiar eyes scanning the room.
He sees the broken glass. The red stain. The phone.
He sees the table, still set, plates cold and drying with untouched food.