Until my Last Breath

101

Barcelona, Spain

It's only been a few days since the hospital, but the weight of it all hasn't left me. Barcelona feels strange, familiar but hollow. I keep telling myself I should book a flight back, that there's nothing left for me here. And yet I don't move. I can't.

My phone buzzes against the nightstand. I almost ignore it until I see her name - Aurora. My chest tightens.

-Rita, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't bad. He's not okay. He won't eat, he won't talk. He doesn't let anyone in. But when you were there, even just standing, I saw something in him I haven't seen since... since before. Please. Can you come?

I stare at the screen, fingers hovering, my throat closing in. I shouldn't. I shouldn't step back into this world where everything breaks me apart. But Aurora's words loop in my head - he's not okay.

And I know exactly what that means, because I've been there too.

Before I can think, I'm already grabbing my jacket, slipping on sneakers. My heart hammers as the driver takes me through streets I used to know like the back of my hand.

When the car stops, I hesitate. What if he doesn't want me here? What if seeing me only hurts him more? But my feet betray me, carrying me up to the door.

Aurora opens before I can knock twice, her face drawn but soft with relief. "Thank you," she whispers, then steps aside.

The house is quiet, far too quiet. No laughter, no music, no movement. Just silence. And then I see him, slouched on the couch, his leg stretched awkwardly with the brace, eyes blankly on the TV that isn't even on. He looks like a shadow of himself.

The moment his eyes find mine, it's like the whole world jerks awake. He blinks once, twice, as if afraid I'll vanish if he looks too long. And then-suddenly, desperately-he tries to stand.

I freeze, watching as he grips the armrest, pushing himself up with a guttural sound of effort. His body betrays him instantly. The brace locks, his leg buckles, and he stumbles forward, gasping through clenched teeth.

"Pablo-" His name rips from my throat before I even realize it, and then I'm moving, faster than I thought possible. My arms shoot out, catching him just before he collapses.

He's heavy, his body trembling against mine, breath ragged and uneven. For a moment, I feel the weight of him-his exhaustion, his pain, all of it pressing into me like he's trying to bury himself in the only thing keeping him upright.

"Sit, sit down," I murmur, my voice breaking as I guide him back onto the couch. His hand fists in the sleeve of my jacket, refusing to let go, like if he does I'll slip right through his fingers again.

When he finally lands back onto the cushions, I crouch down in front of him, my hands gripping his forearms to steady him. His chest heaves, sweat beads at his temple, but his eyes-God, his eyes-are burning straight through me.

"You're here," he whispers, hoarse, like the words cost him everything.

And for a second, I forget how to breathe. Because there's no accusation in his voice, no anger. Just raw relief.

I want to tell him I shouldn't be. That I swore to myself I wouldn't get dragged back into this. But instead, my thumb brushes across the back of his hand, steadying him as much as it steadies me.

"I'm here," I manage softly, though my voice cracks under the weight of it.

The silence swells again, thick and trembling with all the words we haven't said.
His hand is still gripping mine, his knuckles white. His eyes dart all over my face, searching, desperate, as if he's trying to memorize every detail in case I disappear again.