Until my Last Breath

102

Barcelona, Spain

It's New Year's Eve and the whole house is alive with laughter, music, voices. My mom is clattering dishes in the kitchen, my sister's playing something too loud on the TV, and my cousins are shouting over each other about football. And me? I'm sitting on the sofa with my crutches leaning against the wall, leg propped up, trying to pretend I don't feel the weight of the year crushing my chest.

The rehab is slow, slower than I imagined. I thought I'd be back by now. I thought maybe, if I pushed hard enough, I could've made it to the UAE, just to see her take second place, just to be there when she pulled herself out of that car and looked for me. But no-my body had other plans, my team had other orders. "Don't risk it, Pablo. Rehabilitation first." Easy words to say when it's not your dream bleeding out on a pitch.

But the worst part? She's not here either.

Rita promised me she'd call at midnight, and I know she will. She never breaks her word. Pascale's planned something big-family gathering, fireworks, dinner in Monaco-and Rita couldn't leave her. I'd smiled when she told me, told her I understood. Of course I did. Pascale's family. Pascale's her safe place.
But God, it still stings.

Because I wanted her here. Just once, I wanted to ring in a new year with her hand in mine, her laugh filling the room, her head on my shoulder. Not through a phone screen, not with oceans and obligations between us.

It's been a crazy month. More pain than I thought I could hold. Nights where the silence pressed so hard on my chest I couldn't breathe. Days where the headlines about me nearly broke me. But ever since that night-ever since that kiss-everything has shifted. I have her again. And that alone is more than enough to keep me standing.

We told ourselves we'd take it slow. One step at a time. Heal what broke. But who are we kidding? She's already mine, and I'm hers. Always have been. Always will be. She's back to being the first voice I hear after a game at the stands, after therapy, after a race. She calls me the second she pulls out of the car, like she can't carry the weight of it unless I'm on the other end. And I love it. I love being her first thought, her safe call. Because isn't that what we've always been? Each other's lifeline.

I lean my head back, staring at the ceiling as the clock ticks closer to midnight. My family's voices blur into background noise. All I want is her. Her voice. Her face. Her.

Because the truth is, for all the things I've lost this year... Rita was the one thing I thought I'd never get back. And now that I do, I'm not letting go.

Not ever again.

The clock is crawling toward midnight, and everywhere I look, pairs are finding each other. Eyes locking, hands touching, smiles exchanged in anticipation of the countdown. My family, my cousins, even the neighbors pressed against the windows to watch fireworks-all of them have someone. Everyone but me.

And it eats at me.
Burns in my chest.
Because I should have her right here, pressed against my side, my hand in hers as the new year comes crashing in. But she's not. She's across the sea, and I'm left holding onto the ghost of her voice through a phone screen.

I can't do it.
I can't sit here and pretend.

I mutter something about needing air, grab my crutches, and slip out to the balcony. The night is sharp against my face, the faint sounds of celebration floating up from the streets below-laughter, music, bursts of firecrackers. The whole world feels alive. And me? I feel hollow.

My phone is in my hand before I even realize it. My thumb hovers, then presses her number. My heart races. 11:58. Just enough time. Just enough to hear her voice before the year turns over.