COMPLICATED.

CHAPTER 45

THE WEIGHT OF THE VOID

The days slipped away one after another, at least for the others. For me, they were like infinite beads strung on an invisible wire of tension. Two weeks. Fourteen days spent playing the part of the shaken but recovering girl, an actress who donned a mask of normalcy every morning before even lacing up her shoes. Fourteen days without calls. Fourteen days of apparent normality. But I knew better.
My refuge had become the room I shared partly with Amanda, almost every evening. With her, the relationship had shifted in an unexpected way; we were closer. Initially, it felt almost forced because she was Aria’s friend, but after that night, her confession came: between hot tea, classic movies, popcorn, and endless study sessions, she looked at me with a vulnerability that pierced me. She told me about her past, the bullying she endured, how she never had real friends, and how much she wanted to make up for lost time doing "normal girl things." I never had true friendships either; everyone sought me out for fame, favors, or simply because I was the girlfriend of the most popular guy in high school. We discovered common interests beyond music: books that smell of old paper, and painting. Spending hours staining our hands with acrylic paint was the only time the hum of Emerald’s voice seemed to fade.
We were in agreement, she and I. I still remember that whisper in a quick flashback from that first night, as she helped me pull off my wet sweater:

"Don’t tell anyone, Amanda. Not Nick, not Aria. Please. I couldn’t stand to see the pity in their eyes."
She had nodded, squeezing my hand: "It stays between us, Em. It’ll be our secret. You’ll tell me everything when you’re ready."

That day will never come. I also remember the moments I snuck into the bathroom—one pill a day, after another. Never a missed day, and the effects inside me took hold without showing on the outside. Fortunately.
Instead, with Aria and Adam, the act continued, and it was effective. Aria had returned from her review lessons burdened with guilt, convinced my malaise was only due to the excesses of the party. Adam, for his part, tried to lighten the mood in every way, taking us to improvised dinners in the dorms or small private student parties, all strictly monitored by campus security. I smiled, I ate, I pretended to laugh at Adam’s jokes, while inside I felt the weight of the secret dragging me to the bottom.
And more pills, still.
With Nick, however, everything was harder.
He was my spotlight, but every time I tried to be near him, I pulled back for fear of burning him, burning myself, burning us. In public, I tried to be the "usual" Emma: the girl who looked at him with admiration, who brushed his arm. But as soon as we were alone, as soon as the atmosphere grew thick with that intimacy that was once my oxygen, I would invent an excuse and run away. A sudden headache, an assignment to finish, exhaustion. I saw the bewilderment in his eyes, the pain of someone who feels rejected without understanding the fault, and every time, a piece of my heart died.
The fact that I hadn't stepped past the Academy gates, except for quick runs to the minimarket for snacks or the bookstore to retrieve sheet music, seemed to reassure him. I saw his shoulders relax when we crossed paths in the hallway. But I was never truly alone. I felt those "extra eyes" on me: Nick’s invisible guards. They blended in among us, dressed like normal students in hoodies and jeans, but I recognized them. I knew every step of mine was monitored—and not just by them.
That protection, which should have made me feel safe, was actually my prison. How would I accomplish what Emerald told me? How could I protect him if I was constantly under escort? Every look from them was an obstacle; every step Nick took toward me was a reminder of the betrayal I would eventually have to commit. I was an infiltrator, a spy who loved her victim, surrounded by an army protecting me from the outside world while the true danger was me, right there, in the beating heart of the Colds, of Nick.
Fourteen days passed like this, in a precarious balance of lies and suffocating affection.
Now we are sitting in the Great Hall for the Classical Music History lecture. The air is saturated with the smell of old wood. The professor is talking about the Romantic period, the suffering of misunderstood geniuses, and his voice arrives muffled while outside the rain, back with a vengeance, taps against the high arched windows. Always rain, for fourteen days. I desperately searched for the summer sun, but the weather mirrored what I was going through inside. I shake my head, looking out the window.
Beside me, Amanda is taking notes with almost religious fervor, occasionally doodling in the corners of her notebook.
Aria, a few rows ahead, sighs at every word from the professor, closing her eyes whenever she gets the chance, while next to her, Adam alternates between endless texts with someone and rejecting various Tinder matches every minute. I feel Nick’s gaze on me; he is sitting a few rows back, and even without turning, I perceive the warmth of his steady stare on the back of my neck, constant like a lighthouse in the fog.
The low hum of chatter fills the hall, mixing with the ticking of the rain that shows no sign of stopping. Around me, the atmosphere is strangely light, a bubble of normalcy that almost makes me forget the weight of the phone in my pocket.
Amanda leans toward me, bent over her notebook. "Look at this sketch, Em," she whispers, showing me a pencil drawing of a stylized ballerina that seems to merge with the notes of a staff. "It reminds me of how I felt before coming here. Out of place, but with a rhythm all my own."
I smile at her, a smile that costs me less effort than usual. In those fourteen days, Amanda had become my anchor. "It’s beautiful, Amanda. She looks like she has incredible strength in her legs!" I reply, and for an instant, it feels like I’m truly just a student admiring a friend's talent. We talk about an exhibition to be set up downtown, about oil colors and how difficult it is to render the transparency of water on canvas. We look like two ordinary girls, without problems.
A few rows back, I hear Nick’s sudden laugh. I turn slightly, using the excuse of fixing my hair, and I see him. He is surrounded by three composition course mates he has bonded with over the last few weeks: Julian, Calvin, and Toby. They look like four gentle giants, relaxed, discussing frequencies, harmonies, and video games animatedly. Nick is at the center, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a light blue shirt that I now associate with his scent of home. As he listens to Calvin gesturing frantically, his eyes wander the room, finding mine. He doesn't stop talking, but the corner of his mouth lifts in an imperceptible nod—a secret shared between us over everyone else's heads. And I was betraying him, to protect him, but I was betraying him.
Then, silence fell like a heavy curtain.
Professor Starling coughs. He is the very image of an old-school academic: in his late seventies, with a perfectly shiny bald head reflecting the chandelier lights and a prominent belly dangerously straining the buttons of his burgundy velvet vest. He walks with a slight wheeze, adjusting thick glasses on his bulbous nose.
"Well, well... quiet now, ladies and gentlemen. Silence." he croaks, his voice raspy from decades of explanations and, likely, too many cigars. He places a stack of yellowed sheet music on the piano stand that towers at the center of the stage, along with other instruments.
"Today we won't limit ourselves to theory. We have analyzed the emotional structure of Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 for hours. Now I want to hear it. I want someone to show me how technique transforms into agony."
The professor looks around, his small eyes scanning the room. "Who volunteers? Who has the courage to face this task without making it look like a gymnastics exercise?"
No one moves. The silence is awkward, broken only by the rustle of a few pages turned nervously. Aria hides behind her backpack; Adam begins to stare with sudden interest at the tips of his shoes. Even in Nick’s group, no one speaks. We all knew Starling was merciless in his judgments.
The professor scrolls through the register with agonizing slowness, tapping his index finger on his prominent belly, while the silence in the room becomes so thick it could be cut with a scalpel. I keep my eyes fixed on my notebook, feeling my heart rate accelerate for no reason.
"No volunteers? How mediocre," the old professor grunts, adjusting the glasses that constantly slip down his shiny nose. "Fine then. Let’s see if the talent I’ve heard so much about lives up to the fame. Nicholas Cold, step forward."
I hear a sharp movement behind me. Nick stands up with his usual authoritative calm, that innate confidence that makes him seem more like a man than a student. I watch him walk down the side staircase; Julian and Calvin give him a pat on the shoulder, but he is already elsewhere, already immersed in the music. Passing my desk, his knuckles lightly brush the wood of my table—a contact so quick it’s invisible to anyone else, but for me, it’s like an electric shock.
Starling steps aside, his vest swaying. "Now then, Mr. Cold. Chopin said the piano shouldn't be struck, but caressed. Let’s see if your hands know how to be gentle or if it’s just brute force."
Nick doesn't answer. He sits on the stool, adjusting it with a couple of sharp clicks. His long legs almost struggle to find space under the keyboard. He takes a moment, a long instant in which he stares at the keys with a fierce intensity. His profile is tense, his jaw clenched.
He begins.
The first notes of the Nocturne slide into the air like drops of rain, light. But it isn't the textbook execution Starling expects. Nick isn't just playing; he’s speaking. Every embellishment, every trill feels like a question suspended in the air. I watch him, rapt: his shoulders are slightly hunched, his copper-colored hair falls over his forehead partially covering his eyes, and his fingers... those long, strong fingers move with a grace that takes my breath away.
"More legato in that passage, Cold! Don't break the phrasing!" Starling barks from the side of the stage, but Nick doesn't even seem to hear him. He continues, undeterred.
As the melody rises in intensity, Nick lifts his gaze. He doesn't look at the sheet music. He looks at me.
Across the empty space of the hall, his eyes seek mine and chain themselves to them.
In that moment, the music becomes a private dialogue. Every low note is a reproach for my distance over the last few days; every major chord is a plea, a silent cry saying: Come back to me. Tell me what is happening to you. I feel tears stinging behind my eyelids. It’s too much.
Nick doesn't break eye contact. As his fingers fly over the final keys, performing that last part that sounds like a whispered goodbye, his gaze drags me under. There is a promise in those storm-colored eyes, a request for forgiveness for a fault he didn't commit, and I feel like a monster. The last notes vibrate in the air, slowly fading into the absolute silence of the hall until the spell breaks.
Applause explodes. It’s a roar. The other students stand up, whistle, clap with an enthusiasm that shakes the walls. Professor Starling, however, remains motionless, hands crossed over his belly, limiting himself to an almost imperceptible nod. With a sharp gesture of his hand, he demands silence, making jokes about football stadiums and partially dampening the class's clamor.
"An... acceptable execution, Mr. Cold. Less technique and more heart, as requested, even if the dynamics in the finale were far too personal," he says flatly, but the way he avoids looking at him betrays a recognition he doesn't want to admit out loud.
I find myself clapping, almost by inertia. My hands move on their own, but as the noise around me increases, my pulse slows. The sound of my clapping reaches me muffled; my thoughts return to that room, to that voice ordering me to destroy him. My applause grows weak until my hands fall to my sides, inert.
"That was incredible, wasn't it?" Aria whispers, turning to me with eyes shiny with admiration. "It gave me chills. How do you not faint every time he looks at you like that?"
"Yeah, he has monstrous talent," Amanda adds, scrutinizing my profile. "But you look like you’ve seen a ghost, Em. Are you okay?"
"Yes, it’s just... the music was very intense," I lie, my voice coming out as a whisper. "I’m just a bit dazed."
Nick stands, thanking them with his natural, composed grace. A group of girls from the front row intercepts him immediately, surrounding him like bees to honey. One of them, a blonde I've seen hovering around him lately, rests a hand on his shoulder, sliding it with excessive confidence until she brushes his neck—right where I used to caress him not long ago. Another whispers something in his ear, giggling and touching his arm.
A pang of visceral jealousy bites my stomach. It’s a sudden burn, a "possessive" instinct that makes me want to stand up and drive them all away, to scream. But a second later, shame submerges me. With what courage am I jealous? I am betraying him. I am about to become his worst enemy. That jealousy is a luxury I can no longer afford; it’s a poison that mixes with guilt, creating an unbearable cocktail.
Adam, sitting a few spots ahead, turns and catches my fixed gaze on the scene. He gives me a quick wave, a gesture to tell me not to think about it. "It’s all fake, Hamilton," he mutters with a half-smile. "He doesn't even see they're there. He only looks at you, we all know it."
I dissemble. I force a half-smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "I know, Adam. It’s not that. It’s just... I need air."
I stand up, feeling the floor sway under my feet. I approach the lectern with uncertain steps and ask Starling for permission to go to the bathroom in a very low voice. He gives me a dismissive nod without stopping his organizing of other sheet music. I begin to weave through the crowd of standing students still cheering for Nick. I am a shadow moving against the current. Just as I am about to cross the threshold, Nick lifts his head above the group of girls.
Our eyes meet for the umpteenth time. He stops smiling. He tries to take a step toward me but is blocked by another compliment. I stay frozen for a second, hand on the door handle, struggling to breathe. That lobby, that light, his proximity... it all suffocates me. I run
.
The hallway toward the bathroom is an infinite tunnel of marble and silences. I hear the echo of my footsteps running faster than me. I reach the bathroom, push the door open, and lunge for the sink. I turn the cold water on full blast, letting the noise drown out my stifled sobs. I grip the edges of the frozen ceramic, looking at my reflection: I have dark circles, ghostly skin, the eyes of a stranger.
"Breathe, Emma. Breathe," I command myself, but my lungs feel like they're made of lead. The image of Emerald staring at me overlaps with that of Nick at the piano. Betrayal is a bitter taste I can't spit out.
With fingers trembling uncontrollably, I reach into the small pocket of my backpack. I pull out the usual anonymous bottle. I pour one into my palm—the latest one. I swallow it without water, feeling the chemical aftertaste scratch my throat.
I stay there, hands immersed in the running water, waiting for the world to stop spinning. After a few minutes, I feel that artificial warmth expand from my chest to my whole body. My heartbeat slows, the room's contours turn sharp again. The anxiety doesn't disappear, but it is pushed under a veil of apathy. The drug is working.
I take a few moments to reconstruct the image of the girl I am supposed to be. My hair, which this morning I had decided to leave loose and straight in a desperate attempt at normalcy, is full of knots, disheveled by the rain and the way I pressed my hands to my head. With my fingers, I try to untangle them, feeling the cold strands slide between my nails until they fall straight over my shoulders again, composed, as if nothing had happened.
I approach the mirror, scanning the damage from the crying. The mascara is slightly smudged under my left eye; with the tip of my finger, I clean it with precision, erasing every trace of my daily emotional breakdown. I pinch my cheeks hard—once, twice, three times—until the paleness gives way to an artificial flush. My lips, at least, have remained soft: the lip gloss I put on hours ago held up, giving them a shiny reflection that hides how much they are trembling.
I fix my burgundy and white striped shirt, pulling down the hem so it falls perfectly over my tight black pants. I check every detail: I am tidy, clean, apparently serene. Yes, the drug is working. Now I am ready again. Ready to go out, ready to pretend.
I leave the bathroom with a step that feels like it barely touches the floor, an induced lightness that allows me to keep my head high. I walk down the hallway, crossing the gaze of a few students talking about other classes. I feel as if I am protected by a glass bubble: I see everything, but nothing truly touches me. Reality around me appears vivid but distant, like a blurry film.
I sit on one of the marble benches in a corridor adjacent to the Great Hall, the cold of the stone penetrating through my pants, and slide my phone from my pocket. My fingers move mechanically over the screen. There are the usual notifications. The usual messages from my father, punctual, loaded with a normalcy that now appears grotesque to me.
"Hi sweetheart, how’s everything today? Your mother says you haven't sent photos of the new sheet music. I hope your studies are going well. We are all so proud of you here."
I sigh, and my lungs seem to whistle in that silence. I begin to type, the words flowing fast, one lie after another woven with great care.
"Everything is great, Dad. The music history lessons are fascinating; today we analyzed Chopin. The professor is very strict but I’m learning so much. I miss you, but this place is a dream."
As I type, I feel a pang of nausea that even the drug can't entirely extinguish. It’s the weight of the double life.
While I reread my father's messages, my memory goes back to the short phone call I had yesterday with Paul. His voice, so full of that vitality I lack and that now seems foreign to me, still rings in my ears like an echo.
He talked a mile a minute, leaving me almost no room to respond, all excited about his progress in sports. He told me how he scored the winning goal in the last soccer game, about the speed he feels in his legs, and that sense of omnipotence that only a child his age can feel, I think.
"Emmy, you should see me, I’m a lightning bolt!" he told me, and I struggled to smile, imagining his carefree run while I, here, feel stuck, trapped in a web of blackmail.
Then, with his usual cocky tone, he complained about how much studying bores him to death. For him, books are just obstacles between one training session and the next, useless dust compared to the adrenaline rush of the field—basically the opposite of my mother and maybe even my father. He teased me, calling me "the usual music nerd," unaware that his boredom is a luxury I can no longer afford. Or perhaps one I never allowed myself.
Hearing Paul talk about his normal life—full of tired muscles, Latin translations, and poorly digested math problems—interwoven with my father's words about small problems solvable with the press, digs a deeper furrow inside me. They are there, safe in their honesty, convinced the world is a place where hard work and loyalty are rewarded. Paul is running toward numerous finish lines; I am running toward a cliff.
Then, scrolling down the message history, I reread the latest news they sent from home. They tell me how useful they feel, how honored they are to collaborate with Elisa and the Cold Enterprise to fix the economic and image disaster that hit the London office after the recent scandals.
I read how my parents are working hard to "help their friends," convinced they are doing the right thing, protecting the company that supports Nick’s future. And here, the lump in my throat becomes unbearable. I feel a sour taste in my mouth, the taste of betrayal.
My father believes he is serving the good, while I, his daughter, have become part of what is about to devour that very structure. Emerald is using me as a pawn to dismantle the very thing my family is trying to protect. Every word of my father's respect toward the Colds is a nail driven into my conscience. I feel like a parasite, and I am part of this poison.
My state of mind is indescribable: in part, there is the flat calm of the pill, but underneath, there is a massive tangle of fear and self-loathing. I look at my hands and wonder how I will go against the boy who has part of my heart for a woman who hates me, who hates us. The contrast between my father's blind dedication and my mission is a silent torture consuming my nerves.
I put the phone away with a sharp gesture, as if it burned. I must return to the Great Hall. I must look Nick in the eye and make him believe I am still "his Emma."
The corridor toward the Hall is a tunnel of silence broken only by the steady ticking of my steps and some wall clocks. No one is there, yet I feel the weight of a thousand eyes on me. Suddenly, a shadow darts from the side. A strong arm wraps around my waist, dragging me with a firm but controlled force into a small side study room.
I gasp, but Nick’s scent—that mix of sandalwood, sweetness, and rain—invades my nostrils before I can even scream. The door closes with an almost imperceptible click. The room is enveloped in thick twilight, illuminated only by the pale, grayish light filtering from the high windows; outside, the London sky makes everything ghostly.
Nick pushes me against the wall, next to the doorframe. He doesn't hurt me, but his body is a wall of heat crushing me, annulling every inch of space between us. His hands snap to the sides of my head, pressed against the wood, imprisoning me in his invisible circle.
"Nick... what are you doing?" I murmur, my breath hitching. I try to deflect, to act cool, but the proximity is too much. His chest, wrapped in the shirt that now looks almost blue in the dark, rises and falls against mine.
He doesn't answer immediately. He bows his head, burying his face in the crook of my neck. I feel his warm breath on my bare skin, a violent contrast to the chill I had on me moments ago.
"I gave you space..." his voice is a low, vibrating growl that shakes me to my bones. "I watched you run to the bathroom, and away from me all these days. I waited. I thought after what happened with Starling and the meeting story you needed air... but that’s enough."
He lifts his gaze. His eyes, in that crepuscular light, are two wells of magnetic shadow. One of his hands leaves the wall to slide up my side, lingering on the fabric of my striped shirt, until it grips my jaw with warm, possessive fingers.
"What’s going on, piccola?" he asks, and the way that nickname slides from his lips makes the ground fall away from under my feet. Like every time.
"You seem here, but it’s as if you’re elsewhere. I left you your time because I thought the pressure from my mother and the foundation was weighing on you... I thought I was doing you a favor by staying a step back."
His thumb caresses my lower lip, pressing lightly until it parts. It is a gesture of devastating intimacy. "Instead, I have the feeling you’re slipping through my fingers."
I try to hold his gaze while the drug fights to keep my heart rate down, which is now hammering crazily.
"Nick, I’m not slipping anywhere," I whisper, trying to regain control while his leg insinuates itself between mine, forcing me to cling even closer to him. "I’m just tired. And you... you’re very direct today, don’t you think?"
Nick chuckles, a raspy sound that vibrates in my chest. He leans in closer, his lips brushing mine without truly touching, a deliberate torture that takes my breath away.
"It’s not a matter of being direct..." he whispers, and I feel his hand slide slowly down my back, pressing firmly to cancel out any remaining distance. "It’s that I can’t stand seeing you so distant when you’re an inch away from me."
I remain silent, tossed about by this courageous, almost overbearing stance of his. Nick has always been protective, at times mysterious, but he had never gone so far as to claim my attention with this physical intensity, with this confidence that makes me feel small and vulnerable in his arms. I feel the ground giving way: on one side is the cold calculation of the mission; on the other is this blinding heat emanating from his body, his rumpled shirt under my fingers which, without me realizing it, have gripped the fabric at his chest.
The dark light of the room makes his features harder, more mature. The way he towers over me, blocking me between the wall and his tensed muscles, short-circuits my brain. The drug tries to stabilize me, but physical contact with him is something no chemistry can extinguish.
"Nick..." I can barely pronounce his name. My fingers grip his shirt tighter. I feel the beat of his heart under my palm, as rapid and powerful as my own.
He slides his other hand into my hair, pulling it slightly back to force me to look him straight in the eyes.
To hell with it all.
I cancel the last millimeter of distance, burying my fingers in his hair and pulling him to me with a hunger I didn't know I possessed. Our lips and tongues clash amidst kisses and sighs that taste of overdue touches and smothered secrets. Nick emits a low, guttural moan and lifts me up, making me stumble toward an old dark wood desk leaning against the opposite wall.
The room around us seems to vibrate: it’s a secondary music room, full of stacked music stands and an old upright piano covered by a dusty cloth that absorbs our sighs. The smell of old wood and paper mixes with the scent of his skin. He has me sit on the edge of the desk, wedging me again between his body and the wall, while his hands move up my legs covered by my pants. In this moment, I feel like the protagonist of one of those books I used to read in secret, where the heroine is swept away by a man who finally stops just being polite to take what he wants. Except here there is no printed paper, but the warmth of his skin and the hoarse sound of his breath merging with mine.
I try to stop him, a flash of lucidity crossing my spine. "Someone might come in, the lesson..." but the words die in a broken breath.
He pins my hands above my head, pressing them against the wall. His gaze is pure challenge. "Today I’m speaking, Emma. Today I decide," he whispers with a confidence that annihilates me. I feel tossed by this courageous stance of his, a side of him he had never shown me until recently and that makes me completely helpless.
"I missed you. I missed this. I missed you, even when you were in the same room as me. Your mouth, your skin..."
His mouth descends to my neck, leaving a trail of warm, voracious kisses that make me arch my back. I feel the buttons of his shirt pressing against me as he goes even lower, nipping at the delicate skin above the hem of my striped shirt. While his mouth works, his fingers reach the button of my pants. I hear the metallic click and then the rustle of the zip sliding down slowly. I feel like I’m not breathing.
I can't help but look down: his shirt is now open, revealing his sculpted chest and those defined abs that contract with every accelerated breath. It is a vision that takes my breath away, a physical perfection that makes everything even more unreal, just like the detailed description of the "brooding and handsome" lead in a romance novel. His fair skin evokes it, making him look like a Greek god.
Between one sigh and another, I try to mask my bewilderment with a provocation, a desperate defense: "So... are you telling me the great Nicholas Cold was really just waiting for the right person to lose control?"
Nick freezes for an instant. He pulls away from my chest and looks at me, a brazen smile lighting up his face in the darkness of the room. Without saying a word, he kneels slowly before me, between my open legs. I look down at him, my heart threatening to explode at any moment. His hands slide along my thighs, then begin to move up, giving me small, long, chaste but electric kisses through the fabric of the pants, moving up inch by inch until he moves the fabric aside to find direct contact with my skin.
He stops and lifts his gaze to me. Kneeling, with his hair disheveled and eyes shining with a light of their own, he murmurs: "Well... I think I found her. Don’t you think I’m proving it?"
His lips return to seek me with a longing that leaves no room for doubt, finally letting the pants and everything else I was wearing fall to the floor.
I gasp as his strong fingers then close on my hips, anchoring me to the edge of the desk with possessive pressure. When his mouth finally finds the center of my intimacy, I feel an electric shock shoot up my spine, making me arch my back with a jolt.
The pleasure isn't a gradual sensation; it’s a fire that blazes in an instant.
Never felt, never experienced before—not like this.
I feel a blinding heat starting from the core of my being and radiating toward every extremity. My head falls back, my hair lashing the dark wood of the wall, while my breath turns into a succession of broken moans.
Inexplicable.
"Nick... Nick... Nick..."
His name is the only word that leaves my lips, like an invocation, a desperate mantra I repeat through gritted teeth. It’s no longer a book’s fiction; it’s a reality that shatters me to the core. I can't believe it.
I feel the tension mounting in a crescendo, the muscles of my thighs tensing against his marble shoulders, until the world disappears. I am swept away by a sensation never felt before, so violent and absolute that it robs me of breath and reason. It is an explosion of light, while my body is shaken by electric spasms. I keep murmuring his name against his skin, as if only by pronouncing it could I remain anchored to the earth. In that moment of total ecstasy, what awaits me or what will happen no longer exists. Only this indissoluble bond exists.
The wave subsides and leaves me, leaving me trembling and empty.
Nick stands up slowly, with a satisfied look. We look into each other's eyes and, almost in unison, burst into low laughter—pure relief and complicity that melts part of the accumulated tension.
"You read my mind, didn't you?" I murmur with a thread of a voice, as he caresses my face with a tenderness that takes my breath away.
He smiles, that lopsided smile of his that lights up his gaze. "I think for both of us words had become superfluous," he replies, and in his eyes, I see the reflection of my own surprise. And I see my reaction, as if I were looking in a mirror.
We begin to dress with slow, almost reluctant movements. I adjust my shirt, feeling the rough fabric against my sensitive skin, while he tucks in his shirt better. As he fumbles with the buttons, he shoots me an amused glance.
"I just hope no one heard us, or that the walls of this old wing are as thick as they say. Otherwise, tomorrow we’ll be the talk of the whole Academy." he asks and exclaims, joking. He checks the wall behind me as if to confirm his words.
"Why, aren't we already?" I retort immediately with a hint of ironic defiance.
He bursts into a small laugh, nodding amusedly while giving me a mischievous wink. As he finishes fixing his pants, I can't help but notice a more visible bulge in the folds of the fabric. I realize in that moment it was as intense for him as it was for me, and as much as a part of me wants to stay there staring, struck by that moment, that desire, I try to pretend it’s nothing. For me, it’s all so new, so overwhelming, that I feel my cheeks burning with an intense flush.
When Nick approaches the door to leave and make sure no one is around, he turns toward me one last time.
"I’m going to Calvin and the others' dorm today to study a bit and play PlayStation..." he says, fixing his shirt collar. "We’ll see each other very soon, I promise."
I remain shocked for a moment; it’s not like him. Just minutes ago we were lost in each other, joined by a passion that seemed like it should never end, and now he’s talking about video games and friends. I look at him, still shaken by the intensity of what we shared, and murmur as he holds the edge of the half-open door. "Seduced and abandoned then?"
Nick freezes. He stares at me with those eyes: they are two wells of silver, deep and magnetic. They seem to read my soul and promise me the whole world, as always.
"Seduced and forever," he answers with a sudden seriousness that takes my breath away. Then, as he crosses the threshold into the corridor, he leans toward me and whispers in my ear: "And never abandoned. In fact..."
He disappears beyond the door. I remain there, not knowing what to answer, inside the room, still dazed and motionless in the sudden silence that now feels deafening. I lean my back against the closed door, still feeling Nick’s warmth in the air. From the crack and the corridor, I hear Calvin’s festive shouts welcoming him: "Hey Cold! Where have you been?", followed by raucous laughter and brotherly jokes about how late he is.
I am left alone with my thoughts, enveloped in the twilight of that room which is now the temple of pleasure, of our pleasure. I bring a hand to my lips, still tasting his. I smile—a real smile that lights up my face for an instant, but it slowly fades as I look at the phone, expecting bad news. That smile becomes a memory: a beautiful, precious memory, but stained by her and by secrets I must face. The sweetness of this possible mistake will have to give way to the chill in which Emerald has overwhelmed and involved me.