34. Mariana
Mariana
T he bakery reopened three weeks after the funeral. It had been twenty-three days since my mother died.
Twenty-three days of waking up and feeling like I was slipping further and further away from myself. Twenty-three days of pretending, of forcing myself out of bed.
Now here I am, standing behind the bakery counter and plastering on a careful, distant smile for customers who didn’t know how to look at me anymore.
I’m keeping my hands moving, kneading dough, measuring sugar, wiping down counters that weren’t dirty, doing anything to avoid the weight of the grief pressing against my ribs.
I told myself that I just needed time. Every morning, I repeated it like a mantra, like a prayer, like something I could will into being if I said it enough.
"Just give it time, Mariana."
"Time will soften the edges."
"Time will help."
But every morning, I woke up feeling like I was sinking deeper. It was as if the world had tilted slightly off its axis, just enough to throw everything off balance. I was walking through a space that had once belonged to me, but no longer fit.
And worst of all, I could feel myself slipping away. Sebastian knew it too. He called and texted every day, and always made sure to check in.
At first, I answered, always keeping my voice light and neutral, giving him short, clipped responses.
"Yeah, I’m fine."
"The bakery’s been busy."
"No, I don’t need anything."
Then, I started letting the calls go to voicemail. At first, I told myself I’d call him back later. When I wasn’t so tired. When my head wasn’t pounding. When the weight in my chest wasn’t so suffocating. But later never came.
Then I started leaving his texts on read, not because I wanted to ignore him, and not because I didn’t care, but because I cared too much.
Because every time his name flashed across my screen, my stomach twisted, and my heart lurched into my throat, and suddenly, I felt like I was suffocating all over again.
His messages were never demanding, never frustrated. He was always patient, loving, and kind.
Sebastian
"Thinking about you."
"Hope today isn’t too hard."
"Call me when you can."
Not if you can, or if you want to—but when…As if there was no doubt in his mind that I would. As if he still believed I was capable of reaching for him, but I wasn’t.
So, I let the texts pile up, each unread message like a stone on my chest, pressing down, down, down.
The ugly truth was that I wasn’t avoiding him because of work, or exhaustion, or even a busy schedule.
I was avoiding him because he looked at me like I was still me, like I was still the girl he’d loved since we were teenagers, like I hadn’t been gutted by grief, like there was still something left of me to hold onto.
I was avoiding him because no matter how hard I tried to ignore the guilt pressing against my ribs, I couldn’t stop the way my heart lurched every time I saw his name on my screen.
Because every time I heard his voice, every time I saw his texts, every time I let myself think about how unwavering his love for me has been, I couldn’t stop myself from also thinking about what it would feel like if I lost him too, and it killed me.
I loved Sebastian, this much I knew. I had always loved him, but, if I let myself have that, if I let myself fall all the way, love him the way I wanted to, the way I ached too…
it would only hurt more when I lost him too.
The truth is, people always leave, and love always ends in loss, and I wasn’t sure I could survive more, more loss.
So, I let the silence stretch between us, and I let the grief consume me.