40. Sebastian
Sebastian
I haven’t slept in a week, not really, not in a way that counts. I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come, at least not a sleep that heals or replenishes, and definitely not the type that quiets the noise.
Every time I drift off, she’s there…Mariana. Laughing, looking at me the way she used to, like I was her favorite thing in the world, as if she had never left, and she had never torn my fucking heart out of my chest and walked away with it.
My dreams of her aren’t soft, they aren’t gentle, no...they are ruthless. When I wake up, for those first few disoriented seconds, I forget. I forget that she’s not here, and that she’s not mine anymore.
The realization always hits like a sucker punch, sharp and immediate, knocking the wind out of me before I can even get my bearings. The muscle memory of having her beside me is stronger than my grief.
I roll onto my back, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes, willing the images away. I exhale sharply, my chest hollow, gripping the edge of the envelope between my fingers.
My hands are unsteady, I don’t realize how tight my grip is until I see the way the paper bends slightly at the corners. I smooth them out with the pad of my thumb, hoping that’ll somehow undo the damage.
I haven’t opened it, I haven’t even been tempted, because it’s not mine. It’s Mariana’s, and it’s from her mother.
I swallow hard, my throat tight.
"She’s going to need this one day." I hadn’t understood what her mother meant when she pressed it into my hands. At the time, Mariana had been happy, we had been happy. She was mine then.
She had let me love her, let me in without hesitation, without walls. She had told me she loved me like it was the easiest thing in the world, like it was as natural as breathing.
Now, she won’t even look at me. The weight of that shift is suffocating. If someone had told me back then that this is where we’d be now, strangers standing in the wreckage of what we used to be, I would have laughed in their face.
I would have sworn up and down that Mariana and I were different, that we were unwavering, that nothing could touch us.
But her mother? Her mother had seen this coming. Long before I did, long before Mariana did. Somehow, she had known, maybe in the way only mothers can, that the day would come when Mariana would shut herself away, locking the world out, locking me out, and she had left something behind to stop her.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling roughly, the weight of it all pressing into my chest. This letter is more than ink on paper, it’s a lifeline, a bridge. It’s a desperate attempt to reach the girl who once whispered, “I love you,” without fear.
If there’s even the smallest chance that these words can break through the walls she’s built, and can cut through the fear she’s wrapped around herself like armor… then I have to try. Even if it kills me, Even if this is the last thing I ever do for her.
Because this isn’t about what I want, it’s so much larger than that; this is about what Mariana needs. And right now, she needs this letter more than she knows.
The porch light flickers once before holding steady, casting a dim, golden glow over Anna’s front steps. The night air is cool, crisp enough to sting a little when I inhale, but I barely notice. My hands are cold, but my palms are sweating.
I shift my grip on the envelope, flipping it between my fingers, feeling the worn edges bend and flex under my touch. I’ve done this too many times—held it, smoothed out the creases, traced the handwriting as if I could pull meaning from the ink without opening it.
I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be doing this, but I don’t know what else to do, so I knock, not too loud, not too soft—just firm enough to be heard over the quiet hum of the night.
A pause, a shuffle of movement inside. Then, the door swings open, and Anna stands there, her hair pulled into a loose bun, an oversized sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder. She blinks at me, confusion shifting into something sharper, something wary.
Her arms folded across her chest. "You look like shit."
I let out a breath of a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "Yeah."
She studies me, brow furrowing, taking in everything—my clenched jaw, my tired eyes, the tension I can’t seem to shake. Her gaze drops to my hands, to the envelope I’m gripping like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Her expression shifts again, caution creeping in. "Come in."
I don’t move. That’s her second clue, because I always move, I never freeze up. Unless something is really, really fucking wrong.
Anna’s stomach tightens. "What’s going on?"
I step inside, but I don’t sit. I don’t shake off my coat. I just stand there, tension coiled in every muscle, the weight of what I’m about to do pressing down hard.
Anna watches me closely, her arms still crossed, her foot tapping once against the floor. She doesn’t like waiting, and I don’t blame her. But shit, I need a second—just one more second before I do this, before I hand over the one thing I’ve been holding onto for too long.
I reach into my jacket pocket, pull out the envelope, and hold it out. Anna frowns, taking it. The paper is soft from wear, the edges slightly bent, her fingertips run over the handwriting, and her face changes. She knows this handwriting. She knows it as well as her own; her breath catches.
She looks up at me, her voice quieter now. "What is this?"
I swallow hard. "It’s from her mom."
The air between us shifts. Anna’s chest pulls tight, her pulse hammers. I can see it all over her face.
Her eyes drop to the letter, and a quiet breath shudders out of her. “This isn’t how she should be getting this.” The words are barely more than a whisper, like they hurt to say.
She swallows hard, arms wrapping around herself like she’s bracing for impact. “A letter from her mom–” her voice catches, and she shakes her head. “She shouldn’t have to read this like this. Not now, Not when she’s already carrying so much.”
Her fingers twitch at her sides, but she doesn’t reach for the letter yet. Instead, she takes a small step back, distancing herself from the letter as if it’s a live wire, something too dangerous to touch.
I exhale, my voice rough, uneven. “Her mom gave it to me before she passed.”
A pause. A breath. A hesitation.
“She told me to give it to Mariana when she needed it.” And now, she fucking needs it.
Anna finally reaches for the letter, her fingers tightening around it. It’s just paper, just ink, but it might as well be a bomb. Because once Mariana reads this? There is no going back.
Anna’s voice barely makes it past her lips. "Sebastian…"
I shake my head. "I know."
Her voice wavers. "You’re asking me to break her open."
My jaw tightens, pulse hammering. Then, my voice drops lower, rougher, but steady. "I’m asking you to help her."
She doesn’t move, doesn’t argue, she just stares at me. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking about how fragile Mariana is. She’s thinking about how hard it’s been to watch her shut everyone out. She’s thinking about how much damage this could do.
She looks at me, and I realize—This isn’t just about Mariana. It’s about me, too. Because I still love her, I will always love her, and because I am fucking desperate for a sign that she still loves me, too.
Anna swallows hard. Then, soft, barely above a whisper. "Do you still want her, Seb?"
My eyes snap to hers, and I don’t hesitate. "Always."