42. Mariana
Mariana
I don’t run to him, I don’t race out the door with my mother’s letter still clutched in my hand, tears streaking my face, ready to fall into his arms and beg for forgiveness.
No, instead, I sit. I sit at Anna’s kitchen table, the wood cool beneath my fingertips, the uneven grain pressing into my skin like an anchor. The overhead light flickers once, a too-bright thing against the darkness pooling outside.
The kitchen smells like spices, remnants of the dinner I ate, but barely tasted. A faint trace of coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of dish soap. This should all feel comforting, it should feel safe, but right now I feel like I’m suffocating.
My hands are trembling. My vision is blurred, unfocused, hazy around the edges. My breath is coming in uneven, shallow bursts that don’t quite fill my lungs.
The letter is still in my hands, creased now from the way I keep gripping it too hard, like if I let go, it’ll disappear…like she’ll disappear.
I smooth my fingers over the paper, tracing the ink, memorizing the curves of her handwriting. My name, written by her hand, I swallow hard.
The ink is starting to smudge beneath my fingertips, my mother’s handwriting delicate but firm, her voice still somehow alive in every loop, every stroke of the pen.
It truly hits me in this moment, she’s never going to be here again. The feeling is like a sharp, gutting kind of grief — a visceral pain that twists my stomach, caves in my chest, and makes me want to sob until there’s nothing let inside me by hollow space.
But I don’t cry. I just sit with it.
I know that this isn’t something I can fix in a single night, this isn’t something I can patch up with apologies and hope. I hurt him—again. I didn’t just break his heart…I shattered it. Twice.
I looked Sebastian in the eyes and told him I couldn’t love him the way he deserved. That I was too afraid, too damaged, too unwilling to take the risk. I walked away when all he ever did was fight for me. Now, I have to sit with the mess I made, again.
The silence in the apartment is heavy, but Anna doesn’t rush me. She clears the plates from dinner, the sound of ceramic clinking softly against the sink filling the space between us.
She moves quietly, rinsing dishes, wiping down the counter, giving me room to process, to exist, to come apart without an audience. She’s always known when I need space, when I need time to untangle my thoughts before I can even say them out loud.
The pressure in my chest builds and builds until it’s too much, until my lungs feel tight, until my hands are gripping the edges of the table like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Eventually, when my throat burns too much and my chest aches too deeply, I break the silence. “I don’t know what to do.” My voice is hoarse, raw, barely more than a whisper.
Anna doesn’t say anything right away; instead, she walks back to the table, sets down a warm cup of tea in front of me, and then sits across from me, wrapping her hands around her own mug, waiting, giving me the time and space to speak when I’m ready.
I swallow hard, my fingers curling around the ceramic, seeking warmth, seeking something solid to hold onto. I force myself to meet her gaze. “What if I’ve already lost him?”
She exhales slowly, her expression composed, resolute. “Mari, I love you, but you’re an idiot if you think he doesn’t still love you.”
A sharp breath leaves me, half a laugh, half a sob. “I don’t deserve it.”
Anna tilts her head, considering me. “That’s not the point.” Her voice is even, unwavering. “The point is, he gave you his whole heart. And yeah, you hurt him, but love doesn’t just disappear because of that.”
I shake my head, my chest tightening again. “It should.”
“But it won’t.”
The certainty in her voice almost breaks me. I press my fingers against my temples, squeezing my eyes shut. “I don’t know how to fix this, Anna.”
She’s quiet for a moment…then, softer. “You don’t fix love, Mari. You choose it.”
The words sink in, heavy, unavoidable—I chose fear, I chose safety, and I lost everything because of it. I push back from the table suddenly, standing too fast, my legs unsteady beneath me. “I need air.”
Anna doesn’t stop me, she just nods. “Do you want me to come with you?”
I shake my head. “No. I just… I need to think.”
Anna’s gaze holds steady. “I’m here when you need me. You’re not alone.”
She watches as I grab my coat and step outside into the cool night air, into a town that feels both too familiar and too foreign at the same time.