Chapter 18
I felt like a stranger in my own skin, unsure of how to respond or what to say.
Should I sit or remain frozen in place, like a petrified statue?
Zane wandered through my room quietly, flipping through my books and examining the photos pinned to the wall, as if trying to imprint every detail in his memory.
My gaze trailed after him as I struggled to formulate the right questions.
“You've missed a few days of school,” Zane remarked, his attention still focused on my belongings.
“I…” I stammered, feeling foolish for my inability to articulate anything. After a moment of silence, he turned to me, locking his eyes on mine.
“I'm sorry about your mom,” he said earnestly. How did he know? Who had told him? I didn't ask, though. I stood rooted to the spot in my pink pajamas adorned with ice cream patterns, feeling utterly ridiculous.
At eighteen, I still dressed like a child.
My cheeks flushed as he swept his gaze over me with a smirk.
“I hope she gets better soon. I saw her car in the local newspaper—it looked pretty banged up,” he said, his tone suddenly serious as he continued to roam my room.
The realization hit me hard; I hadn't even considered that it might be on the news.
Who knew what they had said? The media always had a knack for sensationalism.
“Are you going to say anything?” he asked again, his amber eyes piercing through me like arrows. I had to respond—anything to avoid feeling like an idiot.
“Why are you here?” I finally managed to whisper.
“I just wanted to check on you. I figured your friends would be rallying around you right now,” he said, his words tinged with an almost sarcastic undertone.
It dawned on me then—none of them had reached out to me.
Not Marco, not Emily, not even Jessica. Did they know?
Had they read about it? The thought made me look away, dismissing his comment.
“She'll be fine,” I insisted, careful not to delve into details and risk saying something foolish in front of him.
“Good,” he replied, approaching me until he was just inches away.
I could feel his warmth, almost like standing next to a fire.
The scent of tobacco, sea breeze, and leather from his jacket filled my senses.
His proximity sent shivers through me, and I struggled to maintain my composure, my neck aching as I tried to meet his gaze, waiting for him to make a move.
It was foolish, but I found myself longing for him to kiss me. I stood there, inexplicably drawn toward him, as if an invisible force was pulling me closer. And closer. He smiled and glanced around my room once more.
“So this is your space? Purple walls, pink pajamas, stuffed unicorns, and glittery notepads?” he teased, causing me to pull back, embarrassed, as if the bubble of pink I had created around myself suddenly burst. “It's cute,” he added, “not what I expected.” Then he sauntered over to my bed and lay down, arms crossed behind his head, his feet hovering above the mattress.
I stood there, speechless, watching him.
“Pretty comfy, but a bit too small for me,” he mused, looking at me with that smirk of his.
“I've had this bed since I was…,” I stopped; I couldn't really recall when I got it.
“What, you don't remember?” He tilted his head, studying me. What bed did I have before? Were the walls always this color? My memories were blurry and indistinct. I was becoming frustrated; it felt like he was mocking me.
“That's not the point. I think you should go,” I insisted.
“So soon? I thought you could use some company. Come on, join me for some company,” he said with a sly grin, patting the spot beside him. I scoffed.
“Leave now!” I commanded, my voice laced with anger. He stood slowly and approached me again, invading my space.
“Careful now, dummy. Next time, you might find yourself begging me to stay,” he whispered, leaning in close to my right ear. I could hear a heartbeat—was it his or mine?
“That's not going to happen,” I shot back, stepping away. Inside, I was screaming that I would indeed welcome him to stay, to lie beside him, to do whatever he wanted. He opened the terrace door and stepped outside. I hurried to stop him.
“Where are you going? You could just use the front door,” I said, my tone calmer now.
“It's fine. I need to practice climbing your terrace.
This won't be my last visit,” he smirked, igniting a fire in my insides at the thought of his return.
I followed him, captivated by his skillful descent down the ladder.
Where had he found it? Once on the ground, he stashed it behind the garage—the very ladder my dad used for trimming branches.
I couldn't help but smile as I watched him leave.
His car was parked not far away. I stood there, mesmerized, as he drove off.
Upon entering my room, his scent lingered in the air, wrapping around me like an invisible embrace.
I rushed to my bed and collapsed onto it, closing my eyes as if he were still there.
I wanted to capture and cage his essence.
I wished I could hold onto that scent forever.
I was losing myself in the labyrinth of my thoughts of him, no longer wanting to resist.
The world outside faded away, and my room became my entire universe—one that I was willing to share with him again and again.
The following morning, I made my way to the bus stop, ready to return to school. It was then that I noticed Emily and Marco wrapped up in a cozy embrace. As soon as Emily spotted me, she pulled away from him.
“Hey, I just heard about your mom yesterday. My parents were talking about it. I'm really sorry. I hope she gets better soon,” Emily said, casting an awkward glance in my direction.
“I'm sorry too. I stopped by the other day, but no one was home. I figured you were at the hospital. I'm sure your mom will be fine,” Marco added, his expression filled with concern as he looked at me. Emily shot him a look, as if she were just processing this new information.
Thankfully, the bus arrived just in time. I thanked them and climbed aboard, taking a seat near the front while they made their way to the back. I didn't look back; my mind was too preoccupied with the thought of seeing Zane at school.
There were so many questions swirling in my head—did he have siblings? What did his parents do? What were his hobbies? The only thing I knew for sure was that he was part of that gang, and that was confusing to me.
I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I almost missed my stop.
I leaped off the bus, catching a glimpse of Emily disappearing into the crowd.
I walked toward the main entrance, and I noticed Zane on the other side of the street, partially concealed behind a tree, engaged in conversation with someone—a girl.
My heart sank, and the ground beneath me seemed to shake.
As I got closer, I could see Zane was visibly emotional as he spoke to her. Then he leaned in—to kiss her? No, it was a hug. Still, she pulled back and walked away in the opposite direction of the school. I was breathless, and I felt like an absolute fool. The nickname “dummy” suited me perfectly.
I couldn't deny it—the girl was Valentina, or Vendetta, as many called her. Why was Zane talking to her? Did he have feelings for her, or was he trying to win her back? What was their history? But then why had he approached me, claiming he liked me, if he clearly had feelings for someone else?
The way he looked at her was filled with affection and concern. Even if she was manipulative and cruel, he still regarded her with that same warmth. Everything felt so tangled, and I began to doubt whether I wanted to be part of it. Was I just another player in his game?
Our eyes met, and his expression was filled with anger. The school bell rang, prompting me to dash inside and not stop until I reached English class, where I caught my breath. I settled down on the opposite side of the room from Emily, who pretended not to notice me.
Mrs. Davies was already at her desk, writing down notes in her journal.
She was a tall, slender Englishwoman in her forties, with straight, thick blonde hair, thin lips, and large brown eyes.
She once shared with us that she met her husband, an Italian man, while on vacation in London.
Shortly after, he relocated to London to be with her, and they married a year later.
Unfortunately, they couldn't have children, and after numerous doctor visits and treatments, they decided to move to Italy over a decade ago to start anew. Since then, Mrs. Davies had been teaching at our school, and she was one of my favorite teachers.
We often engaged in profound discussions in English.
She had encouraged me to watch movies in English with Italian subtitles and to read books, even if they were simple or meant for children.
I felt confident in my abilities, even considering myself the best in my class in this subject.
Somehow, I had a feeling that my skills might be useful one day.
That afternoon, my dad and I visited my mom as we had planned. I hadn't seen Zane since that episode this morning, and honestly, I was fine with that. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear what he had to say, yet at the same time, I felt an unsettling curiosity about it.
When we entered the room, my mom was eating something that looked utterly unappetizing. She greeted us with a warm smile.
“How are you feeling today, my love?” my dad asked as he took her hand in his. He called her “my love” as if nothing had changed, as if the world hadn't turned upside down lately.
“Like I've been hit by a truck,” she joked, and we all chuckled lightly.
“Actually, I feel surprisingly better. Maybe it's the painkillers, but they let me walk for a while today, so that's progress,” she said, flashing a smile.
Her bruises were shifting colors, some a sickly greenish-yellow while others remained dark blue and purple.
“Did the doctor say anything else?” I asked softly.
“He mentioned that Christmas is less than two weeks away and promised I'd be home next week. I can't leave you two starving during the holidays,” she replied with a grin, and her humor was a comforting sign that she was on the mend.
We spent the next twenty minutes in her company, sharing a little conversation before we decided to head home. My dad mentioned he would go back to work the next day, as her assistant had rescheduled his appointments, meaning he would work over the weekend.
“We should stop by the studio for a bit. Andrea has been calling me non-stop. I need to thank him for the basket he sent over,” my dad said as we approached town. I recalled seeing a large basket on the kitchen counter filled with snacks, wine, and other goodies, but I hadn't asked who had sent it.
Dad parked right in front of the glass doors, and we stepped inside. I noticed Andrea hurrying out of my mom’s office.
“How is she?” Andrea asked my dad without even a greeting.
“She's doing much better and is coming home next week,” he replied.
“Good, I'm relieved to hear that,” Andrea said with a look of relief. As they exchanged more details, I wandered around, taking in the new decor. The studio was quiet, with a new red backdrop on one wall and a festive Christmas one on another.
Then, I heard a ticking sound that felt oddly familiar. Turning toward the back, I spotted a white clock similar to the one in the hospital. I found myself staring at it, almost entranced. It felt like it held a memory I couldn't quite grasp, something buried deep within me.
“Luna, are you ready to go?” my dad’s voice broke my focus. I turned and walked towards him. Andrea gave me a sympathetic smile and then unexpectedly pulled me into a hug.
“Poor child, everything will be alright. If you ever need anything, just let me know,” he said, releasing me with a warm smile. I thanked him and returned the smile before heading back to the car.
Outside, I noticed Elias standing in front of his store, smoking. His expression was somber, and I read the words “I'm sorry about your mom” on his lips. He raised his fist in encouragement, as if to say things would be okay. I nodded in gratitude before climbing into the car.
On the way home, my dad picked up some pizza for dinner, but I felt a gnawing unease within me that couldn't be ignored.
I needed to write in my diary, something unsettling was stirring inside, something I had forgotten but needed to confront—something deeply buried and frightening that had caused me to erase years of my life.
I opened my diary to the first entry I had ever made. I was twelve, and it began like this:
Dear Diary,
I decided to write so I could have someone to talk to—someone who wouldn't judge, laugh, or tell anyone. I have secrets buried deep down that I'll never reveal, even to you. If I keep them to myself, maybe they'll disappear, as if they never happened. Perhaps it'll all be just a bad
nightmare.
As I lay on my bed, reading those words I had penned six years ago, it felt as though someone else had written them. I remembered nothing, as if the events I had mentioned had never occurred at all.