Chapter 21
Christmas Eve was truly my favorite day of the year. From my earliest memories, it had always been a cherished tradition: my mom would keep us out of the kitchen while she prepared a seafood feast that would put any restaurant to shame.
Our living room was adorned with a majestic Christmas tree, tall and decorated with ornaments steeped in history, some of which belonged to my father from his own childhood.
We usually decorated the tree during the early hours of the day, cups of coffee in hand, smiles on our faces, and holiday tunes filling the air.
It was a time filled with warmth, joy, and countless unforgettable moments.
This year, however, it looked like we wouldn't have a white Christmas; the sky was overcast and gloomy, the trees stood bare and lifeless, and the ground was damp and muddy.
We had spent the last few days hanging lights in the windows and preparing for this magical season.
I longed to embrace the usual festive spirit, to bask in the enchanting atmosphere filled with the scent of pine and freshly baked cookies.
Yet, thoughts of Zane kept piercing through my mind like arrows.
He vanished without a trace. I hadn't seen or heard from him, and I even did something I promised myself I wouldn't do: I sent him a text, but it went unanswered. I chose not to jump to conclusions, as Zane’s thoughts were a mystery I couldn't unravel.
So, I kept trying my best to push aside any idea of him, school, or anything that might cloud my holiday spirit. It was my favorite time of year, and I was determined to savor every moment of it.
Jessica was spending the holiday season with her grandmother, and I made it a point to send her a supportive message nearly every day. I had no updates about Marco and Emily and honestly didn't care to know.
Meanwhile, my parents seemed to have rekindled their happiness, spending quality time together filled with conversation and laughter. My mom still struggled a bit with walking and needed to take breaks, yet her stubbornness shone through as she insisted on handling things in the kitchen by herself.
On a few nights, we gathered for family movie nights, enjoying classic holiday films in our cozy living room, sipping hot chocolate, and munching on cookies that my mom and I had baked together. It felt like our little slice of paradise.
I often wondered how other families celebrated, as I noticed the absence of decorations or lights in the surrounding houses.
For the festivities, I had chosen a knee-length red dress with long sleeves and styled my hair in soft curls. It had grown long, and I contemplated changing it up, perhaps with a haircut or a new color, but I decided to keep it as usual.
The delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen made my mouth water in anticipation. When my mom finally called us to the table, I hurried downstairs, my father trailing behind, still engrossed in his book.
The dining table was adorned with a vibrant red tablecloth, festive red plates, and a candelabra with three glowing candles of the same color. White wine, chilled and ready, sat alongside elegant glasses.
My mom looked a bit fatigued but managed to conceal it well, dressed in a sleeveless dark cherry red dress with her hair elegantly pinned up.
My dad was dapper in black pants and a crisp white shirt.
We might have been a tad overdressed for a family dinner, but that only added to the occasion's significance.
We captured the moment with our vintage film camera, and after offering a prayer, we indulged in the feast my mom had lovingly prepared.
There it was. Pure happiness. I wanted to freeze that moment forever; I wanted the evening to never end, almost desperately, as if it were the last time… Last time.
We welcomed the New Year at home again, but this time I lent a hand to my mom in the kitchen, washing dishes and helping out as she hosted a few friends, including Andrea and a couple from Rome.
My dad, on the other hand, didn't have many friends to invite; most of my mom’s acquaintances came from her knack for making new friends through dinner parties and casual get-togethers.
Andrea often found himself single during the holidays, so my mom had invited him over a few times for New Year's to keep him company. Usually, I retreated to my room after midnight while they continued to chat and laugh, sometimes until dawn. This year felt like it would follow the same pattern.
I wasn't particularly outgoing around strangers, and while I was familiar with Andrea, the couple from Rome was new to me. The man was significantly older than my mom, likely in his sixties, with long gray hair slicked back, a slender face, and deep brown eyes.
His wife, on the other hand, was young and tall, speaking with an unusual accent.
She had long, bleached hair and strikingly bright blue eyes.
Her short, gold dress accentuated her figure a bit too much for my taste.
I guessed she might be a model, and he was possibly a photographer; it seemed a likely pairing.
Their conversation revolved around work and photography—topics that didn't pique my interest—while Andrea mostly remained quiet, occasionally sneaking glances at the blonde woman. I found myself feeling bored and weary.
When the clock struck midnight, my dad popped open the champagne, and everyone cheered, exchanging wishes for a prosperous New Year.
I couldn't help but wonder what this year might hold for me—still no word from Zane.
After trying to keep up with the festivities for another half hour, I excused myself, claiming fatigue, and headed to my room.
I washed my face multiple times to remove the heavy makeup I had overdone, feeling my skin dry out. After applying a night mask, I slipped into my cozy red Christmas pajamas and crawled under the sheets, hoping that reading might lull me to sleep.
But the pages just didn't capture my attention; I had a different urge.
I felt a need to write, to reflect on the past year, to put my thoughts into words.
Before I knew it, I had filled nearly five pages, unable to stop.
The majority of my thoughts revolved around Zane, as if nothing else mattered, as if nothing else even existed.
My attention was suddenly drawn to the sound of the doorknob turning.
I initially thought it might be my mom or dad, but I was mistaken.
It was Andrea who quietly slipped into the room and shut the door behind him.
In a rush, I tucked my diary beneath my pillow and curled up, pulling the blanket tightly around me.
“I'm sorry if I startled you,” he said softly as he approached.
“I just used the bathroom and noticed the light. I wanted to say goodbye before I left.”
“Um, okay, bye. Thanks for stopping by,” I replied, feeling uneasy.
I wasn't comfortable with him being in my room at this hour.
He was a good person—always kind to me, and my mom appreciated him—but I still wished he hadn't come in.
Andrea sat down on the edge of my bed, and his gaze made me even more uncomfortable.
“What do you think of that couple from Rome?” he asked with a smile, as if he intended to gossip.
“I think they're alright,” I replied, puzzled as to why he was asking me about them.
“The woman is stunning. She used to be a model and now has her own clothing store in Rome,” he continued, his eyes fixed on me.
“Yeah, she is. I noticed you looking at her,” I said with a shy smile.
“Can you blame me?” he grinned back. “You know, you're beautiful too and could totally be a model,” he remarked, studying my reaction.
“Me? No way, I'm not a public person. That's just not for me,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush.
The thought was absurd—I was far too shy and uncomfortable with the idea of being in the spotlight.
Sometimes, I wished I could be invisible or live somewhere where no one paid me any attention.
Andrea leaned in closer, resting his weight on his hand against the bed.
“You'll never know if you like it unless you give it a shot,” he encouraged, raising his eyebrows. His cologne filled the air, an overwhelming scent that enveloped me. My gaze drifted down to his hand, and I spotted a scar between his thumb and index finger.
A wave of unease washed over me, as if I had encountered something eerily familiar. The scar triggered a sense of déjà vu—perhaps it was from a movie, a book, a nightmare, or a forgotten memory? I couldn't quite place it, but the sight of that scar made my stomach churn.
I knew it wasn't about Andrea; he had always been courteous and kind. Yet, I couldn't shake the feeling. My eyes lingered on the scar until he noticed.
“Oh, this? I got it when I was about your age. I had a motorcycle and crashed, broke a few ribs, and got this scar as a reminder,” Andrea explained, bringing his hand closer to his face, rubbing the scar thoughtfully with his other thumb.
“I should get going now. Sleep well,” he said, smiling as he stood up and walked toward the door.
I murmured a goodbye, watching him close the door behind him.
The image of that scar haunted me. I needed to write it down in my diary; there was something about it that I couldn't dismiss. Perhaps it would come back to me eventually, and I would understand its significance.
With a few days left before school resumed, the air felt oddly warm.
I stepped out onto the terrace to take a deep breath.
The sun was shining brightly, lifting my spirits and igniting a longing for change.
I realized I needed to make a change in my life, and the first idea that popped into my mind was to get a haircut.
I dashed downstairs to find my mom on the couch, focused on her computer as she edited photos she hadn't finished before the accident.
“Mom, I want to cut my hair,” I blurted out as I approached her. Her eyes widened in surprise.