Chapter 44
I found myself lying on the cold floor of my room, eyes fixed on the ceiling above. It was oddly comforting, especially considering the relentless morning sickness that had become my unwelcome alarm clock. I rested my hand on my belly, longing to feel something, anything, but there was nothing.
My mind raced with uncertainty. My parents had taken to discussing my situation almost daily, their voices hushed to maintain a semblance of safety after everything that had happened. Yet, I could still hear them.
Since my visit to the cemetery a few days ago, I hadn't opened Zane’s diary. The thought of reading his words felt like opening a door to the past that I wasn't sure I was ready to face.
Fatigue weighed heavily on me, and my mind was plagued by dark thoughts, wondering how the fetus could survive all this turmoil.
If it were Zane’s, I'd willingly trade my life to protect it, but this?
This wasn't what I wanted. Could the fetus sense my feelings?
Perhaps that was why I was suffering from relentless nausea.
Lunchtime arrived. My parents had rearranged their schedules so one of them could always be home while the other worked. Yet, we still shared lunch together every day, attempting to foster a sense of family amidst the chaos.
I forced down some food, though it felt disgusting. I caught a glimpse of my mother, her expression suggesting she had something to say.
“Luna,” she finally spoke, and my dad exchanged glances with her.
“You've missed a lot of school, and I've made several calls and met with the principal.
I have some hope. Considering everything that's happened, the school is willing to give you a chance to take your exams, and if you pass, you'll graduate.” Her excitement was palpable, but I remained silent, avoiding eye contact.
School seemed trivial. Nothing mattered to me anymore, and a surge of anger bubbled up within me.
“What's the point? I'm having a baby, and the diploma won't even be good enough to clean its butt,” I shot back, my voice laced with frustration. My mother slammed her fist on the table, the sound startling both me and my dad.
“Enough,” my dad said firmly, his nostrils flaring. “I know it's been tough, but you need to finish school.”
“Why?” I pressed defiantly.
“Why?” my mom echoed, her anger was evident. “Because we say so. We're your parents, and we will decide what you need to do.” The tension in her voice was palpable, the veins in her forehead throbbing. Speechless, I stood up and headed for the stairs.
“Where do you think you're going?” my dad asked, disappointment heavy in his tone, but I was growing accustomed to disappointing those around me.
I didn't respond. Deep down, I knew I wasn't being fair, but as a teenager, rebellion was my only outlet. I grabbed a backpack, stuffing it with essentials, along with my diary and Zane’s, and made my way to the door.
“Where are you going?” my mom rushed to intercept me, disbelief written all over her face.
“As far away as I can, so you won't have to be ashamed of your pregnant, school-dropout daughter,” I retorted, leaving her momentarily speechless.
I could sense her desire to chase after me, to shout, maybe even to hit me, but my dad held her back, a reminder of our therapy: no violence, no outbursts of anger.
I stepped onto the gravel road, my backpack slung over my shoulder. Pulling out my phone, I dialed the number on the sticker Valentina had left me. I was determined to catch the last bus to Zane’s house, a place I'd never been before.
I felt trapped, as if everything was getting out of control. I was on the brink of surrendering. Exhaustion weighed heavily on me, and all I craved was a moment of peace. I longed for someone to talk to.
Sure, Jessica, Emily, and Marco had come to see me at the hospital, attended Zane’s funeral, and visited me at home, but I knew they wouldn't truly grasp what I was feeling.
I couldn't share my thoughts with any of them.
Marco had an inkling that something was wrong, yet he never brought it up, leaving me with the gnawing feeling that perhaps he thought I was to blame.
At this point, only V comprehended the depth of my feelings; she knew everything.
When I got off the bus, I spotted V stepping out of her father's car.
When she approached me, she surprised me with a hug, then took my hand and led me to the vehicle.
I slid into the back seat, and Davide turned to me with a gentle, sorrowful smile that felt warm—a stark contrast to our previous encounters in the apartment.
The drive lasted about five minutes, taking us to a sprawling house on the plains, surrounded by fields and trees.
The house was a two-story yellowish building with red clay tiles, a small balcony, and a grand terrace on the opposite side.
A modest metal fence enclosed the property, and Davide went ahead to unlock the gate.
Stepping inside, I could almost see the little red-haired Zane running carefree, and it pained me. The house, though old, was well-kept. The kitchen, adorned with oak wood, featured a large fireplace and a massive wooden table at its center, with a rocking chair positioned nearby.
V encouraged me to walk straight ahead until we reached a living room filled with natural light from large windows. I caught sight of a burgundy couch flanked by two matching chairs, plants scattered about, and photographs on the walls, but we didn't linger there; we ascended the stairs.
The second floor had three bedrooms and a bathroom—a typical layout. V introduced me to her room, which had a fresh coat of paint and a minimalist design: a black wooden bed frame with two matching nightstands, a three-door black closet, and a gray desk stacked with books.
“It still had pink walls; we just renovated and bought new furniture before…” she trailed off, the implication clear—before the accident.
“But you'll be staying in Zane’s room. That one hasn't changed since he was a kid,” she said, approaching a chestnut door marked with a stop sign and handwritten text underneath: "Unless you're bringing snacks, please knock before entering. "
When the door swung open; my heart sank, pounding against my still-healing ribs.
The room was a time capsule, untouched since he had last been there.
The soft blue walls were decorated with an eclectic array of posters showcasing iconic architectural landmarks: the Eiffel Tower, the Sydney Opera House, and the soaring skyscrapers of New York City—his dream destination.
A sturdy wooden desk was cluttered with sketchbooks filled with building designs, while a bookshelf housed novels and architecture books, some well-thumbed, others pristine, waiting to be read.
The king-sized dark gray bed was covered with a navy-blue duvet and adorned with dark pillows.
Above it, shelves displayed figures, curious rocks, and capoeira trophies.
A small stereo sat on the nightstand, and walls displayed photos from his trips to London capturing cherished moments with his mom, highlighting the city's stunning architecture.
A capoeira berimbau leaned against the wall, symbolizing his dedication to the art, while a world map, dotted with pins, marked the places he dreamed of exploring. This room was filled with his aspirations and passions, now forever unfulfilled.
My heart ached, and I felt tears threaten to spill.
I could still catch a hint of his scent; closing my eyes, I imagined he would envelop me in a strong embrace, making all the pain fade away.
Just then, without me noticing, V wrapped her arms around me, and we stood together, sharing the same grief as tears streamed down our faces.
She held me tightly, as if trying to connect with a part of him that lingered within me.
Once she released me, she apologized and expressed her sorrow, but I shook my head, assuring her it was okay. We settled on the bed, taking in the surroundings.
“So, what happened?” she asked softly.
“I can't stay in that house anymore,” I replied, lowering my gaze.
“I spoke to my dad about you staying longer, and he's okay with it,” V said, a comforting smile on her face.
“Really? Why?” I asked, bewildered. I couldn't fathom what had changed; I assumed he would blame me for his son's death.
“Why? Did you read the diary?” V asked, her surprise mirroring my own.
“Not yet. I just can't bring myself to,” I confessed.
“You should,” she urged, making me actually consider it.
“May I ask you something?” I ventured, unsure how to frame the question. She nodded. “On the day of the accident… you and Marco were behind us, right?”
“Yes, as much as Marco tried to keep up,” V replied quietly.
“And… you witnessed the accident?” My voice trembled as I struggled to suppress the lump in my throat. She nodded, avoiding my gaze. “What happened?” I pressed. “I mean, how did we… did I… survive?” I quickly corrected myself. The pause was agonizing.
“I don't know,” she replied, trying to collect her thoughts.
“I saw Zane reach a speed of 100 miles per hour before we collided head-on with another car,” I said, desperate for clarity.
“I… no, it wasn't like that,” V said, searching her memory before finally meeting my eyes. “Zane’s car slowed down right before the impact. Then… I saw the car turning to the side. Zane took the brunt of the collision on his side… Luna, he did that to save you…” Tears cascaded down our faces like a torrential downpour.
No, no, no—why would he do that? The crushing weight of reality crashed down on me, a pain I desperately tried to suppress.
“I'm sorry… I killed him,” I cried, guilt gnawing at my insides.
“No, no, you didn't. It wasn't your fault. He was driving; he alone is responsible,” she insisted, trying to comfort me, but it didn't help.
“But he was in that car because of me. I can't live with that,” I admitted, feeling utterly helpless.
“You have to stop blaming yourself. Do you hear me?” She shook me gently before embracing me again. Gradually, I calmed down, retreating into a state of denial. V brought me some of her clothes, suggested I take a shower, and assured me that dinner would be ready in an hour.
It felt surreal, as if I had taken his place. I found myself seated at the table where he must have dined before. Davide had prepared chicken in red sauce and a generous bowl of salad. We ate in silence, an unspoken tension hanging in the air.
I couldn't help but wonder if he was aware of my pregnancy or if anyone had shared that news with him. I wasn't even sure V knew. The house loomed large around me, heavy with an oppressive silence that echoed my own sense of emptiness.
Each day felt like an exhausting battle. Would this ever come to an end? Would I find a glimmer of hope again? The darkness seemed to envelop me, dragging me deeper into despair, leaving me grasping for something to cling to.
After dinner, I expressed my gratitude to Davide for the meal and offered to help with the dishes, but he insisted on handling it alone. V walked me back to Zane’s room.
“If you need anything else, just let me know. Towels are in the closet,” she said as she stood at the door. I nodded in response, and she left.
And here I was, utterly alone. It felt as though I could sense his presence, as if he might step in at any moment and rest his hand on my arm.
I closed my eyes, longing for that moment to materialize.
My heart ached with a desperate need for his touch, just one more time.
But nothing came. The moon hung full and bright outside the window, so captivating that I found myself unable to look away.
The clothing V had provided offered no comfort for sleep. I made my way to the closet and opened the door, a wave of nostalgia washing over me. I could almost feel him there, his scent lingering in the air. I brought his hoodie to my face and breathed deeply, feeling a connection to him.
Tears welled in my eyes again as I clutched the fabric tightly, as if trying to hold onto a piece of him. My body tensed with the overwhelming emotion. I couldn't put it into words; it was simply too much.
I grabbed a plain white t-shirt and slipped it on.
His scent wrapped around me like a warm embrace, and I envisioned him holding me close, imagining his lips on mine, his warmth, the rhythm of his heartbeat, and the softness of his breath.
I couldn't bear it; it felt unreal. This had to be a nightmare, just a fleeting nightmare.
I crawled beneath the sheets, which smelled of fresh cotton and the sea breeze. Soon, my pillow was dampened by my tears. My stomach twisted in knots. It proved to be more challenging than I had anticipated.
I couldn't sleep; it was too early for rest. Perhaps it was time to delve into his diary. Maybe understanding his thoughts could provide me with a way forward. I rose from the bed, retrieved my backpack, and pulled out the leather-bound book.
I returned to the bed, switched on the lamp on the nightstand, and opened it. There it was—Zane’s world, pages filled with his inked words, waiting for me to explore.
Once I began to read, I could almost feel him beside me, as if he were sitting on the bed and holding my hand. Perhaps I was losing my mind, but in that moment, it felt so real…