Chapter 97
Tristan
His name is Nick,” I repeat. “And he’s given me new hope this year.”
I cough suddenly. My throat and lungs are probably coated with concrete dust. That’s got to be good for my system.
“He changed my life,” I continue, talking to a radio that’s probably dead, saying things that no one will ever hear. “He made me hope again. I wish that he knew that. I wish that I could’ve told him that. I wish that I could’ve told him… told him everything.”
I close my eyes, tears seeping out, and try to hold back a sob.
“Mathilde asked me what I would say to him, if I had the chance,” I whisper, “And I think… Nick, I think, if you were listening right now, if I had the chance to give you one last message, it would be this.
“This past year of my life was hell. When Warren died, I thought that I would never love again. He had been my companion for five years. My partner. My fiancé. I thought he was going to be my husband. I thought we were going to build a life together and live happily together for years. That hope for a future was taken from me, and I think I lost the capacity to hope after that.”
I sniff. Snot has added itself to the mess of dust, blood, sweat, and tears on my face. Great.
“And then I met you,” I choke out. “And, even though I don’t think you meant to, you taught me how to hope again.
You showed me that there is still love and goodness in the world.
You taught me that I am worthy of love, just the way that I am, and you gave me that love, without asking for anything in return.
I wish that I could’ve shown you how much that meant to me.
Could’ve told you how much it meant to me.
I thought that, with Warren, I had learned what love meant, but I was wrong.
Nick, you taught me a new meaning for the word.
The true meaning of that word. I wish that I had realized sooner what was right in front of me, what was—is—inside me.
Nick, I—I love you. I love you so much. If love really could move mountains, all this rubble would be gone, and I’d be back in your arms.”
I am out of breath, though I have barely exerted myself. My throbbing in my ankle has turned to a sharp pain, and any movement of my head sends needles of agony through my skull. I don’t know how much time I have left.
“Nick,” I whisper through broken lips, holding the radio close to my mouth, “if you could hear me right now, that’s what I would say to you.
That I love you, and that my only regret is not telling you sooner.
You taught me to hope again, taught me to love in a way that is braver and truer than anything I’ve known before, and I wish that we could’ve shared that love, honestly and out in the open. ”
Exhausted, I lower my forehead to my knees and rest it there.
“I love you, Nick Gutierrez,” I whisper into the darkness and into the silent radio. “And if I never get to say anything else, I’m glad that the last thing I said is the truest thing I could say. I love you.”
And with that, I close my eyes.