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You deserve light, love, and a life free from the constraints and dangers of my world.
With deepest regard,
Damien
A heavy weight settles in my chest, and I feel a pang of sadness. His words, while filled with concern and love, also speak of finality, of closing a chapter. I trace my fingers over his signature as if trying to hold onto the essence of the man behind the letters.
But deep down, I understand. The hints and implications in his letters have always painted a picture of a dangerous life, one filled with secrets, shadows, and power struggles. And now, he's trying to shield me from that very world.
I sit back, the letter still clutched in my hand. The room feels quieter and lonelier. A part of me wants to rebel, to write back and demand he reconsider, but another part understands the gravity of his decision.
I've always known there is more to Damien than meets the eye, that his world is complex and potentially dangerous. Still, it doesn't make this pill any easier to swallow.
The dance we've been partaking in, as exhilarating as it was, seems to have come to a close. Questions swirl in my head: Where do I go from here? How do I move forward without the daily anticipation of his letters, without the secret thrill of our silent floral conversations?
With a sigh, I tuck the letter into the drawer alongside the others, a collection of memories that, for now, will have to suffice.
I stir my coffee absentmindedly, the steam fogging up the space between Helena and me. The quaint little café we've chosen for our meeting is bustling with life, but in our little corner, it feels like we're in our own serene bubble. We're making up for lost time, filling in the gaps of our lives with stories and laughter.
"I must say, Damien did one good thing reuniting us," Helena muses, her voice a quiet admission. She sips her coffee, her eyes searching mine. "You really must have feelings for him, Mariya. You practically glow when you talk about the things he does for you."
I nearly choke on my coffee, shaking my head vigorously. "It's not like that, Helena," I start, the denial quick and sharp on my tongue. "It's just correspondence. A connection, maybe, but it's not love."
Yet her words have planted a seed of thought that refuses to stop sprouting. As I look out the window, watching the world go by, I can't help but feel the realization settling in my heart. Do I love Damien? The mere idea feels absurd, yet there's a warmth that accompanies the thought, a lightness that's hard to ignore.
"I'm just scared, you know?" I confess, my voice a mere whisper as I lean in closer. "What if we meet and he's not what I've imagined? What if all these months of letters and flowers have been building up to nothing more than a disappointment?"
Helena reaches across the table, her hand over mine, giving a gentle squeeze. "Mariya, if he's half the man you've described in your letters, he'll be more than you've ever dreamed of."
I want to believe her. I want to believe that the man who has been wooing me with words and the silent language of flowers could be the prince in my fairy tale. But reality is often less forgiving, less kind than the stories we tell ourselves.
The thought of finally meeting him fills me with equal parts excitement and dread. I've constructed a version of Damien in my mind, a romantic ideal drawn from the ink of his letters and the petals of his flowers. The possibility of shattering that image is terrifying.
Yet, as I sit with Helena, laughing and sharing, I can't deny the truth that simmers just below the surface. I do care for him, perhaps more than I've allowed myself to admit.
The very thought is both exhilarating and frightening. Love was never part of the plan, yet here I am, contemplating the very notion with a sense of inevitability. It seems that, despite my best efforts, Damien has found a way into my heart. And now, I'm left to wonder if he'll ever take his rightful place beside me, not just as a name on paper, but as the man I might just love.
“And it would only be fitting,” she says with a warm smile. “You two are already married, after all.”
The abrupt screeching of tires tears through the din of the café. I flinch as the sound of shattering glass follows, an intrusion of chaos into our crafted corner of tranquility. My heart hammers against my ribcage, a rapid drumbeat echoing the pandemonium around us.
Oskar is by our side in an instant, his protective stance a shield against the unexpected mayhem. His eyes are sharp, scanning for threats, his body a barrier.
"Get down!" His command is firm, brooking no argument.
Helena and I huddle beneath the table, the remnants of our peaceful outing littered around us like the aftermath of a thunderstorm. The sharp scent of gunpowder mingles with the bitter aroma of spilled coffee. The world outside the café has erupted into violence—a business across the street, a rival's territory, now marked by the unmistakable signature of a drive-by shooting.
One final pop sounds out, and a stray bullet tears through the calm of our reunion. The sound of Helena's sharp intake of breath—a harbinger of dread—freezes my blood. I whip around, eyes stretched wide in horror, to see her hand clasped to her leg, the fabric of her pants darkening ominously with blood.
Panic claws at my throat, and I reach for her, my hands trembling. "Helena!"
"We need to move now!" Oskar's voice cuts through the haze of my shock. "The car's coming around."
He's already on the phone, issuing commands with a calmness that belies the urgency of the situation. The words "Damien" and "hospital" punctuate the air, a litany of necessity.
Oskar moves with a trained calmness that starkly contrasts the chaos around us. He kneels beside Helena, inspecting the wound with a swift, clinical gaze. "It's not bad," he declares, his voice steady, grounding me amidst my spiraling thoughts.
"How can you tell?" The question bursts from me, a mix of hope and skepticism.
