I managed a small nod, even though it was a lie. A pathetic, automatic response.
She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press either.
I booked the room with shaking hands, signed where I was told to sign, and paid without fully registering the amount.
Everything felt distant—like I was watching someone else live my life through thick glass.
A keycard was placed in my hand.
I barely registered the weight of it.
Upstairs, the corridor was quiet.
The kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful—just empty.
My suitcase wheels dragged behind me, each sound too loud against the carpeted silence.
When I finally reached the room, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The moment the door clicked shut behind me, something inside me collapsed.
I didn’t even make it all the way in.
My suitcase fell to the floor with a dull thud. I dragged it to the corner more out of instinct than intention, like I was placing evidence away from myself.
Then my strength gave out completely.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
And stayed there.
The silence in the room was oppressive.
My chest hurt—a sharp, constant ache that tightened every time I tried to breathe too deeply.
I stared at nothing.
The wall. The floor. The edge of the bedspread beneath my hands.
And I waited.
Like a fool.
A pathetic, broken fool still hoping for something that had already shattered in front of me.
Rafael would notice.
He had to notice.
He would come looking. He would call. He would realize I was gone and that something was wrong.
He would explain—there had to be an explanation. Some misunderstanding. Some context I hadn’t heard.
Because the alternative—
No.
I refused to believe that.
