When I rouse awake the next morning, it takes me a second to remember why I’m so tired. Why my eyes are puffy and my head aches.
Then, it all comes crashing back, like a tsunami on the beach, and there’s nowhere to hide.
I tried to fix things with Baptiste last night, explaining myself, apologizing, but he barely spoke two words to me. We eventually went to bed. He stayed on the couch, the same place where he broke my heart a few moments before.
But he’s still here, and I can’t let him gowithout a fight.
He wouldn’t have spent the night if there was no hope left for us. He still cares about me. There has to be a way to fix this, and I’m going to try, because I can’t even imagine losing him for good. I can’t imagine my life without him.
I head for the shower first, letting the stream of hot water batter my shoulders as if it might knock some sense into me. Once I step out, I get dressed and walk into the living area.
He’s already sitting at the kitchen table, dressed, eyes focused on nothing in particular.
The smell of coffee permeates the space, rich and grounding. Promising to wipe away everything that happened last night.
“Hey,” I say tentatively, a shadow of a smile peeking through.
He shoots me a glance, then immediately looks away, as if the sight of me burns his eyes.
My smile falters. Maybe not everything can be wiped away.
I grab a mug, fill it with coffee, then sit down across from him. We drink in silence, the only sounds the faint clink of porcelain and the hum of the fridge. Each second stretches, thick and unbearable, until my chest feels too tight to breathe.
“I know I’ve said it a thousand times, but I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching for his hand. “I—”
He pulls it away.
“Please,” I add softly. “Can we at least talk?”
“There’s nothing to say, Harper,” he replies, still not meeting my eyes. And for the first time, his accent sounds sharp, like a slap in the face.
“Please. You can’t leave me,” I say, hating the desperation in my voice—though it doesn’t come close to the sheer panic and fear clawing through my chest right now.
“Don’t put this on me,” he snaps, finally lifting his gaze to mine.
His eyes are exhausted, guarded, filled with a hurt that twists something deep inside me. “You’re the one who ruined all this, Harper. Not me.”
I swallow hard, staring into the dark surface of my coffee like it might give me the right words. “There has to be something I can do to redeem myself. I love you, Baptiste. So much.”
The words spill out before I can stop them.
I’ve never told anyoneI love youbefore, but as bad as the timing may be, it feels right—like my heart, my brain, my whole being already knew, and saying it out loud is just stating a fact. But it’s also like I’ve dropped a bomb right in the middle of my kitchen.
At least, Baptiste looks at me like I did.
Something shifts in his eyes. For a brief, fragile moment, I see something other than disappointment. There’s hope. The possibility that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t over yet.
Then, his gaze darkens, and he looks down.
“That doesn’t change anything,” he mumbles. “Let’s get ready. I’m driving you to the station.”
He stands up and drags himself to the sink, turning his back to me as he rinses his mug.
That’s when I realize I won’t have to imagine the pain of losing him.
Because I’m about to learn exactly what it feels like.
The drive to the station only takes a few minutes, but it feels like hours. The tension is unbearable, sucking the oxygen from the car. All I can hear is the faint hum of traffic and the sound of our breathing. Or maybe it’s just his, because I don’t think I’ve inhaled a breath of air since we stepped into the car.
