I stood up, the last cigarette between my fingers, and walked to the wall where the phone sat like a ticking reminder of everything I’d lost. I picked it up, a small, stupid hope rising in my chest.
“Hello?” My voice was breaking, hoping. But it wasn’t him.
Instead, Sophie’s voice shouted through the line, high-pitched.
“You willneverguess what I just saw,“ she shouted. “House of Clowns is coming to town this Friday!”
I winced, the words slamming into me like a punch. The circus. The fucking circus.
I didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to think about it. But I couldn’t stop myself from spiraling. Blaming the circus felt easier than blaming myself. Easier than accepting that I had fallen in love with a clown.
And then it hit me. I wanted to go back. I wanted to be there again, just to feel something. To be surrounded by the same people, the same chaos, the same laughter. I wanted to keep his memory alive, even if it killed me. It made me angry... at myself,at him, at the world.
“Chiara? You still there?” Sophie’s voice cut through my thoughts, her tone softer now, more concerned.
I glanced out the window at the cliffs where I used to go to get away from everything. The place where the quiet always made the pain easier to breathe through. That was where I met Sophie, of all people, her pink hat with sunflowers pulling me from my dark thoughts the first time we spoke.
She knew. She knew about the dark places in my mind, the ones I didn’t talk about. She knew about the things I thought when the loneliness felt too thick to bear. She’d been there herself.
“I’m here,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. “I know.”
“Want to talk about it?” She asked, like she already knew the answer.
“No,” I said, too quickly. “I can’t even explain it.”
“Well, I could come over,” she said, “bring an Ouija board and we could try to call your clown.” She chuckled. “And I’ll bring wine. Lots of it.”
I took a slow drag from my cigarette, the smoke curling in the air, and sighed. “You can come without the board. Maybe we should leave the ghosts to rest tonight.”
“Fine by me,” she said, her voice lighter. “But I’m still bringing the wine.”
I forced a chuckle, though it came out a little too sharp. “Bring two,” I said, trying to make light of it. “It’s been a year, after all...”
Her laugh crackled through the line. “I’ll be there after midnight. But I’ll have to sneak out... Tristan doesn’t like me out this late.”
I could hear the bitter edge in her voice, how much she hated that her brother acted more like a father, how much she resented it. And I understood. Her brother was suffocating her,turning every escape into a battle. She needed a sibling, not a parent. So she ran whenever she could, because anywhere else felt easier than being stuck in that house.
I used to let Carlo roam free like that, hanging out with Christian, my older brother, doing whatever they felt like. But the moment our father got locked away, it all shifted. Carlo blamed me. Every bruise, every crack in the wall, every punch I took that was meant for him, he still blamed me. And it tore me apart, piece by piece. And I hated myself for it.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Whenever you’re here, you’re welcome.”
“See you soon,” she whispered just before hanging up.
Another call ended. Still not him.
I sighed, dragging the cigarette to my lips one last time before smothering it in the ashtray. The burn lingered, but it wasn’t enough to numb what I felt. I sank back into the couch, white lace shorts crumpling beneath me, my top twisting uncomfortably as I pulled the blanket tight, fingers digging into the soft fabric. I hated this. The silence. The hollow space that only seemed to grow the longer I was alone.
I wanted to scream at the universe, beg for some other path, some different life. But who was I kidding? I couldn’t even fix the broken pieces of myself.
A tear slid down my cheek before I could stop it, and I cursed under my breath. I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but it was like something forced the tears from me, one after another.
I shut my eyes, trying to escape, but all I could see was his face. The curve of his lips. His icy blue eyes. The way he smelled, wood and cologne mixed together in a way that made my skin tingle. I could almost feel his hands, pulling me close, making me forget everything. Forget the world.
But when I opened my eyes, he was nothing but a ghost. Theashtray was full of burnt-out cigarettes, smoke still hanging in the air, and the taste of stale nicotine clung to my mouth. I wasn’t a smoker. Never had been. But when you lose someone, you pick up bad habits like they’re the only thing keeping you from drowning. The problem wasn’t the cigarettes or the alcohol I kept around for the days I couldn’t breathe. The problem was me. And I knew it. I was the one destroying myself. He just pushed the first brick, and the rest came crashing down.
A creak came from the hallway. My body tensed, my heart skipping. I stood up, panicking inside me. Tiptoeing, I crept to the table, hands shaking as I grabbed the vase, still full of dried flowers and stagnant water.
“Hello?” My voice cracked. “Christian? Carlo?”
