Matteo
What are you doing, little lamb?
Seconds stretch,as I wait for a reply, fucking anything.
Aoife
You told me to tell you when I’d jump…
My heart stops.
“No.”
“Fuck! NO!”
I’m up before the thought finishes. I snatch my boots, fumbling hard, hands shaking so bad every second slams like a shot to the chest. Too slow. Too late.
“What the hell?” Marco barks, already moving.
“She’s going to jump,” I rasp, the words shred my throat.
“Who?” Milo snaps.
“Aoife. The cliff. She messaged?—”
Whatever’s on my face says the rest. Milo sprints. Marco curses and bolts.
“Matteo, you better not be?—”
“I’m not.”
I feel it.
In bone. In blood. In every burning breath as we rip down the corridor and crash into night.
The air is knife-cold. Boots hammer slick stone. The sky boils, clouds swollen to break. The storm thrums, a mirror of what’s tearing me open.
Then I see her.
A silhouette cut from the night. Too close to the edge, hair whipped wild, trembling. Not pacing. Not thinking. Just… waiting.
My feet skid.
Time stretches.
Every part of me is screaming, I reach her, but I stop for one breath. One heartbeat.
“Aoife,” I whisper, wind stealing it. Louder, stepping in. “Hey, little lamb… what are we doing?”
Nothing.
No turn. No flinch.
She stands barefoot. Soaked dress clinging. Shoulders shaking, and it isn’t the cold.
My lungs claw for air. I take a step closer to her, an arm distance away from her, but slowly I move closer.
“Aoife, please. Not tonight. We can talk. Just turn around. Come back to me?—”
