Even if part of me still wants the life, I almost had.
Even if the man at the center of it is the one person in this city, I can’t reach anymore.
Chapter Thirty-Four
NATALIA
My phone buzzes while I’m standing in my mom’s kitchen, staring into the fridge like it might contain a plan.
I’m not hungry. I haven’t been hungry in weeks, not in any real way. Food has turned into something I do because I’m supposed to, like showering and answering emails, and pretending I’m not grieving a man who is still very much alive and simply chose not to want me.
The screen lights up with an unknown number.
I stare at it for a second, thumb hovering, before I finally open it.
Katerina:Natalia. This is Katerina... Luka's sister. I got your number from Penelope. Luka isn’t answeringanyone. Scottie is out of town. Can you please check on him?
My stomach tightens so fast it’s almost comical. Of course, the first message I get connected to Luka is from his sister, because the universe has a sense of humor and it’s meaner than mine.
I read it again.
Then a third time, because my brain keeps snagging on the part where Luka isn’t answering anyone, as if that’s somehow my business again.
It isn’t.
The only problem is that Katerina doesn’t text like a woman who’s being polite. She texts like someone who’s already picturing worst-case scenarios and refuses to sit with them alone.
I type back:
Is he sick or just being… Luka?
Her reply comes in immediately.
He’s not showing up. He's missed a run with Scottie and that's not like him. I’m worried.
My heart does something unpleasant in my chest.
Because she’s right.
For all his stubbornness and brooding and terrifying ability to go quiet for days, Luka is disciplined in a way that borders on obsessive. The man treats rest as a moral failing. He doesn’t "miss" things. He doesn't "forget."
I stare at the message until the letters blur slightly, then drag in a breath that feels too shallow.
Me:I can check. I don’t think he’ll want to see me.
Katerina:I don’t care what he wants right now. I care that he’s alive. Please.
My fingers tightened around my phone. Does she truly think he's in danger?
The idea of him lying lifeless on his apartment floor is enough for me to forget everything else and agree to go. Now I have to know if he's okay too.
Me: Okay. Send me the address.
The reply pings instantly with his building name and unit number.
My pulse quickens because now it’s real. Now I’m doing this.
I grab my coat and step into the hallway, catching my reflection in the mirror by the door at my oversized sweatshirt, leggings, and hair twisted up in a messy bun that’s more functional than cute. I look like someone who has spent the last three weeks mourning in private and only recently remembered the outside world exists.
