I should take the exit he's offering.
I should climb into that bed and pretend I don't feel anything for this man who tortured someone three days ago and felt nothing. Who pointed a gun at my best friend's head. Who pushes everyone away because he's terrified of losing them.
But I don't move.
"What if I don't want to forget?" I ask.
Bruno goes still.
"What if I want to remember too?"
His breath catches.
"What if I want all of it?" I continue. "The miserable parts. The broken parts. The parts you think will destroy me."
"Then you're a fool," he says roughly.
"Maybe."
"I'll hurt you."
"Probably."
"I don't know how to be what you need."
"Neither do I." I reach out. Touch his face. Feel the rough stubble beneath my palm. "But I'm tired of pretending I don't want to try."
His hand comes up. Covers mine. Presses my palm harder against his cheek.
"Antonella." My name sounds like a prayer on his lips. Or maybe a curse. "I can't promise you anything. I can't promise I won't push you away again. I can't promise I won't say something cruel when I'm scared. I can't promise?—"
"I'm not asking for promises."
"Then what are you asking for?"
I lean down. Close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips.
"I'm asking you to stop running." I whisper.
His eyes search mine.
"And if I can't?"
"Then I'll go to bed." I hold his gaze. "And we'll both spend the rest of our miserable lives remembering what could have been."
His hand moves from covering mine to cupping the back of my neck. His fingers thread through my hair. His grip tightens.
"You should run," he says.
"I know."
"You should hate me for what I did to your friend."
"I do hate you for that." I don't look away. "But I don't only hate you."
"What else?"
"I don't know yet." My voice drops. "But I want to find out."
