Twenty-Four Hours
Prague blurs by in soundcheck and rain. Rafe calls between rehearsals, voice rough from the night before, and I tease him for pretending chamomile tea fixes everything. He sends me a photo of the crowd, lights like a galaxy, his caption only:Still yours.I stare at it longer than I mean to, pretending it’s just admiration for the symmetry.
Vienna feels like a breath. I’m between patients when his message comes through, a blurry shot of him and Ronan at a street café, espresso cups and half-smiles. His hair is in a ponytail, loose tendrils framing his face.Told them you’d hate my hair like this.I don’t. I tell him so, and he replies with a heart I pretend doesn't make me smile like an idiot.
In Budapest the calls stretch longer, until dawn leaks through my blinds. We talk about everything and nothing, bad hotel art, his half-finished lyrics, my patients, his fear that everything feelstoo good. I tell him to stop asking for trouble. He tells me I sound like joy made manifest and I laugh when he calls himself pretentious.
Milan is loud, glittering, alive. Between interviews, he sends me a photo of a red leather jacket he almost buys.Thought of you. The color of passion.I send him a mirror selfie in scrubs, hair falling loose from a bun, and he replies,You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.
Zurich feels like silence done right. His voice was steady that night, no static, no exhaustion, just warmth. He hums part of a new song he swears isn’t finished, I hearusthreaded through it.
Brussels passes in rhythm. Short calls, steady texts.Landed. Miss you all the time.I reply,You’re going to be busy performing soon.He sends back,Doesn’t change that you're not here.
By Amsterdam, the exhaustion softens into something tender. He sends me a photo of the canals at dusk, his reflection faint in a wine glass. I’m halfway through typing that it looks like a painting when the phone rings. As soon as I hear his voice, the hours disappear.
The rhythm between us is settling into something that feels natural, like breathing. Not constant but enough. The distance isn’t smaller, it just hurts a little less.
“You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” Rafe’s voice is rough, caught somewhere between pleading and grinning. “I’m going out of my mind here, Kasia. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop dreaming about you. I swear I see you in every goddamn crowd. We’ve got a show in London and we’re there till Monday. Come,please.”
“That’s insane.”
“Thencome, be insanewithme.”
“Rafe.” I laugh, but it’s the kind of laugh that already sounds like surrender. “I can’t justfly to London.”
“You can,” he says, soft but relentless. “Get the red-eye Friday. You’ll land Saturday morning, spend the day, go back Sunday. Twenty-four hours. I’ll take anything. Just—” he exhales, low and desperate, “just get on the flight.”
“That’sliterallycrazy. I’ll be jet-lagged to hell.”
“I’ll pay for a spa day when you get back,” he blurts. “I’ll book the best hotel so you’ll feel like you’re on a cloud. We don’t even have to leave it. Just sleep next to me. That’s all I want.”
“Rafe—”
My phone buzzes. A new email slides down my screen. I open it, blink, then freeze.
“Did you just—”
“Flight’s booked,” he says, trying, and failing, not to sound proud. “Seattle to London, Friday night. You’ll land Saturday at noon, back by Sunday.”
“You actually did it. This isfirst class! Rafe!”
“Use it or don’t,” he says. “But the fact it’s there, it’ll keep me breathing. The hope that maybe you’ll get on it.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “This is absolutely ridiculous. I should be furious.”
“But you’re not.”
A pause. Then, softer: “No. I’m not.”
“You’ll come?”
“I’ll come.”
The sound he makes is halfway between a laugh and a prayer. “Oh,thank fuck.Because I think my heart would’ve stopped if you said no.”
“You’re mad as a hatter.”
