Page 312 of 912321

He smiles before opening the door and Kyle waves goodbye at me, still on the phone.

“Take care, bud. You’ve done well and I’m proud of the man you are today,” Damien adds.

“I know you are,” I reply with a smile, then turn back to where my friends are waiting. “See you later, Damien.”

The door closes behind him and the car starts.

He didn’t answer.

135

Damien

7 YEARS LATER

Play - Heaven Couldn’t Wait For You by Isaac Mather

If you go I’ll go with you

By 2 AM, I’m where I lost her.

Seven years. I worked, I stayed with Milo, I did everything I could to keep going even if it didn’t feel like life anymore. When I see him, I see her. When I see the sky, I see her. When I see Blue, I remember her smile and how much she loved the most ordinary things in life.

Every weekend, I make a wish, sending it to whatever she is hiding now.

I convinced myself that seven years would be enough. Enough time to make peace with it and turn her into a memory instead of an open wound. Enough time to be able to pronounce her name once again without feeling something inside me reach for her.

I was wrong. I still am.

Because I carry the grief into meetings, into hotel rooms and every apartment I never bothered making a home. I carried it through every movie night, every birthday and every year I watched Milo become someone she never got to meet.

I carried it so well that people mistook it for healing.

I’m on the edge of the cliff and the lighter is in my hands. I haven’t used it since that night. And I can see it all over again. I remember calling her name, believing that if I reached her quickly enough, I could still change the shape of her broken heart.

I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. A ghost perhaps, or a grave. Anything proving that the world never stopped remembering her.

Open. Warm. Close. Cold.

Then I hear her laugh and I freeze. God, it’s been too long.

My whole body goes still.

She sits beside me for the first time in seven years. And all I can do is close my eyes.

“You came back,” she says.

That’s when I look at her. Alive, a sad smile painting her lips, soft blue eyes staring at me.

I forgot how much peace lived in just a small smile. Years of absence, undone in a heartbeat because of a laugh.

“You didn’t haunt my dreams enough,” I reply, mirroring her expression. “I missed your face.”

Her eyes drift to my face, analyzing my expression before she speaks again, “You look older.”

I almost smile. God I missed her so much I’m still hallucinating. “Seven years, Mireya.”

Her name. I finally said it again.