Emma's POV
I wake with the taste of medicine in my mouth, the sunrise längst through pale curtains dancing across my eyelids. My head is heavy, like I've slept beneath a mountain, but my body—already stiff from last night's rooftop climb—aches in every joint. I blink, fighting the urge to close my eyes, to remember, Paris, the rooftop, Alex. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, press my palms into the mattress, and force myself upright. The little apartment is hushed around me, save for the distant rumble of the Métro train. My sketchbook and pencil lie on the small table by the window unopened since I tucked myself in. I want to reach for them, to form the colors into something beautiful, but my cough—quiet but still relentless—sends them spiraling into darkness. He's not here yet. Good. I need a moment to gather my courage. I pad over to the single mirror in the corner and gaze at my reflection: pale cheeks, shadows under her eyes sitting too loud beneath the false mimicry of makeup, lips pressed a little too tight. The high from last night feels like someone else's dream. My heart stills in defeat—not love, but guilt. I practice my confession in dismembered thoughts. "Alex, there's something I have to tell you." Even in my head, it's barely more than glass shattering beneath a boot. I swallow the rising terror in my chest, splash water from the sink to my face, and pull on an old scarf—soft cotton in her favorite cerulean, sitting on the dresser neatly folded, waiting for me to need it once more. The knock—three taps against the door—comes before I'm ready. My pulse stutters. I smooth my hair, tighten the scarf, and clench my jaw. "Enter," I whisper.
Alex slips through the door, guitar case slung low, eyes already brightening when he sees me. "Hey," he says, concern shading his tone. "You look like you wrestled with the duvet this morning." He sets the case down on the floor and perches on the edge of the mattress. "Feel better?" I manage a half-smile. "Just jet lag. I thought I'd rest a bit. I—" My voice breaks on the last word. I tilt my face to search his, hoping for some spark of the gentle reassurance I saw in his eyes last night. Something to draw courage from. He leans in to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush against my cheek and a familiar warmth blooms in my chest. " Talk to me, Em. You're shaking." I breathe in, counting to four. Exhale to six. It's now or never. "Alex… there's something important I need to tell you." His brow furrows, his smile growing cautious. "Okay. Anything." I stand up, cross to the window. The Seine twinkles below like liquid silver. The city's heartbeat pulses through cobblestone streets. I want to say, "I love you," but the truth is more monstrous than love. I grab the windowsill until my knuckles go white. "This morning… when the doctor called me at home…" My voice trembles. I taste tears. "It wasn't just routine blood tests." I clench my hands around my scarf until my knuckles turn white. "They said—I have…" My vision blurs. I swallow. "I have stage four pulmonary fibrosis." Silence. The words hang dead between us. He's stilled, pale like chalk, eyes that dart to mine as though searching for some cruel mirage. "What—what does that mean?" he whispers.
Behind my eyelids, the room fades away. I whisper, eager for them not to show me. "It's my lungs... My cells are scarring. It's lingering, relentless... they contemplated I have around six months to a year. Maybe less". His mouth halves open, and naught occurs. I sense the sting of pandemonium in his chest, almost achieve it in the manner, his shoulders droop. The unyielding male who promised to follow me all over – Paris, the Rockies, New Orleans – seems abruptly less like he is straining against the elements of his life and further like a youngster lost in a torrential rain. I move nearer to him and set my palms on his shoulders. "Alex, I didn't wish to frighten you". The phrase sounds so weak, like a fragile shell split open by the wind. A sob and a whine collide inside my chest. "I—I desired to envisage that this was achievable... with you." His head twists from side to side, eyelids mercilessly sealed. "No, no, you—you can't mean—Emma, this is wrong". His rhythm is fragmented, and he sweeps a hand through his hair. "Why didn't you disclose this to me?" I battle for words. "I was afraid... afraid you'd—" but then I had to say it... the sharp, terrible boa constrictor of my fright, the left piece of my heart spits out an unwelcoming fear. "...that you would pity me, discard me". He sways my wrists; his fingers hold me tight as he stares into my eyes. "Emma, listen—" A rejection of the future, hot and warm. "Emma, reply me, do you know what you symbolize to me?"
"You did, Emma. You did that a long time ago," Alex replies with balling chest. I see embarrassment taking over my apartment. He steps back then runs a hand over his face. "Emma …" he says, then shakes his head, his voice cracking with the feeling I've never evoked from him before: betrayal. "I can't do this. I'm sorry." He stands up, turns and takes the guitar case; he throws over his shoulders, about to walk out. My heart races faster, even faster than I do. "Alex, please. I …" He stops then grabs the door. His hand is on the knob, his back to me. I can hear his shoulders, the way it hunches, the angle of his head. "I need …" I hold my breath. "I need … time". And the door clicks behind him. The apartment becomes silent, and I fall to my knees at the window. The scarf is wrapped so tight. My tears flood down my face. To my left, Paris is laid out beneath me, a city full of people who care absolutely nothing about me. I close my eyes and say quietly to the empty room, "God. What have I done?". My reflection in the glass, white and jerking slightly, tethered to a next I never chose, flings the answer back at me. "It's not what you did. It's what you are," it whispers, and I comprehend finally that love is the crucial freedom of all I have been terrified from.