Serafina
I wake before the sun, breath already uneven, heart beating like it’s late for something it can’t name.
The room is unfamiliar in that subtle way—hotel linens too crisp, air too still. The wedding is over. The night is over. And yet my body hasn’t received the message. It hums with aftershock, nerves still lit like I’ve crossed a border without papers.
Something irreversible has happened.
I don’t need memory to confirm it. My body knows first. It always does.
Matteo is married.
Adrian is no longer mine.
And still—still—my skin remembers both of them with an intimacy that feels like betrayal even in solitude.
I press my palms into the mattress, grounding myself. The coolness does nothing. Images flash uninvited: Matteo’s voice low and restrained in that corridor, the way his restraint felt heavier than touch. Adrian’s hands steadying me on the terrace, his breath close, his refusal to look away when I was most exposed.
I close my eyes harder.
“This ends now,” I whisper into the quiet.
My body disagrees.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, pacing the room barefoot, robe pulled tight like it can contain what’s happening under my skin. The mirror catches me mid-stride—hair loose, eyes too bright, mouth swollen with unsaid things.
“You’re not allowed this,” I tell my reflection.
She stares back, unapologetic.
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face. It beads on my collarbone, traces paths I refuse to follow. I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening, and let myself breathe through the truth I’ve been avoiding.
I crossed something last night.
Not a line. A threshold.
There’s a knock at the door. My heart jumps stupidly before reason catches up.
“Room service,” a voice calls.
I exhale, tension releasing with embarrassment. “Just a minute.”
The coffee tastes bitter and grounding. I drink it slowly, forcing myself into the present. Matteo is waking up next to Lucia somewhere else, building a life he chose carefully. Adrian is likely doing the same—choosing restraint like it’s a muscle he’s learned to flex.
And I’m here, alone, feeling like my body is a traitor.
My phone buzzes on the bedside table.
Adrian: You all right?
I stare at the screen longer than necessary.
Yes, I type. Just processing.
Three dots appear. Disappear.
Adrian: I’m here if you need me.
The offer is simple. Dangerous.
I set the phone face down.
Later, dressed and composed again, I step into the morning. The city looks unchanged—indifferent to vows, to restraint, to the way nights fracture people. I walk, letting movement burn off the excess energy that refuses to settle.
A memory ambushes me at a crosswalk: Matteo’s breath near my ear, his voice admitting what marriage didn’t erase. My pulse spikes. I force myself to keep walking.
“This is what discipline feels like,” I mutter.
It feels like hunger.
Back in my room, I sit at the desk and open my notebook. Work usually steadies me. Lines, structure, purpose. Today, my sketches are sharper than usual—cuts bolder, fabrics clinging in ways that dare the wearer to be seen.
“You’re projecting,” I tell myself.
“Yes,” my body answers. “On purpose.”
The phone buzzes again.
Lucia: I hope you’re resting. Thank you again for being there yesterday.
The kindness disarms me. I type back carefully.
Of course. Congratulations again.
She deserves better than ghosts, I think, immediately ashamed of the bitterness.
I shower again, longer this time, letting the heat loosen the tension. My hands linger where they shouldn’t, where memory pulls insistently. I stop myself—not because I’m ashamed, but because I refuse to let this become ritual.
“This isn’t who you are,” I say aloud.
No—it’s just part of who I am.
By afternoon, the fog lifts slightly. Not gone. Just manageable. I pack my bag, preparing to leave, when a knock interrupts me again.
This time, I know.
I open the door to find Adrian standing there, jacket slung over one shoulder, concern written openly on his face. He takes me in with one look.
“You didn’t sleep,” he says.
“No,” I reply.
He doesn’t step inside until I nod. When he does, the air changes—familiar, grounding, dangerous in its own way.
“Do you want to talk?” he asks.
I shake my head. “If I start, I won’t stop.”
He nods. “Then we won’t.”
We stand there, close but not touching, the space between us charged with everything we’re refusing.
“Something changed,” I say quietly.
“Yes,” he agrees.
“I don’t know how to undo it.”
“You don’t,” he says gently. “You live with it.”
I look at him, really look. “That sounds unbearable.”
“It’s survivable,” he replies. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
I laugh softly, humorless. “You always did know how to say the right thing.”
“And you always hated hearing it.”
We share a look—tender, aching, disciplined.
“I won’t cross that line,” I say.
“I know,” he answers.
“And you?”
“I won’t ask you to,” he says.
Relief and loss twist together in my chest.
When he leaves, the room feels emptier—but steadier.
That night, alone again, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling. My body still remembers. It probably always will. But memory isn’t destiny. Hunger isn’t command.
I place a hand over my heart, breathing slowly, deliberately.
Matteo is married.
Adrian is no longer mine.
And I am still myself.
The knowledge doesn’t erase the ache—but it shapes it into something I can carry. Something I must.