CHIARA
A month later
"Alright, let me know the details. I'll be coming back to Milan after the weekend." I tapped my finger on the island. "Thank you, Safiya." I hung up the call and picked up my coffee cup. I have had this tendency to watch the news these days. I think it had something to do with my age. I never liked watching TV and the news was even worse.
I glanced at the three suitcases I have managed to pack throughout the month. And then I looked around the house. It was time. It was going to be hard to part with this mansion, but I had to. His voice, his touch, his laughter, his glances, they were still fresh as if he was still around with me. He still hadn't been responding to my calls, and I took it upon myself that he blocked me completely. And not just on his phone but in his life entirely.
I went to sit on a couch, gripping the cup tightly. I took a deep breath. It was going to be alright. I had been having lunch with his family but for some obvious reason. Francesca was mad at me. And Celia wasn't as cheerful with me as before. The only people that talked to me regularly were Marcelo, Junior and Chelsea whenever she visited.
Chelsea came for a sleepover some nights. I knew it was Junior's doing. But I was grateful to both of them all the same. It wasn't easy but I was able to stop sleeping on the balcony and moved to the couches in the living room instead. I couldn't spend even a second upstairs in our rooms without sobbing my eyes out.
The annoying melody started to ring, and my glance fixated on the screen. Do they have to put these weird melodies before the news begins? I watched all the boring stuff on the news until one made me choke on my coffee. I placed the cup down, wheezing. My teary eyes did not leave the screen as the image of Carmelo appeared.
It's been a month and today I got to see him through the news. He was on live news. I picked up the remote and raised the volume. My heart was beating so wildly and my hands restless, so I clasped them together.
On the news highlight it said that within a month's time, Strada Magica, his personal company was named the best travelling agency internationally. A wide smile broke on my face. I felt like a proud mother as I watched his calm and composed face. Just like his usual self. Talking back-to-back with the news broadcaster. He looked good compared to me. I wiped my tears and chuckled. "At least one of us was winning." I mumbled in the empty living room.
"I have one last question, Mr. Conti. It's a little bit personal."
"Go ahead."
"In the past few months, we have been seeing you going around events with Chiara Marino. And we caught a whiff that you have proposed to her. So, should we expect a wedding at the end of the season? Your fans want to know."
I held my breath, watching him. Touching the diamond ring on my finger. His face was composed, and he gracefully uttered, "No. If I were to get married, my mother would make sure everybody knows."
I let out the breath I have been holding in, the corner of my lips curled as tears streamed down profusely. What did you expect, Chiara? You dumbass. I switched off the TV and roamed around the house. I had two days. Only two days left, and I'll be gone from his life, for good.
My feet took me to the room that was filled with my pictures. Yesterday Chelsea brought me the pictures I'd sent her to print for me. I walked over to the empty part of the walls and started to tie a string I'd found with Marina's help.
I then began to pin the pictures using tiny wooden clothespins. The pictures I'd taken of him while he was making cookies that night, the ones where we went to the stables together and played with Queen, and where I told him about Prince for the first time.
The ones where I was helping to shave his stubbles, the ones I'd snapped secretly, the ones where we were on his bed naked with only silk sheets covering us up to our chests, the ones we took from our countless date nights.
Every picture here held its own memories.
I was a sobbing mess once I was done hanging them. I moved back and admired my work with a grave heart. How was I supposed to forget about all of these memories as if they never happened? How was I supposed to forget him?
I simply couldn't. So, I was going to die with all those beautiful memories that he gave me.
I may not have physical scars like other people, but I had scars that had marred my heart, so deep and traumatizing. Or the ones that run in my veins, every pump burning so hot as if it were a lava running in them instead of blood. Or the ones that have crowded my mind for years and refused to let me think better about myself, every thought, demanding and suffocating, deeply depressing.
So yeah, my scars were way worse than those that meet the eyes on a skin, because while they can see it and feel it, I could only feel it.