Page 88 of The Road to You
“I can’t be the regret of your life, Michele,” I say, voice trembling. “I won’t be the reason you didn’t fight for your career.”
His brows knit together. “You wouldn’t be.”
His voice is more certain now, and I know that he really believes it. He is sure he won’t regret this choice, but I’ve thought a lot about what I would do if I decided to stay instead of flying back, and I felt a part of me die.
“You say that now. But what about two years from now? Five? When you’re watching a game and your chest aches because youcouldhave been out there. When you wonder if you gave it up for someone who was never supposed to stay.”
He winces. “That’s not fair.”
“No, it’s just the truth. Do you think I haven’t considered the idea of staying in this country with you?” A sad smile graces my lips when I see the surprise on his face.
“Yes, I thought about it, and I realize that’s not fair to me either. I could stay, try to learn Italian, and try to rebuild my career in the Italian movie industry, but it means throwing away what I worked for my entire life. Because I can’t just waltz in here and assume I’ll find someone to give me a chance to prove I’m good at acting in Italian. It doesn’t work like that. And I can’t keep working from here with LA-based directors either, because like you, I need to be there to be seen.”
I reach across the table and place my hand over his. He is warm, familiar, and my heart cracks. He doesn’t say a word, and I suspect he is trying to keep himself together, not let his emotions overwhelm him.
“I love you,” I whisper. “God, I love you so much it hurts. But we knew it would end. We said it, remember? That summer has to end at some point.”
He doesn’t speak. Just stares at our hands like he’s memorizing the way they fit.
“We’re living two different lives,” I say. “And we can’t pretend that love is going to erase the distance between them.”
He pulls his hand away, slowly. Pain flickers in his eyes, but then he nods.
Once.
And somehow, that hurts worse than anything else.
We don’t talk much after that. Back at the hotel, the silence settles between us like a blanket too heavy to breathe under, but when his fingers find mine in the dark, I turn to him.
My lips meet his, tentatively at first, but when he wraps his arms around my waist, I melt into his embrace and tighten my arms around him. I need it, I need this contact, this tightness between us, where no space is left between our bodies.
There’s no rush, no firestorm. Just a slow, aching kind of tenderness. His hand runs up my back like he’s memorizing the shape of me, every curve, every dip, every place he’s touched before, but now treats like something he’ll never touch again. My skin tingles beneath his fingers, not from desire alone, but from the weight of what this is.
The last time.
The realization lands somewhere deep in my chest and cracks open a pain I didn’t think I was ready for.
I press my forehead to his, our breath mingling. His eyes are open, searching mine, and I see the grief, the want, the helplessness. He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. I feel it in every kiss, every lingering touch, every soft stroke of his thumb across my cheek. It’s all there, his love, his goodbye.
When we undress each other, it’s quiet. No teasing, no banter, no playful looks. Just reverence. He peels away each layer of clothing like it’s sacred, like beneath them is something fragile and precious. And maybe it is. Maybe we are fragile in this moment.
He lies beside me and pulls me to him, our legs tangling, our bodies pressing together in a way that feels less like lust and more like a plea, a promise, a memory in the making.
The room is dim, the city outside muffled by thick glass and the hour of night. But in here, it’s a different world. In here, nothing exists except the warmth of his body and the rhythm of our hearts pounding against each other like they’re trying to find the same beat.
We make love slowly, deliberately. There’s nothing frantic or urgent. Just a shared desperation not to let go too soon. I clutch him like I can anchor time, but it keeps slipping away so fast it takes my breath away.
He kisses the curve of my shoulder, the edge of my jaw, the space just above my heart. I kiss him back everywhere I can reach, afraid I’ll forget the taste of his skin, the way he sighs when I whisper his name. There’s something mournful in the way we move, like we’re both already grieving what we haven’t lost yet, but know we will.
I close my eyes and let it all wash over me: the love, the loss, theeverything. He moves like he’s trying to keep a piece of me inside him. Like he already knows he’s losing me, and I hold him like I can stitch us together with my bare hands.
When it ends, we stay like that, wrapped in each other, breathing the same breath. I want to speak, to say something meaningful, something that might make it hurt less. But the words are tangled somewhere between my ribs, and I can’t get them out. I think if I do, I’ll cry. And if I start crying, I might never stop.
So I press my lips to his bare chest and just hold him tighter. This is goodbye, and neither of us says it, because saying it would make it real. And I’m not ready, maybe I never will be.
Somewhere between the quiet breaths and tangled sheets, I realize that loving him might be the most beautiful heartbreak I’ll ever have.
The car rideto the airport is a graveyard of unsaid words.
