Page 111 of The Slug Crystal
I feel a hysterical laugh building in my chest and swallow it down. If I start laughing now, I might not stop, and the thin thread of control I'm clinging to would snap entirely.
"We'll figure it out," Jake says, his hand finally finding mine. His fingers are warm and solid, but I can barely feel them through the numbness spreading through me. I manage a weak squeeze in response, but can't bring myself to look at him. If I see the concern in his eyes, the determined hope he maintains despite everything, I might shatter completely.
More silence follows, stretching like taffy until it thins and breaks. The men make a couple of sporadic attempts at conversation. First about the weather, then about Italian traffic laws. Both attempts fizzle quickly, leaving us in that heavy silence that seems to grow denser with every passing mile.
By the time we reach the villa, I feel a combination of depression, anxiety, and stress so heavy that I feel like I can barely move. I step out of the taxi, Alex's terrarium cradled against my chest, and move toward the house without waiting for the others.
I hear Jake call my name softly, but I can't turn around. I can't look at any of them right now. If I see concern, pity, or helplessness that mirrors my own, I don’t think I will make it.
Inside, the villa feels different somehow. It’s less like a sanctuary and more like a beautiful prison. The remnants of yesterday's storm-induced intimacy linger in the living room. The cushions still slightly askew, empty wine glasses on the coffee table, and the faint scent of rain still clinging to the air. I walk past it all, up the stairs to the second floor, and out onto the balcony that overlooks the rolling hills.
The view that captivated me when we first arrived now seems to mock me with its perfect beauty. Vineyards stretch toward the horizon, their neat rows extending like fingers toward distant mountains tinged purple in the fading light. Cypress trees stand like exclamation points against the landscape, emphasizing the permanence of this place that has existed for centuries and will continue to exist long after our impossible quest is forgotten.
I set Alex's terrarium on the small table beside the balcony railing. The blue snail has finally emerged from his shell, moving slowly across the glass floor of his enclosure. His pace seems even more deliberate than usual, each small movement requiring visible effort. Or maybe I'm projecting my own exhaustion onto him, seeing in his snail movements the bone-deep weariness I feel in every cell of my body.
Below, I hear the others moving around. Their quiet voices, the clink of glasses, and the sound of things being shuffled around in the living room. No one comes to find me. They're giving me space, time to process and to grieve this latest setback. Their consideration only makes the pressure behind my eyes build further.
I slump into the chair beside Alex's terrarium, my shoulders curving inward as if I could physically fold around the pain in my chest. The blue candle from the shopkeeper sits heavy in my pocket. I pull it out, turning it in my hands, studying the deep blue wax that so closely matches Alex's shell. "For protection on your journey," she'd said. "And to light your way home."
But what journey? Everything feels impossible now, stretched too thin across too great a distance.
"I don't know if I can fix this, Alex," I whisper to the terrarium, my voice barely audible even to myself. The blue snail pauses in his exploration, antennae extending toward the glass as if listening. "Bali is literally on the other side of the world. And even if we somehow get there, find Sarah,convince her to help..." I trail off, the magnitude of the task crushing the words in my throat.
The snail remains motionless, body still pointed in my direction. In the light, his blue shell takes on a deeper hue, almost iridescent against the backdrop of the sunlit sky. Is he understanding me? Is the human Alex still in there somewhere, listening, comprehending the impossibility of his situation?
Or is he just a snail now, concerned only with lettuce and water and the small glass world that has become his entire existence?
I stay on the balcony for a long time, the blue candle clutched in my hand like a talisman, the terrarium beside me containing what used to be my boyfriend and is now the physical manifestation of my greatest mistake.
Voices drift up occasionally. Words in Marco's scholarly tone, echoes of Ben's sardonic laugh, and snippets of Luca and Jake's deeper murmurs. But no one calls for me. No one intrudes on this time of private surrender.
I think about texting Alina, but I’m not ready to share my despairing news. Not yet.
For the first time, since the moment I realized what had happened to Alex, I allow myself to consider the possibility that this can't be fixed. That some transformations, once made, cannot be unmade. That some journeys lead not to resolution but to acceptance of what cannot be changed.
The thought settles over me like a blanket. It’s heavy, suffocating, but somehow containing within its weight the first seeds of a terrible peace.
25THE MIDNIGHT KITCHEN: PART TWO
Wednesday,12:06AM. The tiles are cool against my bare feet as I pad downstairs, guided by the dim glow of the flashlight on my phone. My shoulders ache with tension, my eyes burn from the tears that finally escaped on the balcony.
Sleep is impossible. My mind won't stop churning with thoughts, so I've come seeking the universal comfort of a midnight snack, with Alex's terrarium clutched against my chest.
I place his glass home carefully on the counter, positioning it where he can see me but far enough from the edge to be safe. He’s active despite the late hour, methodically exploring the walls of his enclosure as if searching for an exit that doesn't exist. I know the feeling.
"What do you think, Alex?" I whisper, opening the refrigerator door. "Cheese? Leftover pasta? What cures the realization that your ex-boyfriend might be permanently transformed into a snail?" The light from inside spills across the stone floor, illuminating my bare legs beneath the oversized t-shirt I stole from Luca yesterday. I’m wearing it as a nightgown, again.
Alex offers no opinion, continuing his slow circumnavigation of his glass world.
I'm reaching for a container of olives when a shadow falls across the refrigerator light. I turn to find Marco in the doorway, his tall frame backlit by the hallway sconce. He's still dressed in the clothes he wore earlier, though his shirt is wrinkled and his hair stands slightly askew, as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly.
"I thought I heard someone," he says softly. "Couldn't sleep either?"
"My brain won't shut up," I admit, pulling out cheese, olives, and the remains of this morning's bread. "Food seemed like the next best option to actual rest."
Marco steps further into the kitchen, the light from the fridge reflecting off his glasses as he adjusts them. "A reasonable strategy. The digestive process redirects blood flow away from the brain, potentially reducing cognitive activity."
Despite everything, a small smile tugs at my lips. Even at midnight, he can't help giving out miscellaneous facts. "Is that your way of saying a full stomach makes you sleepy?"
