Page 270 of Eternal
My Azra was kissing me and I loved it.
When we finally pulled away, she rested her forehead against mine, both of us panting, our breaths coming out ragged. I could feel the pulse of her heartbeat against my chest, like it was the only thing anchoring me to this moment. To her.
She didn’t kiss me back, not really. Just leaned in close enough to shatter both of us, whispered against my mouth like she didn’t want the words to live long enough to echo.
“Thank you for the breakfast…”
Her breath was warm. Her voice…wrecked.
I didn’t chase her lips again. I just watched her.
Then she blinked, pulled back, her brows knitting together like she was slowly waking up to what she’d done, what we were doing.
She stood up suddenly, brushing sand from her thighs, hoodie falling low over her shorts, curls messily tucked into that loose, falling bun she always did when she stopped caring how she looked.
But she still looked beautiful.
Heartbreaking, actually.
Like something a poet would write about and never recover from.
“I’m still mad at you,” she said, her voice too soft to sting.
I stayed seated, elbows resting behind me, watching her silhouette walk toward the shoreline. One foot in front of the other like she was on a tightrope made of pain.
The bottle dangled lazily from one hand.
Her hoodie flapped gently in the breeze, salt catching in the threads, in the ends of her loose curls.
I didn’t move.
Not until she stopped, close enough to the water that the foam almost kissed her toes. Her shoulders were curved in, like the wind was trying to whisper through her ribs.
That’s when I stood.
Slow. Quiet.
I didn’t call her name. I just walked until I was behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist. My palms found her stomach first, then slid up gently beneath the fabric of her hoodie, until they rested just under her ribs. I could feel the trembling there.
She froze, and I spoke against the curve of her neck, low and unsure. “I never hugged anyone before you.” Her breath hitched. “I was never hugged either. So, I don’t know if I’m doing it right,” I added.
She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t push me away.
Her arms dropped a little, the bottle still in her hand.
I turned her slowly in my arms, until she was facing me, eyes glassy and far away. I pushed her some curls back, gently. Let my fingers run along the frayed line of her scar like it was a constellation I’d been chasing across lifetimes.
“You always have cold hands,” I said. “I hated thinking about why.”
She sniffed, barely.
“I know what it meant when no one noticed. I just… I wanted you to have something that said I see you. That I won’t forget. Even if you're mad. Even if you never forgive me. Please keep them.”
I slipped my hand into my coat pocket and pulled out the gloves.
She looked at them like they weren’t real.
“Put them on,” I said, voice thick. “Think of me when your hands get cold.”
