Page 420 of Eternal
My heart drops into my stomach.
“Damir,” I whisper, suddenly breathless.
“What?” he says, mock-innocent. “It tasted good.”
“You are…” I shake my head, laughing, flustered.
“I am what?” He leans in, lips grazing my ear. “Too much?”
“Very,” I say, trying to sound annoyed, but my voice comes out too soft, too real.
He hums like that’s a win. “Good. You deserve too much.”
I glance at the table, at the crumbs, the little candle still half melted beside us. “You really did all this for me?”
He leans back, arms around my waist again. “Of course I did. You think I was gonna let you have a regular birthday?”
“I’ve never had one.”
His face shifts slightly, something darker, more knowing behind his smile. “Then this is your first,” he says, brushing hair behind my ear. “And your best. Starting now.”
I feel his words like a fingerprint against my ribs, warm and permanent.
“God, you’re so…” I stop myself.
But it’s there, loud in my throat.
I love you.
It stays trapped in my chest, pounding.
He watches me with that barely-there smile, like he hears it anyway, then he whispers, “Eat, birthday girl.” And kisses the side of my neck again.
117
DAMIR
“Starlight” by Muse
Present
Inever cared about birthdays.
When you grow up without a real one, no date circled on a calendar, no cake, no candles, you stop waiting for it.
She didn’t know I was watching her that night, after she sang it. Her, barefoot in the sand, voice a little breathless from laughing at something I’d said. I let it slip, that it was my birthday, not even the real day, probably, no one ever told me what it was, simply the one on paper.
She didn’t ask why I hadn’t told her. Didn’t say “Happy Birthday” with pity in her eyes, she smiled… and started singing.
Happy birthday to you…
Soft, slightly off-key, beautiful, like everything she does. She looked away after a while, out toward the sea, and I did what I always used to do, what I hadn’t done in years.
She didn’t know I was watching her afterward. The way she stared out at the water, hair curling wild in the wind, lost in something private.
And I, like a damn idiot, lifted my hands and framed her with my fingers, like a picture. Like I used to do with the guys.
Roman was the last photo I took. Laughing under streetlights in Belgrade, blood drying on his knuckles. He died three months later.
