Page 30 of Mine Again
My thumb lingers on the glass.
Then, slowly, I place the frame back into the drawer. I take off his necklace and place it beside it.
As if trying to pull me back in, my eyes land on something golden, tucked in the corner, barely visible beneath a folded scarf.
A pale gold ribbon. Frayed at the ends, soft from years of being handled. It was tied around the first box of chocolates.
On autopilot, I reach for it, curling it around my fingers. The satin feels like a memory against my skin.
For a second, just a second, I let myself get pulled back to hours of imagining what life would’ve been like if our wedding day had gone ahead. If Luca had stayed and I’d gotten to love him out loud, in the open.
No, Isa. Don’t get lost in what-ifs.
That world doesn’t exist.
Don’t falter now.
I let the ribbon fall back into the drawer and close it before my resolve wavers more.
I glance toward the corner again.
It’s time.
The camera is nearly invisible, hidden like a secret. I’ve lived under its gaze so long it has become part of the room. Part of me.
Sebastian’s eyes flash through my mind. The way they lingered. The spark they lit in me, however small.
I will never see him again. And that’s okay.
But he made me feel something. And maybe that’s enough to show me the truth.
I can’t keep living in the past, clinging to a ghost. I owe it to myself.
If Luca were alive, he would have come. He would have found a way.
I still love him. Always will.
But I can’t live in limbo. I may have lost him. But I won’t lose myself.
I cross the room, drag the chair from my desk, and climb onto it, heart pounding. My fingers reach for the camera.
Time to reclaim my life.
It takes a little effort. Luca installed it well. But eventually it loosens, and I unplug the wires.
I hold the small device in my hand. A relic of my past. Ofus.
“I love you, Luca,” I whisper, bringing it to my heart and holding it there. “But it’s time to let you go.”
I climb down and open the drawer again, setting the camera gently next to his picture and necklace.
My fingers hesitate before sliding it shut. I’m really doing this.
I sit on the edge of my bed again and stare at the dark corner where that quiet sentinel used to be.
For the first time in years, something feels different.
Not lighter. Not free.
