Page 75 of Back to You
His shoulders fell slightly, but he didn’t look away. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “I just want to be here.”
I shook my head again, feeling something inside me crack open, something raw and sharp and ugly. “That’s the problem, Sebastian,” I whispered. “You can’t be here. Because one day, you won’t be. And I can’t…” My voice broke. I squeezed my eyes shut. “I can’t do this again.”
A long beat of silence stretched between us. Then, softly, painfully, he exhaled. “I’m not him, Mariana.”
I flinched. But he wasn’t angry. His voice wasn’t cruel or demanding. It was quiet. Devastated. I looked up, and what I saw in his expression nearly undid me.
Sebastian was afraid. Afraid that I would do what I always did. That I would run. That I would push him away until there was nothing left for him to hold on to. And the thing is, I couldn’t even promise him that I wouldn’t.
Instead of answering, instead of letting him in, I looked away. “Please, Seb, just go. I need space.” I whispered.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a slow nod, he took a step back. “Okay,” he murmured. “Okay, Mariana.”
And then, he walked away.
I stood there, staring at the empty space where he had been, the silence in my apartment so loud it felt deafening. I should have called him back. I should have stopped him.
But instead, I sank onto my couch, pulled my knees to my chest, and let the grief swallow me whole.
CHAPTER 32
Mariana
Dirt and roses. That’s what I would remember.
The way the earth smelled raw and damp, heavy with the scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. The soil looked too dark, too rich, like it belonged in a garden, not in a grave. Like something was meant to grow from it, not be buried beneath it.
The cloying perfume of wilting white roses clung to the air, thick enough to choke on. Their petals were soft, too soft, fragile in a way that made my stomach turn. They weren’t supposed to be here, not like this, not wrapped in shaking fingers, not held over an open grave.
I tightened my grip on the single rose in my palm, the thorns biting into my skin. It felt like a betrayal, an offering to the ground instead of a person.
The casket creaked as it was lowered into the grave, the sound splitting the air, slicing through the cold afternoon like a blade. I flinched.
Somewhere in the crowd, a muffled sob broke free. A voice cracked on a whispered prayer, footsteps shifted on the damp grass. I heard everything and nothing at once.
The priest kept speaking, his words blending into the low hum of grief that hovered over the cemetery. I didn’t register what he was saying. Because this was it.
This was the moment they took her from me forever. I had told myself I wouldn’t cry. I had spent the morning numbing myself, pressing my nails into my palms, focusing on the weight of my mother’s favorite lavender shawl draped over my shoulders.
Anything to keep myself upright, in control, breathing. But standing there, watching them take her from me for the last time, something inside me snapped.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to claw my way into the earth and pull her back.
I wanted to shake the people standing around me, tell them to do something, to stop this, to make it right.
But no one could. No one even tried. Because this was how it was supposed to go, wasn’t it? People died. They got buried, and the living just… moved on.
My chest seized violently, my body curling inward like something had caved in on itself. I had the horrible, irrational thought that maybe if I threw myself into the grave, if I screamed loud enough, cried hard enough, begged with every broken part of me, maybe the outcome would change. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she would wake up.
Instead, I stood frozen; my fingers dug into the rose until my palm burned, blood slicking against the stem. I barely felt it. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
All I could do was watch as my mother was swallowed by the earth, and no matter how much I wanted to stop it, to change it, to bring her back—I couldn’t. She was gone, and I was still here.
Sebastian was beside me. A solid presence in a world that suddenly felt paper-thin, fragile in a way that made me feel like ifI moved too fast, too suddenly, everything would shatter around me. I didn’t look at him, but I knew he was there.
I could feel him shift closer, just slightly. A breath of warmth in the cold, numbing air. A tether to the present, to the world that was still moving forward while I stood frozen in grief. He wasn’t touching me, but he was close enough that I knew he would if I let him.
