Five Years of Fiction — Episode 8

a soft half. Letting go didn't always mean screaming or sobbing. Sometimes, it was seeing that every time he turned away, he had never chosen you. I walked nearly 40 minutes in the rain before I reached the visa center. My hair was soaked, my skirt clung to my legs, and my documents were nearly ruined. A staff member handed me hot water and asked if I

to rest. I shook my head over the documents one by one. Stamp. Confirm. Sign. When the last form was taken away, I stared at the small blue stamp and felt my heart go strangely quiet. Now only one ticket stood between me and the Moretti estate. The rain still hadn't stopped I couldn't get a cab, so I had to walk back along the street. Rain dripped from my hair into

collar, cold enough to make my teeth chatter. By the time I returned to the estate, it was already dark. I didn't go to the dining room or alert anyone. But even a hot shower drive away the chill. And soon I started to burn with fever. When my mind was at its blurriest, I dreamed too many things I dreamed of the crash blinding headlights and Luca

saying in that careless voice that he hadn't decided how to deal with me yet