Page 103 of Eternal

AZRA

“Creep” by Radiohead

Present

I sat there with my knees pulled up to my chest, toes buried in the sand that had lost its heat.

The ocean didn’t care that I was falling apart. It just kept moving. Rhythmic. Unbothered. Alive.

There was a kind of peace in this emptiness. In being alone with the sound of gulls and the far-off hum of waves crashing into rocks.

Peace, or punishment. But I kept my eyes closed, and the sun tried to kiss my face one last time before disappearing, but it couldn’t reach me. Not really. Nothing could.

And after a few moments, I can feel someone behind me.

And I hear his breath and understand immediately who it is.

“Go away,” I say, low. Not just to him, but to the memory of him. To the ache. To the mistake of needing. It’s the only defense I have. I don’t want to look behind me, don’t want to feel him before he’s even here. But I know it’s him.

I always know when it’s him .

He’s closer now, the sound of his boots dragging on the sand, the soft exhale of smoke. He’s close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to, but I don’t.

“I don’t want you here, Damir. Go away.” I don’t even mean it.

I wish I could mean it.

But all I want is for him to stay like he promised. That’s all I ever wanted. For someone to stay . For someone to take care of me when I was too tired to do so.

Maybe that’s why I’m asking him to leave. To see if he’d stay.

He doesn’t leave. He just sits down next to me, too close, too familiar, too him .

I want to tell him to go again and mean it this time.

To tell him I don’t need him here. I don’t need anyone.

But I’m too tired to keep fighting. I’m too drunk to pretend.

So, I just close my eyes, letting the sun melt over me, pretending that I’m not here.

That I’m somewhere far away from him.

“Open your eyes, Azra,” he says like he knows I’d listen. I don’t want to. I don’t want to look at him and let him in. I don’t want to feel anything right now, but the truth is, when I close my eyes, all I feel is the ache. The same ache that’s been here for as long as I can remember.

“I don’t even want to look at you.”

Please go. Don’t let me hurt you. Don’t hurt me.

But he doesn’t let me shut him out. “Azra. Open your eyes,” he says again, gentler now. His hand touches my face, fingers brushing the skin, like he’s trying to convince me. “ Please , show me your eyes.”

I open them. And there he is, too close, his blue eyes staring back at me, like I’m the only thing he sees in the world. Ocean eyes. Cold. Soft. Beautiful . “You’re beautiful, all broken like that.”

I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know how to respond. So, I just smile. It’s weak, it’s broken, and it’s not enough to hide the truth. I’m fucked up beyond repair. But I can’t stop the smile. It’s there anyway.

“Don’t,” I whisper, even though my fear is too loud to ignore. “Don’t make me want this. Don’t make me feel this.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just holds me, pulling me closer, like he’s trying to protect me from myself, from the world I don’t want him to see.

I hate how soft he is with me. It makes it more… painful.

I feel his hand move gently through my hair, like he’s trying to erase the hurt. “ Azra… Let me hold you.”

Trying to make it feel like something good. But it’s not good. It can’t be.

I’m not used to this.

I’m not used to being held. Not like this.

“You don’t know how hurt I am,” I say, and my voice cracks, but it’s so fucking cold. “And you… being here… ” I stop, taking in a breath, letting the words out slowly, “It makes it worse.”

I want him to leave. I want him to disappear and leave me with my silence, with the emptiness I know so well. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t listen to me when I tell him to go.

He pulls me even closer. His lips kiss the top of my head, soft, tender. I close my eyes again, but this time it’s not to shut him out. It’s to feel it. To feel his warmth seep into me.

“I know, partner . I know,” he whispers, his voice full of understanding I don’t want to hear.

I’m too tired to fight it. I just let him hold me. I let him make me weak .

“You know why I’m mad at you?” My voice is low now, not weak. Hurt.

He doesn’t say anything. He’s quiet, watching me with that detached and soft look he always has. Like he’s assessing damage. Or waiting for an order.

“Because you made me feel like I mattered,” I say. “You didn’t run from the mess. I was the mess, and you stayed. You took care of me like I was worth something.” I laugh under my breath.

Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.

“And the whole time, you were planning to go.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move.

“That’s not fair,” he says, finally.

I turn to him. “No? Then tell me. What is?”

He looks down for a second, like the words are hard to pick apart.

“I always wanted to stay,” he says. And it’s calm.

Flat. But not cruel. Just matter of fact, like he’s reading a report out loud.

“Even knowing how it ends. I thought maybe ... if I waited long enough, if I found a way, I could fix it. Stretch it out. Us . Me being next to you. The missions. The dinners. Me taking care of you.”

My chest tightens. Because he means it. And somehow, that makes it tragic.

“I didn’t think I was allowed to want something like this,” he adds, quieter now. “No one ever told me I could choose this. That I could want to have this with anyone. That I could want to have this with you .”

I stare at him. And my eyes caught something. Regret . Or maybe confusion. Like he's just now realizing the difference between survival and living.

“Missions. Orders. Sacrifice.” He shrugs slightly. “That’s what I knew. That’s what made sense.”

I take a shaky breath. “And I was just another one,” I whisper.

He tilts his head and smiles weakly. He’s close, but not too close.

Careful. Always careful. “No,” he says. And this time his voice almost breaks.

“You were the only part I finally had for me that I didn't want to lose.” He exhales. Looks at the sea like it might show him who he was before feeling started. Eyebrows tight. That still face. Serious Damir . The mercenary. The man they sent to kill me, because he knew where to aim. Because he kissed the soft spots with the plan to break them later. And then forgot how. “I wanted to stay,” he says. “I just didn’t know I could.”

I swallow hard, the ache in my chest turning sharp.

I laugh. Quiet. Ugly. Not because it’s funny, but because it hurts.

“You shouldn’t have been kind,” I say, staring past him.

“You should’ve left me alone and kept it clean.

” Gosh I sound stupid. Stupid. So stupid.

“You should’ve done your job and disappeared.

Not —” I swallow, hard. “Not make me think I was something soft you wanted to hold.”

He doesn’t move. Just looks at me like it’s killing him.

“I was okay thinking I didn’t deserve that kind of care. And then you showed up and made it worse. You made me hope. ”

He’s silent. Almost trembling. And I spit it out, the part that won’t stop bleeding, “You chose me in a way no one ever did. And that was the cruelest thing you could’ve done.”

“I didn’t know I was allowed to choose you forever.” Then he shakes his head slowly before looking back at me, “I’m sorry they never made you feel like you were worth staying for... like you were ever truly worth staying in your own home.”

The words hit me hard. I freeze. I almost don’t say anything, but I can’t stop it. It was almost comical. “ Home ?” I say, my laugh is fake. “Home wasn’t a place.” I shake my head, the words tasting like poison. “Home was a person. And that person was never kind.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He just pulls me closer, like he’s the one keeping me safe now. Like he’s the only one who can fix me. “I’ll be the kind home you need,” he promises, and I hate him for saying it like he means it.

I hate him for making me believe that there could be kindness, that there could be someone who cares. I let him pull me in, my head against his chest, my body pressed into his warmth, and I closed my eyes. I don’t want to feel this. I don’t want to need him. But I do.

His arms pull me closer, forcing me into him until my head rests against his chest, and his head stays on mine. “I’ll be that home for you.”

Why do I want to believe this? I just want to believe it so much.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just that I can’t stand the silence between us, but I ask. “What was your home like?” I ask, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “Did you have one?”

“I never had a home,” he says, the words like they’re weighed down with too much history. “Not the kind you mean.”

“How was it?” I ask, my curiosity fighting through the numbness.

He exhales deeply, his breath slow. His hand finds mine, holding it with his thumb caressing my skin slowly.

Up and down . “I never knew my parents. I grew up in a place with too many kids and not enough kindness.

And then left with someone who felt like a brother.

He was younger. We stole. Fought. Starved.

Slept wherever we could. Benches, floors, bridges.

It didn't matter. And then, I got into underground fights early. Broke a lot of bones for money.”

A second passes. “I made a name fast. Started getting calls. Contracts.” His voice hardens a little, like it’s easier that way. “Killed and went on missions for many people. But I didn’t care. I just wanted him to smile. So, I did what I had to.”

“Where is he now?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.

His eyes go somewhere I can’t follow, distant and far off. “He’s one of the ghosts I hate.”

“How many are they?”

“Four.”

“How did they die?”

He closes his eyes and says, “One was killed. The team never recovered from it. Sent one by one to other missions. And all of them died. I didn’t.”

“You never talk much about your life,” I say, quieter now, like I’m afraid of opening this door too wide.

“There wasn’t much life,” he answers. “Just war. Just loneliness. Until you.”

And I close my eyes.

Until me.