Page 147 of Eternal

DAMIR

“Lost Love Letters” by Fog Lake

Present

I got back to my apartment later than I expected.

The place is scattered with the stuff I got for her. I went all out today.

I found vinyls from Oasis and Deftones, bands she’s obsessed with but never owned. Picked up some Radiohead too, and the Goo Goo Dolls. That part was easy.

But then I found something she never even mentioned, a Fairouz album. I didn’t even know who she was until a few days ago, when I heard her singing one of her songs in Arabic while she was in the shower. It took some digging to track it down, but I did.

I hope she’ll be surprised. I also got her a bike helmet, bright and deep blue, exactly like the one she joked about wanting last week.

And a hoodie, the same color and size as mine.

I wonder if she’ll wear it or just steal mine like she usually does.

Feels weird, honestly, buying all this for someone

It’s the first time I’ve ever done anything like this for anyone. Am I doing it right?

I was thinking the kitchen could use a new fridge too. She loves her cereal and yogurt for breakfast, and the one I have now barely fits all that. So I’m gonna look into getting a bigger one soon, to give her space to keep all her favorites easily. And the couch. I found this blue one online.

It’s supposed to arrive in two days. I can already picture it brightening up the living room. It’s not here yet, but I can’t wait to show it to her.

Outside, I rebuilt the swing, planted some irises by the fence. No idea how to care for flowers, but I wanted her to see it. See her smile.

I’m still thinking about all this when the door opens.

And there she is… But she’s not smiling.

She steps inside, clutching something tight, that plushy, Sunny . Her eyes are red, puffy like she’s been crying.

My chest tightens, and a thousand questions rush through my head. Is it something I did? Did I miss a sign?

She moves slowly, almost like she’s trying not to make a sound. She grabs a glass from the cabinet, then my whiskey bottle. I want to say something, but the words get stuck. She fills the glass, downs it in one gulp, then leans against the counter, exhaling hard.

I step closer, almost without thinking, I reach out, turn her gently around, and pull her into a hug. No words. No explanations. I hold her tight.

Her arms hang cold and still at my sides, and I ask softly, “Was it tough, baby?”

She nods, barely. I let go and take her hand. “Come on, sit with me. Tell me everything.”

She lets me lead her to the sofa, where I pull her close like I’m trying to keep her safe from the world. I don’t have answers to all the questions in her head. But I’m here.

She’s curled into me on the couch, her knees tucked up, her head resting under my chin. My hand’s in her hair, moving slowly, like maybe if I keep it steady enough, I can calm whatever storm’s been tearing through her all day.

She’s quiet. Still. But not in a peaceful way, in that holding it in until it breaks way.

Then I feel her shift. She reaches into her hoodie pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. It’s almost muscle memory, she doesn’t even think about it. She pulls one out, then the lighter, a small click, a flame.

I watch her bring it to her lips. The glow of it lights up her face for half a second, and then she exhales slowly, through her nose, like she’s trying to breathe the ache out.

“You need to stop, Azra,” I say. I’m not scolding her. I’m… scared for her.

She doesn’t argue.

“I want to,” she says. “I promise.”

I wrap my arm tighter around her shoulder, pull her in closer like I’m afraid she’ll vanish if I loosen up even a little.

“How did it start?” I ask, not sure I want to know, but knowing I have to.

She hesitates. The cigarette burns between her fingers, smoke curling near her face. Then,

“Willingly? When I was fourteen,” she says. “Foster house. He used to give me pills or force meth in my veins when… when he didn’t want me to scream. Or if his friends came over. Sometimes alcohol. Just enough to knock me out.”

I freeze, my hand stills in her hair, and my chest turns to stone.

“I didn’t even know what half the stuff was,” she continues. “But later I started taking it myself. Stuff from their bathroom. Medicine cabinet. Painkillers, sleep meds. I’d pocket bottles when no one was looking.”

I squeeze her a little, not enough to hurt, simply to remind her I’m still here, listening, not going anywhere.

“I started drinking whenever I could get my hands on it. By the time I was fifteen, I had someone at school who’d sell me stuff. Pills. Bottles. Whatever. It wasn’t even about escaping anymore. I think I only wanted to disappear.”

“And then?” I whisper. I shift on the couch, pulling her closer, arms around her like a shield I wish I could've been back then. She takes a drag of her cigarette, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the window, lost in whatever past is gripping her.

“I was seventeen,” she says quietly. “That night, when he almost killed me.”

My breath catches. My fingers tense in her hair.

“I didn’t even want the baby,” she continues. “But it still… It still hurt. My body mourned it even if I didn’t get the chance to. And after that night, I knew I wouldn’t be able to have any. That something in me was broken for good.”

She says it without shaking, without tears. Like it’s something she’s told herself enough times to numb the sting. But I feel it, raw and jagged under every word.

“I drank everything I had in my room. Mixed pills. Stumbled into the bathtub and let it all bleed out of me. Woke up a day later. Cold. Alone.”

I pull her tighter, trying not to let my own throat close up. Her voice doesn’t need pity, it needs presence. “And after that?” I manage.

“I stopped for a while. Found Kat. Found Vik. Gave all that rage a target.” She laughs under her breath, bitter and sharp. “Turns out revenge is a hell of a rehab.”

I exhale slowly, forehead resting against hers. “Why now?”

She’s quiet for a long beat. “Now I feel again,” she finally says. “Because of you. And it’s terrifying. I spent so long trying to shut everything off, and now it’s like… every nerve is awake. Every ache, every crack.”

I touch her cheek. “I know.”

She leans into it barely. “I don’t want to become her. My mother. I don’t want to drink myself into silence.”

I follow her gaze to the bottle on the counter.

“You don’t need it when you’re with me,” I tell her.

She flicks ash into the tray, not meeting my eyes. “I need it when I’m with myself.”

“I need you whole,” I whisper. “Not perfect. Just here. Really here.”

She closes her eyes. “I know.”

I let the words sit there for a moment, then I kissed her forehead, gentle and sure. “Promise me you’ll slow it down. Then I’ll take you somewhere else.”

She opens her eyes, and finally meets mine. “Okay.”

I hold her tighter, and she stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray, setting it aside.

Then, without a word, she turns toward me and folds herself into my arms.

I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath all night. She’s here, she’s mine, in all the ways that matter.

She buries her face in my neck, and I feel her breath against my skin when she whispers, “Promise me we’re really eternal .”

I tighten my arms around her, hand against the back of her head, and answer her the only way that feels right. “I promise you. We are.”