Page 98 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

He does it on purpose. Keeps me close, keeps me busy, keeps me from asking the questions he doesn’t want to answer.

And I let him.

Because for all the wrong reasons, I need it too.

Our suitcases lie open across the bed, half packed. Outside, snow drifts past the window.

We’re flying back together, one jet for all of us. Back to the island, to the academy.

Back to the façade of normality.

There are still a few weeks left of term before the Christmas break, but I dread it already, knowing I’ll have to go home to Florence for the holidays. Still, that’s a thought for another day.

For now, I fold another sweater into my case and glance at Arlo as he finishes zipping his own bag.

The driver is already waiting by the time we finish packing. We load our bags into the car, large enough to fit us all.

The drive to the airstrip is short. Pine trees line the road, their branches heavy with snow, sunlight breaking through in fractured streaks.

No one speaks much. That quiet heaviness settles, the kind that always comes when something good ends.

Because despite everything, we all felt it. We’d had a good time. We’d let ourselves forget the world outside, our problems, our loyalties, the weight of who we are.

It felt good while it lasted.

By the time we reach the airfield, Isaak’s jet is already waiting, the engines humming low.

We board, settle in, and soon the world outside tilts and falls away.

I watch the mountains shrink beneath us, white fading to grey, then to the endless blue beyond.

Hours later, the island breaks through the clouds, dark cliffs looming over the sea, the familiar silhouette of St. Monarche´ rising.

It feels strange to be back.

Another car takes us toward the academy. When it stops in front of the dorms, I’m the first to step out.

The air is warmer here, yet somehow feels colder, carrying that familiar mix of salt and rain.

We start unloading our bags, the low murmur of conversation filling the quiet.

Then I stop.

The door to our building opens, and someone steps out.

For an instant, I think I’m imagining it. My breath catches, my pulse falters.

“Eleanor,” I whisper, disbelief and relief colliding in my chest.

She looks up, her brown eyes meeting mine.

It’s her.

Eleanor.

But not the girl I remember.

The Eleanor I knew had light in her eyes and laughter. This version looks… hollow. Her skin is pale, her gaze dimmed, her shoulders drawn in as though she’s carrying something too heavy to name.