In Time
It was the sensation of falling.
A suspended descent, like sinking through water, caught in a quiet twist of something that feels close to gravity, but not quite.
Michaela’s body felt distant. Like a makeshift vessel made out of shadows, barely entwined to the scene around her. She was somewhere—nowhere—floating between spaces that felt neither like time or air. Just, a hollow pool of wonder.
She was moving. But there was no direction, no compass, no sense of navigation. Just that same pull, gentle and comforting, like a boat in river streams, or the feeling of a lover’s words draping from their tongue like a falling feather. She was just existing—or not existing, Either way, it was not frightening.
It was familiar.
Then Michaela woke up to warmth.
It felt like stepping into a memory.
One moment, she was standing on the edge of something, something so wide, and incomprehensible, something nameless, and ghostly but the pressure wedged into her reality.
For a fraction of a second, she couldn’t tell if she was still dreaming.
The finest line between waking and sleep had been distorted before—when her mind conjured the death of Francesca, when her voice caught static in the silence. But this, this was different. This was not a half-formed specter, not the slightest indication of a presence that would wilt if she touched it.
This felt real.
There was this rustle of fabric, the shift of breath beside her. A body pressed into the mattress, warm, warm as a body. And then—a sigh, low and familiar. A sigh that felt like home.
A voice, still thick with sleep.
“Michaela?”
She froze.
Lightning tinged the sound that came from that voice, it struck her ear wildly—it was impossible, unreal, and wrapped around her oddly.
She tried to catch her breath, ultimately failing every few seconds.
Francesca.
The world—her world at least, it stilled.
Francesca was lying beside her, tangled under the bed sheet, hair messy from sleep, blinking at her unknowingly. There was a golden streak of light that settled gently on her face, and it was clear as day—her beauty, her blue eyes, her lips slightly parted.
Michaela’s fingers twitched. Something in her chest clenched so tightly, she thought she might combust right then and there.
Francesca slightly frowned, reaching her left palm to caress Michaela’s cheeks.
“Darling, you’re shaking.”
Michaela exhaled sharply, a strangled sound catching her throat,.
This was a dream, it had to be.
But if it was, then it was the cruelest kind. Though she did ask to dream of Francesca, she did not expect it to feel……real. Like it was something she could lose.
Michaela reached out for Francesca’s palm hand that rested on her cheeks, she held them in her hands, opened them gently, brushing her fingers over the lines that mapped her skin—the reality of it, the tangibility.
Her touch was reverent, she trembled against her skin, as if she were afraid Francesca was delicate, that the pressure would cause her to dissolve into the abyss entirely.
She was real.
Solid. Warm.
“You’re here,” Michaela whispered, the words tasting foreign in her mouth.
Francesca’s expression softened, giving a small, confused smile.
“Of course I am, where else would I be?”
Michaela inhaled sharply, forcing in a cry, her nose stinging at the pressure, the way it clawed up to her throat.
She gripped Francesca’s hands tighter, taking her knuckles to her lips.
“Are you real?” Michaela whispered through stifled tears, droplets of water fell onto Francesca’s skin, glistening like broken glass.
Francesca looked worried now. She moved closer, her fingers slipping into Michaela’s hair, tilting her chin up gently. Her touch was grounding, it was comfortable.
Without another word, Francesca leaned in, her lips brushing against Michaela’s with a softness that felt close to a promise.
The kiss was alive, like a spark catching fire, breathing warmth into Michaela’s chest. Her lips felt like sunlight after a long, harsh winter. Her heart fluttered at the softness of her skin, like the tip of a rose latched onto hers through velvet breaths.
Michaela’s fingers tangled in Francesca’s hair, pulling her closer, needing the heat of her, the solidity, the certainty of her presence. Her body pressed against Francesca’s, closing in every space between them, leaving no room for fickleness.
It was just them now, and this was good.
Michaela pulled away, catching her breath, but her eyes remained fixed on Francesca’s. She took in the sight of her—it felt as though she was high from the haze of her scent, of her.
She willed herself to breathe, to make sense of what was happening. But at the same time, there was nothing else in the world she wanted but right now, right now was good—so whatever this was could wait.
Michaela wasn’t about to question it.
Not now.
Not when she had the impossible within reach.
She swallowed, chuckling under her breath.
“I—think I had a bad dream,” Michaela whispered, tears still falling down her cheek.
Francesca hummed, shifting closer, wrapping her arms around Michaela and pulled her closer. Michaela’s chest ached at the gentleness of her body being pressed into hers. She held her close, Francesca’s chin resting at the top of Michaela’s head, her fingers stroking her hair softly, soothing her.
Michaela sank into her, melting against Francesca’s body, curling into the tenderness she offered. She could feel Francesca’s heartbeat beneath her cheek, it was rhythmic and alive.
She was home again.
“I’m here now,” Francesca murmured. “I’ve got you.”
Michaela’s chest tightened, her fingers clutching onto Francesca’s shirt, holding on with need. She didn’t trust herself to speak, her throat wouldn’t budge at the tightness, her heart was too full.
She just held Francesca tighter, letting herself be enclosed in her embrace, wrapped in her arms, her heartbeat.
She felt safe.
She felt whole.
Michaela was exactly where she was supposed to be.
This was good.
Michaela and Francesca’s days lived on. Falling into each other like pages turning in a book.
Their mornings were lazy, but it was spectacular, shining brightly as a canopy of golden urns. Sunlight spilt through the windows in dappled patterns, blending on the hardwood floors like liquid gold.
Their weekends were better, lazier. Francesca would stretch, catlike and graceful, her hair tumbling over her shoulders in messy waves, her face half-buried in the pillow as she mumbled incoherent words that made Michaela's heart smile.
"Good morning to you too," Michaela would tease, her fingers tracing circles in Francesca's bare shoulder, her touch light as feathers, lingering as an aftertaste.
Francesca would grumble, her eyes squinting against the sunlight, but her lips would curl into a smile. "Too early."
"It's nearly noon," Michaela would remind her, pressing a kiss onto her shoulder, her skin familiar under her lips.
Francesca pulled Michaela closer, her hands firm on her waist, her mouth pressing softly against hers. The kiss started of gently, till it deepened, like a whisper, a secret, hot and heavy heat unfurling between them, lips parting, breaths mingling. Michaela's fingers tangled in Francesca's hair, pulling her closer, her boding arching beneath her.
Francesca moved over her, settling herself on top of Michaela, her hips rolling slowly, grinding down her lap, drawing out a shuddering breath from Michaela's hips. Their mouths moved together naturally, as natural as breathing.
Her fingers found the buttons of Michaela's shirt, impatiently threading through the buttons, slipping them free one by one. She pushed the fabric aside, her hands slipping beneath, the tip of her fingers skimming over Michaela's curves, worshipping her like a prayer.
Michaela's body arched into Francesca's touch, her hands moving to Francesca's blouse, pulling it up over her head, her fingers brushing over warm skin.
The blouse fell away, forgotten, and Michaela pressed her lips to Francesca's collarbone, trailing kisses downward, her mouth finding her chest, her tongue tracing lazy circles around her nipples, savoring every inch of her.
Francesca gasped, her fingers tightening in Michaela's hair, her body pressing closer as her head fell back.
Their mouths found each other once again, this time hungrier, much hungrier, placing kisses where her infatuation unfolded.
Like rubbing clementines on her lips, Francesca tasted sweet, citrus flesh smeared in the corner of her mouth, her hands moving beneath the waistband of her shorts.
She pulled them down slowly, deliberately, the fabric slid gracefully over Michaela's thighs, leaving her bare, vulnerable, and open. Francesca settled between her legs, her body like serpentine vines into Michaela's, her hands gentle on her hips, her mouth pressing soft, reverent kisses along the insides of her thighs, feeling like sheaths of silk, brushing against the tender, moonlit sheath of her legs.
Michaela's breath trembled, her fingers curling into the sheets. Her body was arching as her ribcage became a drum, so wild and relentless. The beat of life surged through her like a raging river, her lips felt like whispers of fire against her skin, firing up every nerve in their wake. Her mouth moved, descending with deliberate grace.
Then Francesca's mouth met the velvet hollow between her legs, her tongue moving in languid circles, threading her sensitive nerves like a painter's brush, tracing her pulse. She wrote sonnets on her delicate skin, tasting the salt and the nectars.
Francesca tasted her like rain in the summer that dawdled on parched earth, drawing out a scream, of a name only the dead of the night could hear.
Michaela's fingers gripped Francesca's hair, gentle but demanding, pulling her closer, practically begging for more.
Her tongue, a molten brush, mapping out traces in the hidden folds of her soft gates. Dancing, twirling, dipping into her like a honeypot, pressing firmer, more grounding with every lick, every kiss.
Michaela's moans were a series of breathless hymns, her chest rose and fell, her legs twitching as Francesca hooked her arm around Michaela's thighs. Michaela took in the waves of pleasure ascending in her body.
Then a gasp, sharp as a bolt of lightning, escaped the crest of her lips, fracturing the air before them. Michaela's hips rose to meet the tempo of Francesca's tongue, aching to sprout.
Time was a ripple in the ocean where her breath drew her flesh, each second a wave cresting, crashing, and receding. Michaela convulsed beneath Francesca, feeling the tremors in her hips as her thighs tightened around her shoulder. Her every muscle pulled tight like a string about to snap.
Francesca's lips were left glistening, and their eyes met, sharing a sly, breathless smile. Without a second breath, Michaela pulled Francesca closer, her mouth coilliding with hers, so desperate, still hungry, tasting herself on Francesca's lips.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, hugging their limbs on one another. They could have stayed there forever, wrapped up in each other, in sunlight and warmth, in love and in life.
But then Michaela's stomach growled, which then they both responded with a burst of laughter. Francesca turned to meet Michaela's eyes, her cheeks flushed. "Hungry?"
Michaela's face grew warm, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. "Maybe a little."
Francesca's laughter was soft, almost like a song, filling every space in Michaela's chest, ones that emptied when she was gone. She kissed Michaela's collarbone, then pulled back. "Breakfast?"
Michaela grinned. "Only if you're cooking."
Francesca's laughter filled the room, and Michaela's heart swelled.
"Deal," Francesca whispered, her lips brushing Michaela's.
They kissed, and at that moment, Michaela did not want it to end. The endless ecstasy of being, of existing in this perfect instant where destiny bent to their will.
The world outside blurred; it was inconsequential to the little universe they had in confines of their bedroom.
Michaela didn't want it to end. She wanted more, more of her.
She could not imagine a life with someone else. Michaela wishes that Francesca knew that whichever stranger that catches her eye would never discern the warmth of her breath around her neck, untethered like midnight’s breeze seeping through her window panes.
She wishes that Francesca knew that no stranger would be able to hear her laughter through the stillness of it all. No lover will ever know her kindness, when the fall season graces their trees with falling leaves, they’ll never know how soft it cradles around her palms when she tries to catch one.
Francesca was simply hers, melting into her so perfectly.
Her Francesca.
.
For every love Michaela had for herself, which wasn't as much as she'd hoped, she had spared everything for her.
She would settle to be the fibers in her pillowcase if it meant she got to hold her bad dreams; she'd let Francesca lay it on her, but ferociously hoping she wouldn't cut open the wound she'd stitched perfectly.
7:36 PM
Their flat was quiet, save for the sounds of the city outside. Michaela sat curled up on the couch, a book open in her lap, though she hadn't turned a page in what felt like hours. The light was dim, the sky was an expanse of soft grey, something felt thick within her, she couldn't exactly pinpoint what.
She barely noticed the first drops of rain.
Dewy droplets pattered against the window, like fingertips tapping on glass. It was comforting at first, because it was familiar and soothing, one that reminded her of gentle afternoons spent wrapped in Francesca's arms, of days where time stretched endlessly.
But then the rain grew heavier.
The patter was now a drumbeat, the sky became darker, the clouds rolling in like ink spilt from heaven. The wind picked up, rattling the windowpanes, and a strange, creeping unease crawled under Michaela's skin.
She closed her book, something wasn't right.
She reached for her phone. But then hesitated.
She was not sure why she was worried. Francesca had left that morning like she always did, kissing her goodbye and murmuring something about dinner plans. There was no reason for her chest to feel this tight or for her breath to become this shallow.
Still, she pressed the call button.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
No answer.
Her stomach twisted.
She tried again.
Nothing.
She swallowed, pressing her phone harder against her ear, prompting herself to stay calm.
Another ring.
Then—
“Hello?”
Michaela let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Francesca?”
“Hi Darling,” Francesca’s voice was warm, familiar, wrapped in the static of the storm. “Sorry, I did not hear my phone ring. I’m just finishing up work. About to leave in a few.”
Michaela exhaled, pressing her fingers to her temple. “I—yes. Okay, I do not know why I got worried.”
Francesca laughed softly, innocently, that same light teasing sound that always eased the knot in Michaela’s chest. “Because of the rain?”
“I guess,” Michaela said, glancing out the window, watching the streams of water pouring itself down the glass. “It’s just…really bad out.”
“It’s just a storm, my love,” Francesca reassured her. “I’ll be home soon, okay? I love you.”
Michaela closed her eyes, leaning against the couch. “I love you too.”
Then the call ended.
The storm kept roaring outside, the rain was pounding harder, the wind howled through the streets. Thunder cracked in the distance, rattling through the crevices of Michaela’s bones.
She tried to distract herself, to find something to do—anything. She picked up her book again, brushing her fingers along the paper, tracing her index through the words that looked slurred and all wrong.
Her stomach churned, there was an uneasy feeling that she could not explain, like a mysterious itch at the back of her mind.
Something wasn’t right.
It had been 30 minutes at this point, 30 minutes since she heard Francesca’s voice.
She told herself she was being ridiculous.
She told herself that she’d hear Francesca’s keys in the door any second now, her her laugh as she shook of the rain from her coat, feel her arms wrap around her, because she was whole, and she was here.
But then—
There was a vibration.
Her phone lit up on the coffee table.
A news notification. October 14th.
Michaela almost didn’t check it.
But her fingers moved on her own.
Severe Weather Conditions Lead to Multiple Accidents—Fatal Crash on—
The words scrambled, warped, and rearranged themselves in Michaela’s head.
She knew before she even finished reading.
She knew before she even heard the sirens wailing outside, before the world collapsed before her once again, into something unrecognizable before everything—everything—turned into nothing.
She knew.
Because she had already lost her before.