Francesca
Love, in all its gory, is as tormenting as it is beautiful. It is this sharp pain that slices through the chest, through the cruel edge of a blade kissed by frost. It is the ache that sits deep in the marrow, the kind that gets stuck, refusing to be dislodged.
Yet, even in its brutality, it is beautiful.
It devours, it is the paradox that keeps us alive.
It is the wound as much as it is the balm, it is torment but it is also redemption.
Michaela felt that in this lifetime, and in other lifetimes as well, and it was good—it was rewarding.
Her love was the madness, the ruin—and her salvation.
That was Francesca to her.
Even though Michaela had watched Francesca die a thousand deaths—over and over—in every world, in every life. There was no greater love than the love Francesca bore for Michaela.
Because Francesca died for her.
She died every time. In every universe, on every October 14th, she gave up her life, her breath, her heartbeat—just to be with her. Just to love her. Just to keep the promise she made long ago: I’ll find you. In every world. In every life. I’ll find you.
Francesca chose her. Even when it meant losing everything. Even when it meant her life. Even when it meant dying again and again and again.
She chose her.
And Michaela chose her back.
In every universe. In every lifetime. In every breath.
In many ways, they were doomed from the start—bound by a love so fierce it defied time, fate, and destiny. A love that was infinite and cruel, beautiful and tragic, eternal and fleeting.
They were cursed by their love, and yet, they were saved by it.
Because even in death, Francesca found her. Even in heartbreak, Michaela loved her. Even in the end, they were together.
In many ways, they always chose each other.
They chose to love. They chose to fight. They chose to break, and to bleed, and to live, and to die.
They chose each other.
It was cold today. The kind of cold that gnawed at your bones, that made your breath twist in the air. The sky was gray and swollen as the clouds hung low, threatening a downpour.
I buried my hands deeper into my coat pockets, my shoulders hunched, my head low. I kept my eyes on the pavement, on the cracks and the fallen leaves, on the puddles that mirrored the dull sky.
And then I saw her.
I don’t know how my head lifted, how my eyes found her. I don’t know if it was fate or instinct, or just cruel coincidence.
Through the foggy glass of the café window, she stood there.
My Francesca.
She stood there, her back to me, her hair tumbling in soft curls down her shoulders, catching the light. She was wearing that dark blue coat, the one that brought out the color of her eyes, the one I always loved on her. Her hands were wrapped around a paper cup, her s 2houlders relaxed, her head slightly tilted.
She looked so real. So solid. So alive.
She turned slightly, her profile coming into view. Her lips were curved into the smallest of smiles, her eyes bright and warm. She looked happy. She looked peaceful. She looked like she belonged there, in that world, on that street, in that café.
She looked like she was alive.
I felt the sting of tears, the burning ache in my chest, the sharp pain that shot through me. I wanted to run to her, to wrap my arms around her, to bury my face in her hair, to breathe her in, to hold her tight and never let go.
I wanted to feel her warmth, to hear her voice, to touch her skin, to memorize the way she felt, the way she smelled, the way she loved me.
She turned, her eyes flicking toward the window, and for a split second, I thought she saw me. I thought our eyes met. I thought she recognized me.
But she looked past me, her gaze distant, her expression soft, serene, untouched. She turned back to the counter, taking her coffee, her hair falling over her shoulder, her face disappearing from view.
She never saw me, she never looked at me, because she didn’t know me.
I was a stranger to her now, a face in the crowd, a passing silhouette.
Whatever kisses we once shared, whatever memory, it had all dissolved into the shadows, solidified into something so heavy and painful, settling in my chest.
And it will stay there forever.
So in every way—she’s always a part of me.
Later that afternoon, I caught a glimpse of the gleaming twilight, I found myself resembling it to both of us—where she was light, I was the darkness, where she was the darkness, I was the light.
Before sunrise or sunset, that grey area between us where there’s an illuminating light, that’s where our distance echoed, in the disoriented constellations of our lonely ether.
The bridge between our cosmic realities was a far walk, and an even farther dream, we were close enough but still far from reach.
But at least, we shared the same sun, the same moon, the same universe.
And that is, perhaps, the only way I’ll get through this interspace between us.