𝓘𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓶𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓯𝓮𝓪𝓻 

  

The car moves along the deserted street, the city lights illuminating the cold night. With each passing minute, I notice how tense my aunt is. She is visibly lost in her thoughts, her gaze fixed on some distant point, as if she is trying to escape something that torments her.  

As we approach our destination, she seems to return to reality a bit, as if she feels the weight of being near home. The car parks in front of a simple but well-kept building. My aunt struggles to unbuckle her seatbelt, and I see her hesitate for a moment.  

— Aunt, let’s go in, you need to calm down — I insist, looking at her with concern.  

She makes a move as if she is going to get out of the car but stops midway, looking straight ahead with vacant eyes.  

— I… I don’t know if I can — she says in a hoarse voice, full of insecurity. — I can’t go in… not now.  

I stare at her, trying to understand what’s happening, but lacking the courage to ask directly. Something in her posture makes me realize there is an enormous weight on her shoulders. That man who appeared at our door threatening her… all of this seems to have made my aunt feel powerless, as if she were a prisoner of her own past.  

— Aunt, you’re not alone. I’m here, and we will get through this together — I speak firmly, trying to give her some confidence.  

She looks at me, her eyes a little more focused now, as if she is trying to see me through the veil of fear and doubt that surrounds her. She takes a deep breath, still tense, but takes the first step to get out of the car.  

— Let’s go — I say, opening the door for her.  

Together, we walk to the entrance of the building. She hesitates for a second when she reaches the door, as if thinking about backing out, but when she sees me by her side, she gathers courage. She slides the key into the lock and opens the door.  

As we enter the house, the environment feels familiar, but something is wrong. The dim lights and the quietness of the place are uncomfortable. The smell of coffee mixed with aged wood is still in the air, but there is something different. The silence feels dense, laden with a palpable tension.  

Looking around, I notice that the house is disorganized in a way that is uncharacteristic of her. The sofa is messy, with cushions scattered on the floor. The wooden floor is covered with crumpled papers and some empty beer bottles. Books are strewn across tables and chairs, as if someone had abandoned the place suddenly. The air is heavy, as if the house is trying to hide something, and that disarray only heightens my sense that something is not right here.  

She looks around, and for a moment, her eyes fixate on the objects scattered across the floor. Her face contorts in an expression of pain, as if each piece of disorder hurts her.  

— Aunt, tell me what’s going on. What did that man want from you? — I ask, trying to break the silence, but my voice comes out hesitant, as if I don’t want to push the situation further.  

— It was nothing… — She tries to evade the question.  

I don’t want to force her, but I need to know in order to help her.  

I step forward, standing in front of her, and gently touch her hair.  

— Trust me, Clarice. I want to help you.  

She eyes me wide, surprised that I called her by her name, but soon looks away and shakes her head.  

— You’re too young to understand.  

She tries to pull away again, but before she can, I step in her path and hold her face gently. My eyes meet hers, pleading for her to open up to me.  

She looks bewildered by my gesture, her breath faltering, and her lips part as if she wants to say something… but at the last second, she stutters:  

— I… need to clean up this mess.  

And she runs away again.  

— I’ll help you — I say, determined.  

As we start to clean up, I notice the details that make that scene even more disturbing: cigarette butts scattered everywhere, a fine white powder on the table I dare say is cocaine, shards of glass, and dead flowers.  

A sigh laden with pain echoes through the room, and I turn quickly.  

My aunt is standing still, holding a piece of paper in her hands.  

— What is it, aunt? — I ask, approaching her.  

She lifts her gaze to me, her eyes filled with fury and sorrow.  

— Caio is a bastard!  

Her hands tremble, and then, in a fit of rage, she tears the paper.  

— He condemned me! He… my father!  

Her voice comes out in a scream of pain, a shout laden with repressed feelings, years of forced silence.  

She starts to pull her hair hard, desperation overflowing in every movement. Her fingers grip the strands as if she wants to tear them out, as if she wants to rip out the pain itself.  

Without thinking, I grab her arms, preventing her from hurting herself.  

— Stop, aunt! — my voice comes out firm but anxious. — Don’t do this!  

She tries to break free, but I hold on tighter. Her eyes fill with tears, her chest rising and falling too quickly.  

— I want to die! — she screams, her voice heavy with anguish. — I can’t take it anymore, Dylan!  

The sound of her words hits me like a punch to the stomach. My heart races, a visceral fear takes hold of me.  

— No! — I exclaim, holding her face between my hands. — Don’t say that, for God’s sake!  

She sobs, her body ceding against mine. Her desperation tears me in half, and all I want is to protect her from that suffering.  

— They destroyed me, Dylan… — her voice comes out shaky. — My father… Caio… they finished me.  

She curls up, as if she wants to disappear. As if her existence were a mistake.  

— No one has finished you, aunt — I say, trying to make her look at me. — You’re still here. You survived.  

— But for what? — she whispers, her tear-filled eyes meeting mine. — What’s left of me?  

I take a deep breath, fighting against the pain I see in her.  

— What’s left is you, Clarice. And that is enough.  

She stares at me, surprised to hear her name come from my mouth with such conviction. A new sob escapes her lips, but now there is something different in her expression. A spark, a remnant of hope.  

Slowly, her breathing slows. Her body stops shaking so much. She is still hurt, still broken, but now… she is no longer alone.  

I hug her tightly, as if I could hold her whole, as if I could protect her from all the pain that haunts her.  

I try to suppress all the despair growing inside me, but it’s impossible. I’m holding her, feeling her body tremble against mine, listening to her gasps punctuated by pain. And then, I remember what she said just a few seconds ago.  

"I want to die."  

Those words echo in my mind, tearing apart every piece of my sanity. My chest tightens, my throat burns, and before I realize it, my eyes overflow. I try to hold it back, try to contain it, but the tears fall, silent.  

She feels it.  

— D-Dylan? — her voice sounds hesitant, almost surprised.  

It seems that for a moment, she forgot her own pain and could only focus on me.  

Her eyes, still watery, stare at me in surprise. For the first time, she sees me vulnerable.  

I can’t bear it anymore. All the anguish I’ve been holding consumes me, and, without thinking, I grip her hands tightly, as if that would be enough to keep her from pulling away from me, from life, from everything.  

— I’d die if something happened to you! — my voice comes out choked, suffocated by fear.  

She widens her eyes. A shock. As if she never expected someone to care so much. As if she had never thought about how her pain could also destroy me.  

Her trembling hands slowly rise to my face, her cold fingers touching my warm and tear-streaked skin.  

— I… didn’t want to hurt you — she whispers, her voice filled with regret.  

I close my eyes, feeling her cold and trembling touch against my skin. I hold her hand against my face, as if I wanted to show that I’m here, that she is not alone.  

— Do you think I can just accept that you want to give up? That I’m going to look at this and let it happen?  

Her silence lingers, but it’s not empty. It’s loaded with everything she never said. Everything I never knew.  

— I… — she begins, her voice trembling. — I don’t know what to do. I’m just… so tired, Dylan.  

I grip her hand tighter, trying to make her feel that, no matter how weak she is, she is not alone.  

— You don’t have to do everything alone. — I say firmly. — I’m here. And I won’t let you go.  

She takes a deep breath, and an expression of vulnerability overtakes her face.  

— I don’t know what I would do without you — she whispers, with a faint smile.  

I just hold her tightly, feeling every piece of my soul breaking and rebuilding at the same time.  

Because, in that moment, I knew that whatever happened, I wouldn’t let her go.