HAVEN'S POV
The empty space beside me was a void.
One moment, I was drifting in the shallow, vigilant half-sleep I'd maintained all night, my body curved around hers, a fortress against the ghosts in her dreams. The next, the warmth was gone. My eyes snapped open. The sheets were cool where she should have been.
Panic, cold and razor-sharp, lanced through my chest, chasing away the last vestiges of rest. It was an irrational, primal response the prey had slipped the leash, the treasure was unguarded. My mind instantly conjured a hundred catastrophes: sleepwalking into a wall, another dizzy spell on the stairs, a masked figure at the window, the ghost of Elion Chase materializing to steal her back.
I was out of bed in a silent, fluid motion, my bare feet soundless on the polished floor. The house was too quiet. No screams. No whimpers. Just… a faint, unfamiliar sizzle. And a smell. Something burning, but also sweet. My enhanced alpha senses sorted the chaos: scorched butter, raw batter, the bright, clean scent of her strawberry-vanilla cutting through it all.
The kitchen.
I moved down the hallway, my body coiled tight, every sense extended. I paused at the entrance. And there she was.
My Althea. Standing at the massive stove in an oversized t-shirt that slipped off one shoulder, her sleep-tousled hair piled in a haphazard knot. She was frowning in fierce concentration at a frying pan, a spatula held like a weapon. The counter was a war zone: flour dusted like snow, eggshell casualties, a puddle of spilled milk. On a plate beside her sat the results of her campaign. They were… abstract. One pancake was nearly black, a sacrificial offering to the cooking gods. Another was so pale it was practically still liquid in the middle. A third had somehow morphed into a shape resembling a disgruntled squirrel. It was the most beautiful, disastrous thing I'd ever seen.
The violent panic receded, replaced by a wave of possessive, overwhelming tenderness so profound it stole my breath. This was her rebellion. Not against me, but against the helplessness, against the void in her memory. She was trying to create. To be normal. And she was failing spectacularly, and she was doing it here, in our home.
I crossed the room silently, my obsession a quiet hum in my veins. I came up behind her, my chest pressing against her back, my arms sliding around her waist. She jerked, a little gasp escaping her.
"What's for breakfast, my love?" I murmured, resting my chin on her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her mixed with the chaos of the kitchen.
She relaxed into me instantly, a trusting weight against my body. "Pancakes! I'm craving pancakes! And I want to make them myself, hehehe." Her laughter was a little nervous. "But… some of them are uncooked. And others are, I don't know. I think the stove is judging me."
I looked at the plate of tragic, misshapen discs. "It's okay, my love. You're trying. That's the important thing. You can't be good at everything on the first try." I pressed a kiss to her cheek, my lips lingering on her soft skin. "Even the old you didn't cook. Ever."
She tilted her head to look at me, her eyes wide. "Really?"
"Really. Everything was prepared for you. By me. Or by the staff." I said it with a casual finality that masked the truth: I had wanted her dependent. I had wanted every need met by my hand or my command. Her helplessness had been my security. This new, determined, messy independence was both terrifying and intoxicating. "I'm glad you're trying, mi amor."
I released her and hopped up to sit on the cleanest part of the kitchen island, taking command of the disaster zone. With clinical efficiency, I began sorting the pancake casualties, salvaging the few edible bits, plating them with fresh berries and a drizzle of real maple syrup I retrieved from the pantry.
We ate at the island. I watched, mesmerized and slightly horrified, as she proceeded to commit culinary sacrilege. She poured a handful of colorful cereal onto her plate. She mixed maple syrup and honey into a bizarre slurry. And then, with the solemnity of a scientist conducting a critical experiment, she squeezed a generous spiral of Heinz ketchup right on top of her pancake-cereal-honey-syrup abomination.
My inner control freak, the one that ran billion-dollar corporations and orchestrated the ruin of men, screamed in silent outrage. But the part of me that was utterly, hopelessly hers? It melted into a puddle of pure, adoring wonder.
She was so adorable I could not judge her. What the hell was this menace? My beautiful tyrant, creating her own bizarre, sweet-and-savory universe on a plate. She took a huge, enthusiastic bite, a smear of ketchup at the corner of her mouth, and smiled at me as if she'd just discovered the meaning of life.
"See?" she said around the mouthful. "Savory-sweet. It's a thing."
"It's certainly a thing," I agreed, my voice thick. I reached over and wiped the ketchup away with my thumb, then brought my thumb to my own lips, tasting the strange concoction. It was awful. It was perfect. It was hers.
We bantered as we ate. I teased her about the squirrel-pancake. She shot back that my "perfect" pancakes were boring and lacked vision. She asked if I'd always been such a food snob. I told her I'd been born with a silver spoon and a food critic in my mouth. She laughed, the sound like bells chasing away the last echoes of her nightmare.
"It's Saturday today, Haven," she said later, swinging her legs. "What do you wanna do?"
I had already known what we would do. The plan had been forming since I watched her sleep, a need to overwrite the pain of last night with something dazzling, something that would stamp my claim in joy instead of just protection. "Hmm," I pretended to muse. "I'm thinking of surprising you tonight. Care for a date, my love?"
Her whole face lit up. "Really?"
"Really." I leaned forward, capturing her gaze, letting the promise darken my eyes. "So prepare yourself. Tonight, we're going out. And take a nap this afternoon…" I dropped my voice to a low, intimate growl. "…because I won't let you sleep tonight."
A delicious blush spread from her cheeks down to her neck. She bit her lip, nodding, her eyes shining with excitement.
The moment she skipped off to shower, I picked up my phone. "Liam. The penthouse at the Grand Vales. Tonight. Clear the entire top floor. I want it filled with white gardenias and black roses. Candles. The '47 Château Margaux. A chocolate torte from Le Préféré. The Jacuzzi prepared. Soundproof the master suite. This is not a request. It's a directive."
"Understood, Ms. Hartwell. An anniversary?"
"No. A recalibration."
I ended the call. A date. A performance of normalcy. A lavish, beautiful cage within a cage, where I could worship her without the shadows of the outside world. Where I could make her forget the name Elion Chase.
The morning passed in a peaceful, deceptive haze. She played with Sushi on the rug, her laughter mingling with his happy barks. I sat in my favorite armchair, a tablet in my lap, reviewing the first wave of quiet, ruthless operations I'd set in motion against the Chase family's European assets. One email here, a leveraged pressure point there. The dismantling had begun. But my primary focus was the sunlit creature on the floor, rolling a ball for our dog.
We ate a simple lunch. Then, on the couch, she curled into my side, her head a warm weight on my thigh. She was trying to stay awake, chattering about nothing, but the emotional exhaustion from the night and the big breakfast pulled her under. Within minutes, her breathing deepened. A soft, unladylike snore escaped her. A tiny thread of drool dampened my leggings.
I froze, then let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The corporate reports on my tablet blurred. All I could see was her. The complete vulnerability. The absolute trust. She was sleeping on me, defenseless, while I plotted the ruin of a man who had haunted her. The juxtaposition was not lost on me. I was both her sanctuary and her avenging angel. I would cradle her and burn her enemies, and see no contradiction in it.
For four hours, I sat perfectly still. I stroked her hair, my fingers tracing the silken strands. I watched the slow rise and fall of her chest. I committed every detail to memory: the flutter of her eyelashes, the slight part of her lips, the way her fingers twitched occasionally. My obsession was a quiet, humming engine, powered by her proximity. This was mine. This peace. This trust. This life. I would kill for it. I was already arranging a financial assassination for it.
When she finally stirred, blinking sleepily up at me, my heart clenched. She smiled, a soft, sleepy thing, and pushed herself up to kiss me. "I have to prepare now," she whispered, her voice husky with sleep.
"So do I," I said, my own voice rough.
Upstairs, I stood before the full-length mirror in my walk-in closet, a foreign feeling twisting in my gut: shyness. The dress hung before me the simple, elegant black dress she'd pulled off a rack at the mall and insisted she will buy for me where she pick pocketed me. "You need color!" she'd protested. "Or at least not a suit!" This was her compromise. It was silk, sleeveless, with a deceptively simple cut that I knew would cling to every curve. It was armor of a different kind. Not for boardrooms, but for her gaze.
I put it on. The fabric whispered against my skin. I looked at my reflection the severe lines of my body softened, the usual imposing silhouette replaced by something… feminine. Vulnerable. It was a costume for the role of "loving wife on a date," but as I looked, I realized the vulnerability wasn't entirely an act. I was exposing a version of myself I showed to no one else. For her. Always for her.
Taking a steadying breath, I walked downstairs. She was waiting in the foyer, fiddling with a bracelet. She turned.
And her mouth fell open.
Her eyes widened, traveling the length of me, a slow, dawning awe that was better than any submission, any fear, any boardroom victory. She rushed forward, stopping just inches away.
"You're so beautiful, Haven," she breathed, her voice full of genuine shock. "I mean, you were before, but now… wow. You're even wearing the black dress we bought at the mall!" She reached out, her fingers hovering just above the silk at my hip, as if afraid to touch. "Oh my god, oh my god, I'm so excited! Where are you gonna take me?"
I looked down at her, at the brilliant, unshadowed joy in her face the joy I had orchestrated, the joy I would protect with every dark, ruthless fiber of my being. I cupped her cheek, my thumb stroking her skin.
"Somewhere special, my love."
ALTHEA'S POV
I was conducting a symphony of chaos, and the main instrument was a pancake.
Well, it was supposed to be a pancake. Currently, it looked more like a sad, beige amoeba with commitment issues. I had a whole plate of these failures. The Burnt Sacrifice. The Pale Ghost. The Abstract Squirrel (my personal favorite). I was frowning at the pan, willing the next one to behave, when strong arms wrapped around me from behind.
I squeaked, then melted. Haven. Her chin rested on my shoulder, her scent of grape wine and safety enveloping me. "What's for breakfast, my love?"
"Pancakes!" I announced, waving my spatula at the crime scene on the counter. "I'm craving pancakes! And I want to make them myself, hehehe." I gestured to my "art." "But… some of them are uncooked. And others are, I don't know. I think the stove is judging me."
She kissed my cheek, and my insides did a happy little flip. "It's okay, my love. You're trying. That's the important thing. You can't be good at everything on the first try." She pulled back, her dark eyes soft. "Even the old you didn't cook. Ever."
"Really?" I was weirdly delighted. So the old, scary Althea had been a kitchen disaster too! We had something in common!
"Really. Everything was prepared for you. By me. Or by the staff." She said it so matter-of-factly, like it was the most normal thing in the world to have your terrifyingly hot wife personally handle your meals. "I'm glad you're trying, mi amor."
She then proceeded to do that magical Haven thing where she turned my disaster zone into something elegant in about thirty seconds, hopping onto the counter like a panther and plating the few salvageable pancakes with berries.
Then came the fun part: customization. I was a pioneer of flavor! Cereal for crunch! Maple syrup AND honey for maximum sweetness! And the pièce de résistance… a glorious spiral of ketchup. Sweet, savory, crunchy, soft—it was a party in my mouth!
I took a huge, triumphant bite. Amazing. Haven was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite place like she was witnessing a puppy trying to solve calculus, both horrified and utterly charmed. She reached over, her thumb wiping ketchup from my mouth, and then she licked it off her own thumb. My brain short-circuited. That was… weirdly hot.
We teased each other through breakfast. She called my squirrel-pancake "interpretive." I told her her perfect circles lacked soul. It was easy. It was light. The bad dream felt a million miles away.
But it wasn't. It was there, just beneath the surface, like a bruise on my soul. The images from the nightmare kept flashing the ruler, the winter-lake eyes of Elion Chase, the grinning, watching face of Elias. The feeling of small, helpless hands. The crushing weight of not being enough. The fear that felt like home so I tried to brush it off.
"It's Saturday today, Haven," I said later, kicking my feet. "What do you wanna do?"
She got that look the one that was all dark promise and focused intensity. "Hmm. I'm thinking of surprising you tonight. Care for a date, my love?"
A date! A real, going-out date! "Really?"
"Really." She leaned in, her voice dropping to that low, thrilling register that made my toes curl. "So prepare yourself. Tonight, we're going out. And take a nap this afternoon…" Her eyes glinted. "…because I won't let you sleep tonight."
Heat flooded my whole body. I just nodded, a giddy smile plastered on my face.
The rest of the day was perfect lazy Saturday material. I played with Sushi, who was ecstatic to have a full-time playmate. Haven did some work, but she was there, in the room with us, a quiet, powerful presence. After lunch, I crashed on the couch, my head in her lap. Her fingers in my hair were the best sedative in the world. I was out like a light.
I woke up feeling cozy and rested, to the feel of her stroking my hair. I pushed myself up and kissed her, a soft, grateful press of lips. "I have to prepare now," I mumbled, already imagining what to wear.
I took my time. I wanted to look nice. Not scary-star nice, but… date-night nice. I put on a simple but pretty emerald green dress that made my eyes pop, did my makeup, left my hair down in curls.
I was bouncing slightly on my heels in the foyer when I heard her footsteps on the stairs. I turned.
And my brain just… stopped.
Haven was standing there, wearing the dress. The simple black one I bought at the mall. I'd never seen her in anything but pantsuits or loungewear. This… this was a revelation. The silk hugged her like a shadow, highlighting the impossible sleekness of her body, the sharp cut of her collarbones, the powerful lines of her arms. She looked devastating. Not just beautiful, but… approachable? No, that wasn't right. She still looked like she could conquer nations. But now she looked like she could conquer them and then take you to a breathtakingly expensive dinner afterwards.
My mouth literally hung open. I rushed over, stopping just short of crashing into her. "You're so beautiful, Haven," I breathed, the words utterly inadequate. "I mean, you were before, but now… wow. You're even wearing the black dress we bought at the mall!" I reached out, my fingers almost touching the sleek fabric. "Oh my god, oh my god, I'm so excited! Where are you gonna take me?"
She cupped my face, her touch infinitely tender, her dark eyes holding mine captive. A small, breathtaking smile touched her lips.
"Somewhere special, my love."
HAVEN'S POV
The drive to the theater was a study in contained anticipation. Althea vibrated with energy beside me, her gaze darting to the passing city lights, her hand warm and restless in mine. The note of warning I'd issued about sleep was a delicious anchor in my mind, a promise of later dominion, but first, I wanted to give her this. A performance of normalcy. A curated slice of a life she thought she was choosing, unaware of the strings I held, unseen, in the shadows.
The Grand Vales Cineplex was the city's most exclusive, a palace of velvet and Art Deco gold. Tonight, it was a tomb of quiet opulence, cleared for one audience of two. My security detail melted into the architecture as we entered the cavernous, empty lobby. The manager, a beta who smelled of popcorn and profound anxiety, bowed low. "Everything is prepared, Mrs. Hartwell. As you requested. The film is loaded. The projectionist has been sent home; the system is automated and remotely monitored."
I nodded, dismissing him with a glance. Althea was already at the massive digital poster board, scrolling through the listings with a childlike intensity.
"Oh my god, Haven, you rented the whole place? Like, just for us? That's insane!" She spun, her green dress flaring. "What should we watch? An action movie? A superhero thing? Ooh, a horror movie so I can cling to you!"
I walked up behind her, sliding my arms around her waist, resting my chin on her head as she scrolled. "Whatever you want, my love. This is your night. Choose your adventure."
She pulled out her phone, her brow furrowed in adorable concentration. "I'm checking Rotten Tomatoes. We can't waste a private theater on a dud." She scrolled, mumbled, tapped. "This one… too loud. This one… the reviews say the third act falls apart. Ah!" She stopped. "Call Me By Your Name. The ratings are fire. And look they say the music is amazing. It's set in Italy in the 80s. And it's a love story. About… self-discovery? Between two beta males. Huh." She tilted her head back to look at me. "That's kind of rare, right? A mainstream movie about that, in that time? It sounds… beautiful and sad."
My knowledge of cinema was limited to what served as corporate leverage or distraction, but I knew of this film. An achingly sensual, tragic story of first love and loss. It was a risk. It would evoke feeling, memory, sorrow. But it was her choice. And watching her experience feeling, any feeling, was my addiction.
"Then that's what we'll see," I murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Beautiful and sad it is."
We loaded up at the absurdly overstaffed concession stand a lone, terrified attendant who filled a tub with popcorn, another who prepared drinks. Althea, in her glorious, bizarre genius, ordered a mix of salted and caramel popcorn in the same tub, a giant cherry Coke, and a box of Milk Duds "for texture contrast." I carried our loot into the main auditorium, a vast, red-velvet cavern with a single, perfect seating area prepared in the center: a plush loveseat piled with cashmere blankets.
(I LOVE Milk Duds!!! - author)
The lights dimmed slowly as we settled. The screen flickered to life. And I divided my attention, as I always did, into precise fractions. 30% on the film, absorbing the narrative, the aesthetics. 70% on her.
From the first sun-drenched shots of Northern Italy, she was captivated. "Woah," she whispered, leaning forward. "That's Italy? I wanna go! Can we go, Haven? It looks like a painting." Her commentary was a quiet, running stream of consciousness, a stark contrast to the film's languid pace.
"That villa is incredible. Do people really live like that? Just reading books and playing piano all summer? Sign me up."
"Look at his shorts! The 80s were a vibe."
"Oh, Oliver's arrogant. I get it. But he's also… lost. You can see it in his shoulders."
I watched her more than the screen. The way the flickering light played over her face, illuminating her wide, curious eyes, the slight part of her lips. She was immersed, but her immersion was active, participatory. She wasn't just watching a story; she was conversing with it.
When Elio and Oliver began their delicate, agonizing dance of attraction, her hand found mine on the seat between us. Her grip was loose at first, then tightened incrementally as the tension on screen mounted. Her commentary shifted.
"That's so relatable," she whispered during a scene of awkward, charged silence. "That feeling when you want to say everything and nothing at all."
I said nothing, just intertwined our fingers, my thumb stroking the back of her hand. This was the intimacy I craved not just physical possession, but this shared psychic space, where I could feel the echoes of the story's emotions resonating through her.
The first kiss, by the grass, in the hazy afternoon light.
Althea gasped. A sharp, sudden intake of breath. Her fingers clenched around mine, nails digging in faintly. On screen, the passion was tentative, then consuming. I felt her heartbeat through her palm, a frantic flutter against my skin. She didn't speak. She just stared, utterly still, as if holding her breath. I watched the kiss through her reaction, seeing its impact reflected in the dilation of her pupils, the faint flush on her cheeks. It was more erotic than any explicit scene, witnessing her innocent, amnesiac heart being ambushed by the raw vulnerability of first love.
As the summer idyll deepened, so did her investment. She laughed at their playful moments, sighed at the tender ones. She narrated the music. "This score is incredible. It's like… honey and heartbreak." She was right. The music was a character, and she was feeling it in her bones.
Then, the inevitable turn. Oliver's departure loomed. The mood on screen darkened, and the air in our private theater grew thick with impending sorrow. Althea's grip on my hand became vicelike. She stopped commenting. She just… watched.
The train station scene. The goodbye that wasn't a goodbye, the choked silence, the final embrace. A single tear traced a path down Althea's cheek, glittering in the projector's light. Then another. She didn't make a sound, but her shoulders began to shake. A soft, broken sob escaped her as the train pulled away, leaving Elio crumpled on a bench.
I pulled her closer, tucking her against my side, letting her bury her face in the crook of my neck. My trench coat around us was a poor shield against the emotional weather of the film. She cried silently, her tears hot against my skin, as Elio's father delivered his magnificent, heartbreaking monologue about feeling everything.
"He's… he's telling him to feel it," Althea hiccupped against my neck, her voice muffled and thick. "To not shut it out. Even though it hurts. Because it was… it was everything."
I held her, my own throat tight, but not from the film. From her. From the sheer, overwhelming force of her empathy. She was crying for fictional characters with a purity of grief that felt sacred. This was the woman Elion Chase had tried to brutalize into hard perfection. This tender, feeling heart was what he had seen as weakness. It was her superpower. And it was mine.
The final scenes played out. Elio, alone in the winter, taking a phone call from Oliver, hearing of his engagement. The long, wordless take of Elio's face by the fireplace, a silent symphony of loss, memory, and the faint, enduring ember of what was.
Althea was a wreck. Quiet, shaking sobs wracked her body. She cried not with the noisy despair of earlier, but with a deep, weary sorrow that seemed to come from a place beyond the film, as if it had tapped into her own reservoir of unnamable loss. She cried for the end of summer, for first love, for the cruel passage of time, for everything beautiful that must, inevitably, be mourned.
I held her through the credits, through the gentle, melancholy piano piece that closed the film. The lights came up, a soft, gradual glow. She finally pulled back, her face a mess of smudged mascara and tears, her eyes puffy and red. She looked utterly destroyed, and more beautiful than I had ever seen her.
"That was…" she sniffled, wiping her nose inelegantly with the back of her hand. "That was the most beautiful, terrible thing I've ever seen."
I produced a silk handkerchief from my pocket of the trench coat and gently wiped her cheeks. "You felt it all," I said, my voice low.
"How could you not?" she said, her voice hoarse. She looked at the now-blank screen, her expression distant. "To have something that perfect… and then just… have it become a memory. To be left with just the ghost of it in a fireplace." A fresh tear spilled over. "It's the most human thing in the world."
Human. The word struck me. Her amnesia, her isolation in the gilded fortress I'd built, her fractured past they could make her feel like an alien sometimes, a construct. But this, this raw, unmediated connection to a universal story of love and loss, proved her humanity more than any memory ever could.
I stood, pulling her up with me. She was pliant, emotionally spent. I kept an arm around her as we walked out of the silent theater, through the empty, gleaming lobby, and back into the waiting car.
She rested her head on my shoulder, silent for the short drive to the Grand Vales Hotel. My penthouse awaited. The next act of the evening was ready. She needed to be pulled out of this sorrow, and I had just the method. A different kind of immersion. One where she would feel nothing but the present, nothing but sensation, nothing but me.
ALTHEA'S POV
Okay, so my wife is a literal movie theater fairy godmother. Or a tyrant with impeccable taste in dates. Either way, walking into a completely empty, gorgeous old theater that smelled like popcorn and history just for us was the coolest thing ever. I felt like a queen. A very confused queen who couldn't decide what to watch.
I took my responsibility seriously. We couldn't waste a private screening on some dumb explosion-fest. I needed art! I scrolled through reviews, my brain buzzing. And then I found it. Call Me By Your Name. The critics loved it. The music was supposed to be amazing. And the story… two beta guys falling in love in the 80s? In Italy? It sounded like the opposite of a dumb explosion-fest. It sounded… real. And heartbreaking. I looked up at Haven. "It sounds beautiful and sad."
She just kissed my temple. "Then that's what we'll see."
Beautiful and sad. Yeah. That was an understatement.
From the second the movie started, I was gone. Italy looked like a dream you could eat. The light was liquid gold. The house was this crazy, beautiful mess of books and art and old furniture. "Woah, that's Italy? I wanna go!" I whispered. "Can we go, Haven?" She just squeezed my hand.
It was so… slow. But not boring-slow. Delicious-slow. Like you could taste every moment. Elio was all nervous energy and genius, and Oliver was this confident, mysterious wall of a guy. I narrated everything to Haven in a whisper, because how could I not? "Look at his shorts! The 80s were a vibe!" "That's so relatable," I sighed when they were doing that awkward dance of wanting each other but being too scared to say it. My hand found Haven's, and holding it felt like an anchor in the warm, buzzing tension on screen.
And then… the kiss.
It wasn't in some dramatic rainstorm or with fancy music. It was in a quiet, sunny place with trees and grass (idk how to explain the place lol -author). It was hesitant, then… not. I gasped. I couldn't help it. It felt so huge and intimate and terrifying all at once. My heart hammered against my ribs. I squeezed Haven's hand so tight I was probably cutting off her circulation, but she didn't pull away. She just let me hold on.
The rest of the summer unfolded like a perfect, ripe peach. The music WAS incredible sweet and aching, just like the story. I was totally sunk. I laughed when they played piano badly together, I held my breath during their secret moments. It was the happiest kind of pain to watch.
But you could feel the end coming like a storm on the horizon. Oliver had to leave. The movie didn't even need to say it; the air in our theater (and on screen) got heavier, colder. I stopped talking. I just held Haven's hand, my grip turning desperate.
The goodbye at the train station… oh God. They didn't even really say goodbye. They just hugged, and it was the saddest hug in the history of the world. Oliver got on the train. Elio stood there, crumbling. And I just… broke. A sob tore out of me before I could stop it. Tears were suddenly pouring down my face, hot and fast. I turned and buried my face in Haven's neck. She smelled like grape wine and safety, and I cried into her skin as Elio's dad gave that speech.
"He's telling him to feel it," I hiccupped, the words messy against her skin. "To not shut it out. Even though it hurts. Because it was everything." And it was. The movie made you feel that. That first love was everything, even if it ended.
The ending destroyed me. Elio, months later, hearing Oliver is getting married. And then just… him sitting by the fireplace. The camera stayed on his face for like, a million years. He was crying. He was also… remembering. Feeling it all over again. The ghost of that summer right there in the flames.
I cried so hard my chest hurt. It was a quiet, exhausted crying now. It wasn't just about the movie anymore. It was about… everything. The beauty of something perfect. The agony of it ending. The way memories can be both a treasure and a torture. It felt so deeply, painfully human.
When the lights came up, I was a mess. Mascara everywhere, nose running, eyes swollen. I felt wrecked. Haven wiped my face with her fancy handkerchief, her touch so gentle it made me want to cry all over again.
"That was the most beautiful, terrible thing I've ever seen," I croaked.
"You felt it all," she said, and her voice was this low, rough thing that vibrated right through me.
"How could you not?" I looked at the blank screen, feeling hollowed out and full at the same time. "To have something that perfect… and then just have it become a memory. To be left with just the ghost of it." I wiped at a fresh tear. "It's the most human thing in the world."
Haven helped me up. I felt wobbly, like I'd been on an emotional rollercoaster that had flung me into another dimension. I leaned into her as we walked out, the empty theater feeling strangely sacred now. In the car, I rested my head on her shoulder, completely spent.
The movie had shown me a kind of love that was all about discovery and inevitable loss. But the hand holding mine, the arm around me, the woman who had sat silently and let me feel every second of it that was a different kind of love. It wasn't a summer sun. It was the deep, dark earth. It wasn't about discovery; it was about possession. It wasn't about ending; it promised forever, even if that forever was a gilded, guarded thing.
And right now, feeling so raw and open, forever sounded like the only safe place to be.