Page 77 of Veil of the Past
She nods, glancing at the chart in my hand. “I’ve heard you’ve been doing great since you came back,” she says. “I know it wasn’t easy, but you’re handling it well. Just wanted you to know that.”
I feel a flush of pride, a small, satisfied smile spreading across my face. “Thank you,” I say, my voice a little steadier, a little stronger. “That means a lot.”
She nods, giving me a small pat on the shoulder before heading off. I turn back to my chart, feeling a sense of accomplishment, a sense that I might just be on the right track.
The rest of the shift passes quickly, a blur of patients and paperwork and the steady hum of the hospital around me. When my shift finally ends, I head to the locker room, changing out of my scrubs, feeling the exhaustion settle in. But it’s a good kind of exhaustion, the kind that comes from knowing you’ve done something worthwhile, something that matters.
I step out into the cool evening air, my breath forming small puffs of mist in front of me. I pull my coat tighter around me, feeling the chill seep through, but I don’t mind. I feel… content. Not happy, not yet, but content. I start walking toward Romiro’s apartment, knowing he’ll be waiting for me, that he’ll have dinner ready, that he’ll be there with that steady presence that’s become my anchor.
When I get to his building, I take the elevator up, my heart beating a little faster as I approach his door. I don’t know why, but I feel a sense of anticipation, like I’m coming home, like I’m stepping into something safe, something warm. The elevator doors slide open and he’s standing there waiting for me.
“Hey, Red,” he says, pulling me into his arms, holding me tight. “How was work?”
I lean into him, feeling the warmth of his body against mine, feeling his steady heartbeat under my cheek. “It was good,” I say softly. “Really good.”
He pulls back, looking at me, his eyes searching mine. “You look… different,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “Lighter.”
I nod, feeling that flicker of hope again, that small, fragile flame that’s been growing inside me. “I think I am,” I whisper.
He smiles, a soft, loving smile that makes my heart flutter in my chest. “Come on,” he says, taking my hand. “Dinner’s ready. Your favorite.”
We sit down at the small table, and he serves me a plate of pasta, the smell of garlic and tomatoes filling the air. I take a bite, savoring the familiar taste, feeling a sense of comfort, of home.
“So,” he says, watching me, his eyes bright. “How’s Katherine been?”
I shrug, taking another bite. “She’s good,” I say. “It’s… it’s helping, I think. I’m starting to feel…better.”
He nods, his smile widening. “I’m glad,” he says. “I knew you could do it.”
I feel a surge of affection for him, a warmth spreading through my chest. “I’m not there yet,” I say softly. “But I’m getting closer.”
He reaches across the table, takes my hand, and squeezes it gently. “One step at a time,” he says, echoing the words Katherine has said several times.
I smile, feeling a sense of peace settle over me, a sense of calm I haven’t felt in so long. “Yeah,” I whisper. “One step at a time.”
We finish dinner, and he pulls me onto the couch, his arm around my shoulders, holding me close. We sit there in the quiet, the city humming outside the window, the light from the streetlamp casting soft shadows on the walls. I lean into him, feeling his warmth, his steady presence, and for the first time in months, I feel… okay. Not perfect, not whole, but okay.
I know there’s still a long road ahead, still so much to work through, so much to heal. But I also know I’m not alone. I have Romiro, I have Katherine, I have my friends. And I have myself. I have my strength, my resilience, my determination to keep moving forward, no matter how hard it gets.
I close my eyes, feeling his arms around me, feeling his heartbeat under my cheek. I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and I feel a sense of peace, a sense of hope.
One step at a time. One breath at a time.
40
ROMIRO
6 months later
The kitchen fills with the acrid smell of burnt food. Smoke curls up from the skillet, wafting into the air, setting off the smoke alarm with a high-pitched shriek. I curse under my breath, quickly moving to yank the pan off the stove, but it's too late—the damage is done. The pasta is charred beyond recognition, a blackened mess that’s already glued itself to the bottom of the pan.
Behind me, I hear a soft, melodic laugh. Alessia stands at the entrance to the kitchen, her hand covering her mouth, her green eyes dancing with amusement. “That’s the third time this week, Romiro,” she teases, leaning against the doorway, her red hair cascading down her shoulders like a fiery waterfall.
I glance over my shoulder, trying to play it cool. “I’m just testing your patience,” I say, smirking, though inside I feel a rush of warmth at the sound of her laughter. I’ve missed that sound more than I care to admit. She’s been so quiet these past few months, so lost in her thoughts, and to hear her laugh—really laugh—feels like a victory.
“Testing my patience or trying to burn the apartment down?” she retorts, a playful grin tugging at her lips.
“Maybe both,” I say, putting the skillet in the sink and turning on the faucet. The water hits the pan with a loud hiss, steam billowing up in thick clouds. I look at her, leaning back against the counter, watching her as she brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. God, she’s beautiful.
