It was too late. I was already thrown into my memories, chained to my past, tortured by its unbearable voices.
I ran toward the ocean. I jumped. The water glued my dress to my body, hit my burning face, wiped my century-old tears. In the dark I went deeper and deeper looking for the bottom.
Few seconds, and I felt Miguel’s body wrapping around mine. His arms were pulling me up.
My lungs were burning. I started coughing.
Miguel whispered: “It never happened, Clara. It never happened.”
And yet something terrible must have happened before Jacques left Paris, something that was deeply buried in my memory, something that I was refusing to acknowledge. Did Jacques come to see me that night? Did he?
A horrifying thought crossed my mind.
Miguel, Angelo, and I would not be put in different heavens or hells. We were going to the same place, so we could continue obsessing over and over about Jacques’ imagined love for me and that dreadful fated night that changed our lives forever.
That’s right: a night that I couldn’t remember.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers