Chapter 14 14

Chapter 14 14


The snow outside had stopped falling, but the cold stayed.

Saint Eloise’s campus was almost empty—students gone for winter break, dorm lights off, footsteps muffled by frost. I stayed behind to finish extra credit work. That was the excuse I gave.
The truth? I didn’t know what else to do but stay where he’d last been.

Everywhere I looked, I saw him.
The hallway near the gym where he used to bump my shoulder just to get a reaction.
The quad where he once pulled me into a snowball fight and laughed so hard he forgot he was supposed to be mad at me.
Even the goddamn vending machine outside the cafeteria—because it still had the same brand of cookies he used to bribe me with during study sessions.

He was gone three weeks now.
No calls. No texts. Just that note.
And the unbearable silence that came with it.

I told myself I’d moved on. I packed, I worked, I pretended.
But every night, around 11 p.m., my phone would light up and my heart would do the same thing—jump. Hope. Die. Repeat.

So when it actually rang that night, I almost dropped it.

“Unknown Number.”

For a second, I just stared at the screen.

Then I answered. “Hello?”

A pause. A breath. Then—
“Hey, Alvarez.”

That voice. Low, familiar, slightly hoarse.
Like every word was made to hit where it hurt.

My throat tightened. “You don’t get to call me that.”

“I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Full of things unsaid.

“Where are you?” I finally asked.

“In town. For a day.”

“Why?”

“I needed to see you.”

I closed my eyes. “You don’t get to do that either.”

“I know,” he said again. “But I’m outside.”

I turned toward the window. And there he was.

Leaning against the fence by the dorm gate. Black coat. Messy hair. That same impossible calm that made you believe nothing could touch him. Except—his eyes.
His eyes looked wrecked.

I hung up. Grabbed my jacket. And before my brain could talk me out of it, I was running.

The cold hit me like a slap when I stepped outside.
He smiled a little. “Still hate the winter?”

“I hate you more.”

“I’ll take that.”

We stood there, face to face, the space between us buzzing with every memory we hadn’t buried right.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small charm—an old keychain, shaped like a car steering wheel. “Found this in Italy. It’s stupid, but it reminded me of you.”

“Because it’s circular?” I asked.

He laughed. “Because it doesn’t stop moving.”

I stared at it for a long second before taking it. “So what now, Ricciardi? You give me a souvenir and vanish again?”

He exhaled, slow and sharp. “I didn’t mean to disappear.”

“But you did.”

“I thought leaving would make it easier.”

“For who?”

His jaw clenched. “Both of us.”

I shook my head. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I didn’t want to hold you back,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “You’re meant for more than pit lanes and podiums. You’re meant to be seen for what’s in your head, not—” he gestured helplessly “—not who you’re standing next to.”

“That’s bullshit,” I snapped. “You left because it was easier than trying.”

He didn’t deny it. And somehow, that made it worse.

We were quiet for a while. The kind of quiet that hums under your skin, the kind that used to feel like safety and now felt like a wound.

Finally, he said, “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

He nodded, eyes down. “I figured.”

“You’re not coming to say goodbye.”

“I’m not sure you’d let me.”

“You’re right.”

Something flickered across his face—pain, pride, maybe both.
He looked at me the way you look at something you already know you’re losing.

Then, out of nowhere, he asked, “Do you remember the greenhouse?”

Of course I did.
The heat of his hand over mine. The way he said my name like it was something soft.
The way the air smelled of soil and winter and something like almost-love.

But I just said, “No.”

He smiled, sad and knowing. “Liar.”

I hated that he could still read me. I hated that he still looked like home.

“Why did you come back, Rafael?” I asked quietly. “Really.”

He took a step closer. His breath fogged in the cold between us.
“Because I couldn’t leave it like that. Because every time I get in a car, I see your face instead of the track. Because I think I’m going to spend the rest of my life regretting that I didn’t ask you to stay.”

My throat burned. “Then why don’t you?”

He reached up, almost touching my cheek—but stopped halfway. His hand hovered, trembling slightly.

“Because I still don’t deserve it.”

And just like that, he broke me without even touching me.

I turned away before he could see the tears. “You’re right. You don’t.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t chase. He just whispered, “I’m sorry, Vick.”

I swallowed hard. “Don’t be.”

He smiled then, faintly, like he knew this was the last time. “You’ll do incredible things.”

“You’ll break records.”

“Maybe.”

“Just… don’t forget who you were before all this,” I said. “The boy in the greenhouse.”

He nodded once. “Only if you don’t forget the girl who drew me.”

We stood there a second longer, both pretending we weren’t memorizing everything—the sound of breathing, the frost in the air, the distance we’d never cross again.

Then he turned and walked away.
No dramatic goodbye. No last look. Just footsteps fading into the snow.

And I let him go.
Because that’s what strong girls do, right?
They let the boy walk away. They tell themselves it’s better this way.
They go back inside, pack their bags, and leave at sunrise.

But the truth?

The truth is that every time I smell rain on cold glass, I still hear his laugh.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the greenhouse light flicker.
And every time someone says his name, my heart still forgets it’s supposed to beat evenly.

That was the night I learned something important about love.

It doesn’t end when you say goodbye.
It just changes shape.
And waits.

::

The airport smelled like burnt coffee and floor polish.
It was too early for crowds, too late for sleep.
I stood at Gate 12, passport clutched tight, backpack slung over one shoulder, trying not to look like I’d been crying since three a.m.

My flight to New York boarded in forty minutes. Then a connection to Boston. Then a train to Providence. Then… Columbia. Then a new life.
That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway.
A new life. A clean start.
Except, apparently, heartbreak didn’t care about travel itineraries.

“Alvarez.”

The voice came from behind me—familiar, low, with that slow confidence that made my stomach twist.
For a second, I didn’t turn around.
Partly because I wasn’t sure it was real.
Partly because I didn’t trust what my face might do when I saw him.

Then I did.
And there he was.

Rafael De Luca Ricciardi.
Baseball cap, hoodie, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.
No entourage, no noise, no spotlight. Just him. The boy, not the name.
And damn it, even in a half-empty terminal, he still looked like someone the world would revolve around.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, because it was the only thing I could think of.

He shrugged lightly. “You said I wasn’t allowed to come say goodbye. You never said I couldn’t… be nearby.”

I exhaled, shaking my head. “That’s not a loophole, genius.”

He smiled, small. “It is if you want to see me.”

I hated that I did.

He walked closer, each step unhurried, careful—like he knew one wrong move and I’d bolt.
He stopped a few feet away, eyes searching my face. “You didn’t sleep.”

“Neither did you,” I countered. His eyes were red-rimmed, voice rough around the edges.

He smiled faintly. “You always notice.”

“Occupational hazard,” I muttered. “I pay attention.”

“Yeah.” His voice lowered. “That’s what I loved about you.”

The word hung in the air between us like static.
Loved. Past tense. Sharp enough to cut.
I swallowed. “Don’t.”

He nodded, glancing down at his shoes. “I know.”

The intercom announced boarding for Business Class to JFK.
I still had time. Barely.

“Does your dad know you’re here?” I asked, mostly to change the subject.

“No. He’d send a jet to drag me back.”

“Of course he would.”

“He thinks love is a distraction.”

“He’s not wrong,” I said softly.

Rafael looked up at that, a shadow crossing his face. “Is that what this was?”

“I don’t know what this was,” I admitted. “But I know what it can’t be.”

He tilted his head. “Because of him?”

“Because of everything,” I said. “You have your world, Rafael. And I have mine.”

“You’re acting like they can’t overlap.”

“Because they can’t,” I said, too fast. “Not without one of us getting crushed.”

He didn’t argue. He just nodded, like he understood, even if he hated it.

For a while, neither of us spoke.
The airport noise filled the silence—rolling suitcase wheels, faint pop music, some kid crying in the distance. Real life happening around a moment that didn’t feel real at all.

Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something small.
A key.
Plain, silver, with a green thread tied around the top.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s the spare to my old bike locker,” he said. “By the track.”

I frowned. “You’re giving me a key to a locker in another country?”

He smiled softly. “No. I’m giving you proof I existed somewhere that wasn’t just a race circuit. Somewhere small. Human.”

I stared at it. “That’s… strangely poetic for someone who once got detention for calling the headmaster ‘Captain Tightass.’”

He laughed quietly. “You bring out my literary side.”

I closed my hand around the key. It felt cold, too light to hold so much memory. “You really think this changes anything?”

“No,” he said. “But maybe it’ll remind you that I meant it.”

“Meant what?”

He stepped closer—too close—and whispered, “Everything.”

For a second, I forgot how to breathe. The airport seemed to fade, the noise distant. It was just him—his warmth, his breath, his eyes searching mine like he was memorizing them for later.

“I hate you,” I said quietly. But my voice cracked.

He smiled like he knew better. “No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“Then why are you shaking?”

My throat burned. “Because you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up now and make leaving harder.”

He looked at me for a long, heavy moment, then nodded. “Okay.”

Just like that.
Okay.
No argument, no pleading, no drama. Just quiet acceptance.
The kind that hurts worse than a fight.

Then, without warning, he pulled me into him.

It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t even quite a hug.
It was somewhere in between—his arms around me, his chin against my hair, both of us holding on like time might stop if we didn’t move.

He smelled like soap and jet fuel. Like safety and risk tangled together.

“I’m gonna win something big one day,” he murmured near my ear. “Something that matters. And when I do, I want you to see it. Just once.”

I closed my eyes. “You already did.”

He laughed softly. “That sounds like something I’d say.”

“It was,” I whispered.

They called final boarding. My flight.
Reality, pressing in again.

I stepped back, forcing air into my lungs. “Goodbye, Rafael.”

He looked at me for a long time. “See you, Vicky.”

“No,” I said. “You won’t.”

He smiled faintly. “You’d be surprised.”

And then he turned away—no wave, no glance over the shoulder—just the confident stride of someone already half-legend, half-memory.

I watched until he disappeared into the crowd.
And only when I couldn’t see him anymore did I finally let myself cry.

Not loud. Not messy. Just quiet tears slipping down while people around me moved like nothing in the world had changed.

But everything had.

When I boarded, I found the key still in my hand. The green thread tangled around my fingers. I almost dropped it in the trash.

Almost.

Instead, I tied it to my backpack zipper.
A tiny, stupid reminder that for one winter, before fame and contracts and chaos—
There was just a boy who loved me like I was his finish line.

And a girl who didn’t realize yet that love stories don’t always end.
Sometimes, they just… wait.