Page 31 of Shattered Echoes

I pause at the door with my hand on the knob. "I should go."

Antonio doesn't argue, doesn't stop me. He nods, his expression unreadable.

As I step out into the cool night air, a part of me aches to turn back, to lose myself in his embrace once more. His touch has seared a memory into my skin.

But I force myself to keep walking. Each step carries me further away from that dangerous edge. The loneliness that awaits me at home is an empty thing–but it's a cross I must bear, a penance for the choices I've made.

The walk back to my house is a blur, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. By the time I reach my door, I'm and drained. The brief respite I'd found in Antonio's arms is a little more than a fading memory.

As I collapse onto my bed, the familiar silence presses in around me, suffocating in its intensity. The loneliness is a physical ache, a gaping wound that refuses to heal. I curl into a ball, hugging my knees to my chest as I fight the onslaught of memories and ghosts. Phantom pains prickle across my skin, echoes of past traumas that never seem to fade, no matter how hard I try.

10

Antonio

The world feels… brighter somehow. Not a blinding, harsh brightness, but a soft, diffused glow that lingers even when I close my eyes. It's like the fog that's clung to me for weeks has lifted, revealing a landscape I haven't seen in a long time–a landscape with possibilities, with colors beyond gray.

And it all started with Colette.

The memory of her hand on mine filters through me to my fingertips. The warmth of her skin, the hesitant pressure of her fingers against mine. It feels etched into my memory, a stark contrast to the chilling loneliness that's been my constant companion.

I know it was wrong. We both said it. Sleeping with your best friend's sister? Textbook definition of a bad idea. And the timing? Perfect storm of terrible. Both of us reeling from our own battles, wounded and desperate, clinging to each other like shipwreck survivors. Not a recipe for a healthy relationship.

Yet, here I am, replaying the memory like a dog with a worn-out chew toy. The heated touch of her body, the frantic urgency of our encounter. Was that a taste of normalcy, of a connection I craved? Or just an addictive escape from the harsh reality?

Shaking my head, I push myself out of bed. Dwelling on it won't help. Today is a new day–a day to get my head straight, to focus on reality, and most importantly, a day to stay far, far away from Colette.

I decide to head out into town, needing the cool air to clear my head. As I step out into the sunshine, I can't help but notice the buzz on the main street. Groups huddle together, whispering and pointing at their phones. I wonder what has them so excited.

Maybe it's another celebrity sighting in this sleepy town, or a meteor shower forecast.

I stop at the coffee shop across the street from the bank. It has the best coffee in town. The steam from a fresh cup of coffee hits me as I push open the cafe’s door, battling the damp chill clinging to my coat. My stomach growls, reminding me of yesterday's meager dinner. I catch a snippet of conversation as I walk past a table near the entrance.

"Another one by the old bridge!"

"They're getting bold, aren't they? That old sheriff is going to lose his marbles, I tell ya."

News travels faster than wildfire in this town. I edge past the chatting old heads, scanning the room for a booth tucked away in a corner. There is none. The old bridge, a rusting relic from a bygone era, is a place I haven't visited in years. It evokes a bittersweet memory of simpler times when my biggest worry was getting homework done on time.

Now, it's a monument to the town's slow decline, and a faded echo of its former glory, if there ever was any. How does someone paint that rusty old thing? I wonder. I’d have to check it out after breakfast.

The diner is full. Retirees hunched over newspapers, mothers wrangling toddlers over sticky pastries, a group of teenagers huddled in a corner, chatting. The usual.

Just as I head for a stool by the counter, a voice booms from behind. "Antonio fucking Amato?! What in sweet heavens and merciless hell are you doing back in this sleepy little town?"

I turn, surprised. Mark Goldbridge stands a few feet away, his usual wide grin plastered across his face. Star quarterback in high school. Local town hero. My old friend. The one who talks a lot. Last I heard, he took over his parent’s farm and is married to Riley, his high school sweetheart. The whole town had such high hopes for the promising young man, but he didn’t quite turn out the way people expected. However, unlike me, Mark is doing well and accepts his fate. In a way, I do envy him.

Years have passed since we last saw each other, back when we parted ways after high school. He went off to college and me… well, life took me down a different path. A path I'm not eager to discuss with my old friend.

"Mark," I manage, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Hey, long time no see."

He whistles as he looks up at me. "Man, that’s quite the change! How did you turn from a scrawny little kid into this? You look like a fucking Marine or something."

I force a laugh. Memories of Mark's relentless high school teasing about my skinny build flash before me. Come to think of it, he always looked so much bigger back then. "I applied, but didn’t make the cut," I mumble, trying to navigate around him towards the counter.

"Hold on, hold on," Mark says, grabbing my arm with surprising strength. "Where are you rushing off to in such a hurry? Haven't you missed good old Joe's coffee?"

I glance back at the counter where a line has formed. "I was just grabbing some breakfast to go. Busy day ahead."

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