Page 25 of Ruins
Soft hands grip my shoulders. I barely register the touch, the quiet voice cutting through the suffocating haze.
Mimi.
She’s holding me as I crumble, as my knees hit the floor, as the fabric of the dress chokes the air from my lungs.
She strokes my hair, whispering to me.
Her voice reaches me in fragments. Echoes of calm, of comfort, but they’re distant.
“You’re okay. Youcando this.”
Mimi’s voice is soft, steady—a lifeline in the middle of the storm. I blink up at her sweet, concerned face and force myself to take a breath, mimicking the rise and fall of her own.
My mother huffs, throwing her hands in the air. “This is ridiculous,” she mutters, turning on her heel. “You have ten minutes.”
The door slams behind her.
Mimi wipes away the last of my tears, grounding me back into the harsh reality I have to face.
“Let’s fix your makeup,” she says gently, guiding me toward my vanity.
I nod, following without protest.
My reflection stares back at me—red-rimmed eyes, shaky breaths, the ghost of panic still lingering behind my carefully reconstructed mask. Mimi dabs on blush, sets everything in place with a dusting of powder, but the weight pressing down on my chest doesn’t fully lift.
I don’t want to move.
I don’t want toleave this room.
Mimi’s voice cuts through the silence, unexpected but thoughtful.
“You know,” she says, putting the brush away and moving toward my bed, “you’re the one who gave me hope for getting married. Even an arranged marriage.”
I blink. “What?”
She ignores my confusion, crawling under my bed and pulling out a small shoebox. She dusts it off with the sleeve of her sweater before settling onto the floor, lifting the lid with careful fingers.
Curious, I abandon my vanity and sit beside her, peering inside.
The box is filled with torn pages—fragments of old romance novels, stories I used to collect like stolen treasures. Love, passion, stolen kisses, and sword fights in the name of honor.
Mimi plucks out a worn scrap of paper, smoothing it out between her fingers before reading aloud.
“He was a stranger that became the beginning and end of my world, his touch bringing forth the brightest of gold from my once cold heart.”
She sighs dreamily, then giggles, handing me the faded excerpt.
I take it, tracing the jagged edges, the ink smudged from years of handling. The paper feels fragile in my hands—just like the hope it once held.
I had forgotten about this. About how much I loved the idea of love blossoming from nothing but stolen glances, subtle touches, adesirestronger than thirst in the desert.
Mimi nudges me lightly. “He could be that for you.”
Santo Amato.
The thought lingers.
He could be the man who changes everything. Who turns the impossible into somethinggolden.
