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I make my way over and take her into my arms, and it takes every bit of strength I have left.
Izabel starts to cry, her face buried in my chest. But it’s not sadness nor fear driving this emotion from her, but pure anger and feelings of betrayal. And frustration—a lot of frustration.
I know because I feel all of these things, too.
“He’s not coming,” she cries; her fingers claw my shirt. “He’s left us here to fucking die, Niklas!”
“Shh! Please, Izzy, just calm down.” I hold her close and tighten my arms around her to keep her as still as I can.
I don’t like being so close to her. I want to shove her away from me and find a corner of my own to die in, but she needs me now more than anything I need. And I can’t think of a better way to die than with her in my arms.
Hell, maybe I’m hallucinating, too. Maybe she’s not this close to me, and I’m only dreaming.
“I’m sorry…Niklas.”
“For what?”
“For…I’m sorry that I could never love you back.”
I flinch at her unexpected words, and my heart seizes, and my breath catches.
“Just try to sleep, Izzy.” Please…spare me this emotion in my final hours. Let me die with some peace. And dignity.
“No…it’s important I tell you,” she says, and I can’t help but wonder if all of this is part of her losing her mind to starvation. “I need to tell you the truth.”
“I don’t think you’re in any state to be—”
“Please, Nik”—her fingertips dig into my chest through my shirt—“I owe you that much.”
“You don’t owe me a damn thing,” I say.
“Yeah…I do. So, please let me talk.”
Against everything in me, I give in and let her have her way.
“A part of me,” she begins, breathing still irregular, “does love you…the same way that… I know you love me. In Italy, that’s when I knew I had…some kind of feelings…for you. Feelings more than”—she pauses to catch her breath—“more than family or friendship. I thought it was because of anger…for what Victor had done…trying to put us together. But…it didn’t take long to…realize it was more than that.”
“Izzy, you really don’t have—”
“I did love you—I do love you. But…I can’t explain it.” She stops, and while I want to wonder about what might be going on inside her mind, I can hardly breathe because of her admission.
“You have a love for me,” I say, “but it’s brotherly love or some shit, I get that.”
“No, I told you…it’s more than that, but…”
This has to be because death is playing tricks on her mind, making her say things she doesn’t mean.
“I can’t explain it, but all I know for sure is that…Victor is the love of my life,” she says at last, and my heart breaks further, my peace in death quickly slipping from my grasp with every word she speaks. “I could never love anyone the way I love him.”
I could have done without knowing this; I would have preferred not knowing, but word vomit is the number one side effect of drugs, alcohol, and death.
She loves me as I love her, but she’s not in love with me? She loves me, but she could never love me the way she loves Victor?
After a moment, I relax my arms and let go of her. She moves a few inches away so that we’re no longer touching; we look at each other, but that’s all we can compel ourselves to do.
“Is Victor enough for you?” I ask, “Is he the whole person you need?”
“He’s more than enough,” she assures me.
