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I take it to my room, letting go of the ribbon as I enter. It floats up to join its friends, which have covered half of my ceiling. It’s like walking into an over-the-top kid’s birthday party. I have to fight my way through the hanging silver ribbons to make it in and out of my bed now.
I scoop my purse up from the floor and make the mistake of looking up. I try not to do this. Because I know what he’s doing now. And the sight of it still makes my heart stall as much as the first time I understood.
There are more blue balloons than white.
It’s a sky.
A bright blue sky with white clouds.
Dax Silver is turning the ceiling of my bedroom into my very own cloudy sky, like that day in the hot air balloon with him. And he’s doing it with balloons.
Clever bastard.
But a fancy display doesn’t mean shit. Not when he hasn’t tried to call me once since I left. Not a single text.
Nothing.
He’s just continued to send these balloons. Day after day. Each with a new photograph numbered with the sunrise we’ve been apart. Each with a note on the back, always ending with the same words.
I weave my way through the silver strands, stopping at today’s on my way out. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I lift the attached photograph to have a closer look.
Sunrise number thirty without you. I feel closer to you here. The sheets still smelled like you, vanilla and petals. And that may have faded now, but my thoughts of you never have. Know that I am thinking of you. Every day. Every minute. Every second. For infinity.
I turn it, and the bright colors leap from the image. He must be lying in my old bed at the cottage, because it’s taken from a distance, looking out through the open window. In the corner of the photograph is the edge of his mom’s mirror with its beautifully intricate frame.
The glass is fixed.
It’s brand-new and shining, like nothing ever happened.
I drop the photo, allowing it to flutter down and join the others.
If only people were as easily fixed.
Chapter 39
Rose
Two months later
Theballoonskeepcoming.
He could have gotten bored by now.
Ninety days.
Ninety days. Some days blue. Some days white. Every day a sunrise photograph.
But still not a word spoken.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, parting the silver ribbons with my arms like I’m swimming so that I can get to my bedroom door.
Ridiculous, yet I’ve kept every single one. I’ve not tied them into bundles or cut their ribbons shorter. I’ve left them like a sky above me. Just like he planned. Because a pathetic part of me—my heart—won’t let me do anything else with them. Not when looking at them tells me he’s thinking about me too.
Because I still think about him.
All. The. Time.
I can’t escape it. It hasn’t gotten less frequent with each passing day. In fact, I’d say it’s gotten worse. When I first came home, emotional exhaustion from all that happened, combined with jet lag, meant that I slept, albeit at odd times. But now, just getting to sleep at all is a struggle. Memories of him, of us, play on a never-ending loop in my head.
