Lucia - Please Don't Call

 And the toughest part is that we both know what to happened to you, why you're out on your own. Merry Christmas, please don't call.

It was a wet kind of snow that fell the night of Christmas Eve. Lucia didn’t mind; the drinks she'd had earlier still burned through her even as she shivered. It wasn’t enough to make her stumble, or fall, or forget. How unfortunate, during a time when the memories are so potent they hurt.

Everything was closed this late, only a scarce few restaurants still packed with the last dredges of procrastinating shoppers. Everyone else was home, with their family and friends, warm and happy and safe. You were, she hoped. It was a foolish notion; the Volkovs would ensure that you were that and more. 

Still. Still. The desire to hold you, to hear your voice, to see for herself that you’re okay and-

Lucia was inherently selfish, she'd long since come to terms with that flaw of hers. It was selfish to want to pull out her phone and call you. She'd deleted your contact, trying in vain to move on, but her fingers still itched with the familiar pattern of your number. She knew it by heart, even as the world started to feel a little fuzzy around the edges. She couldn’t forget them, couldn’t forget you, no matter how desperately she tried.

Her phone buzzed and her heart leapt to attention. It wasn’t you, she knew that, but she still wished it was. She slumped on a bench, letting the cold chill her to the bone as she disregarded Cameron’s text. Come home, her friend had said, only she didn’t have a home. She had a couch at Cameron’s place, and nothing else. 

She once called you home, probably still would if it wouldn’t make her feel exceptionally pathetic, but she'd been thoroughly evicted since. Rightfully so, but the pain was still there even if it was her own fault. Lingering, stinging, festering under her skin. She didn’t think it would ever leave her; just like the rest of her baggage, it would rot her from the inside out.

She stood once more, her hands in her pockets, the wind freezing whatever tears were likely to slip out. Her regrets made semi-decent company; far better than what she herself would make, at least. She would walk with them tonight, walk until she was numb, and then she would go back to her couch and the present under the tree that Cam’s aunt bought her out of pity. 

It’s a slow death, and it’ll take years, but she refused to trouble you any longer. You deserved more than her and her regrets. Still, she ached for the way you used to run your fingers through her curls. How you’d smile and the way it made everything feel better. How you would be able to banish this cold just by looking in her direction, her eyes meeting yours. She had loved your eyes.

Lucia wouldn’t call you, but she sure as hell would be the one to pick up if your number lit up her screen.