We become good at what we do often

We become good at what we do often. Victoria had often thought that with enough goodbyes, they might eventually become more trivial and manageable. She was wrong.

She arrived at the airport that had welcomed her a year earlier. This year, the temperatures were excessively cold, adding to her discomfort a sharp sensation, like a fine icy blade piercing her flesh-something she would have preferred to do without. A year had flown by with startling speed. The joy she had felt upon arriving at the hotel, which had caused her so many sleepless nights the previous time, was now overshadowed by a persistent melancholy, like a sprained ankle that limits your steps and slows your body until it heals. Despite her lack of sleep, she kept walking, tracing the outlines of the past year in her mind. When she closed her eyes, the image of M possessed her, sometimes teetering on the edge of trauma.

A year had passed, yes, but the goodbyes had only become more unbearable-perhaps ironically, in proportion to the quality of their shared moments. During these reunions, she had wanted to intoxicate herself with his nectar, suffocate herself in his scent, covering him with kisses as she confessed the void he had left in her during those long months, while he slipped quietly into the room.
It hadn't been a dream, yet the emptiness remained. As if last night had not truly existed. The alcohol coursing through her veins had distorted her perception, and now a deep sense of ridiculousness clung to her like a second skin. Her heart had spent the entire night beating at a frantic pace, trying to pump the intoxication out of her body.

Sleep had abandoned her, and there she was, facing her failures, realizing how utterly incapable she was of weaning herself off M. She was terribly angry at herself, unable to gain perspective, she who never backed down from a challenge. M had become her kryptonite, and the lack of viable solutions or alternatives made her head spin, while her heart continued to pound inside her, as if punishing her.
Parting from him had always triggered a physical reaction, a sensation of cold, as if her flesh were being peeled away while she was still conscious. She had accepted it before, but this time, even the brutality of reality seemed to strike her differently, not fully awakening her. This transition unfolded in stages.

First came realization. The cold sensation began at the small of her back, creeping upward along her spine like a shiver, until it numbed her arms. Even though this stage was already unpleasant, she preferred to prolong it, savoring her final moments with M. This moment, resembling a futile bargaining process, was marked by M's soft yet strong embrace-a reprieve she wished could last forever. She longed for their bodies to fuse together.

The second stage, the separation of their bodies, intensified her discomfort and froze her blood. Victoria tried in vain to keep talking, attempting to fill the moment with words, delaying the inevitable descent from the euphoria of their reunion.
Then came the tear, the penultimate stage-swift, fleeting, and inevitable. That moment when the relationship, still tangible in gestures and words, abruptly broke apart. It was expressed through sounds or actions that sealed the end: the slam of a door, the thud of an object hitting the floor. A dull rumble echoed within her, heralding the dissolution.
The final stage, the most painful perhaps, stretched out over several days. The dissolution persisted, growing as their physical distance increased. Memories, sensations, and emotions blended together, only to gradually unravel, leaving an uncomfortable emptiness in their place.

She was on the flight taking her to her next destination-without him, and without the excitement of seeing him again. Could they ever truly put an end to this exquisite romance she had woven over the months with letters, playlists, color palettes, and dance routines, when the distance between them made it impossible for their bodies to intertwine?

True to his nature, M would no doubt have that disconcerting ability to end the story with a simple flick of his hand, as one might brush away a speck of dust from the glass encasing a treasured artifact. She saw herself again, in the line of sight, facing the barrel of that singular gun he adjusted coldly the day before, as if taking aim at her.

Perhaps a bullet would finally shatter this dream once and for all-the only way to offer her a brutal but necessary awakening.