oranges in july: part three

the morning crept in quietly, soft, reluctant. the kind of morning that knows it’s not welcome.

the air in the cottage felt different. heavier, somehow, like it already missed us. the sheets were twisted around our legs, the fan murmuring above but neither of us moved. him beside me, still and silent, one hand resting over my ribs like he didn’t trust the sun not to steal me away.

i turned to face him. his eyes opened slowly.

"you‘re really leaving" he said, voice low and raspy.

i nodded. “train‘s at noon".

he stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. then whispered, more to himself than to me, “putain…”

we got up slowly, both of us pretending it was just another morning. i sat on the counter in his shirt, watching him slice an orange in that same gentle way — like he was touching something sacred.

“you‘ll laugh” he said, his accent thick, "but i already hate this kitchen without you in it".

i smiled. “i think i‘ll miss the oranges the most".

he held up a slice. “ma petite you‘ll miss me the most".

i nodded, feeling the lump in my throat grow bigger.

he kissed me once, then again, slower, beneath my jaw.

“reste” he whispered.

stay.

i closed my eyes.

and for a moment, i almost did.

i rested my forehead against his and kissed him with everything i didn’t know how to say. it was quiet. no trembling lips, no tears. just two mouths trying to remember each other for later.

at the station, he didn’t let go of my hand until i stepped onto the train. and even then — even then — he followed me with his eyes like maybe i’d turn around.

i didn’t.

but i felt it — his grip, his mouth, his breath at my neck — for days after.

and sometimes, when i‘m alone, i still hear it.

reste.