The Spark He Showed Her, the Flame I Lost Chapter 09
Adrian did not return to the States.
He booked an entire floor of the hotel across from my apartment and began a half-month campaign of relentless harassment.
Every morning at six, he stood outside my apartment building on the dot, carrying the breakfast I used to love. Paris winters were bitterly cold, but he wore only a thin suit and stood there in the wind and snow for hours at a time.
Every time I went out, he followed about fifteen feet behind me, careful not to get too close.
He did not speak. He did not come closer. He only stared at me with stubborn persistence.
“Ms. Lawson, that gentleman stood outside all night again. The snow is up to his knees, and he looks like he might have a fever. Would you like me to call the police for you?” the older French security guard at my building asked with concern.
Holding a cup of hot coffee, I looked through the floor-to-ceiling window at the rigid figure downstairs, nearly buried in snow.
“Don’t bother with him.” I calmly drew the curtains and turned back to the translation documents in front of me.
In the past, even one cough from him would make me so anxious I could not sleep all night. I would look up every home remedy I could find and brew tea for him.
Now, even if he died right in front of me, my heart would not beat a second faster.
Once a person’s heart has gone completely cold, they really can become cold-blooded to the extreme.
At eight o’clock that night, I went downstairs to the convenience store.
I had just walked out of the apartment building when Adrian collapsed right at
my feet.
His body was burning hot, his face flushed with fever, and his cracked lips were bleeding. Yet his hand was still clenched tightly around an insulated food container.
At the sound, he struggled to open his eyes. When he saw it was me, he forced a weak smile. “Claire, I waited three hours for these cinnamon rolls from that bakery. They’re still warm. Try one.”
He held the container out to me with trembling hands.
I looked at that self-indulgent display of devotion and felt only sorrow.
He always thought this kind of self-inflicted suffering could win back my pity. He thought love was a transaction, that if he staged enough martyr acts, I would have to give him something in return.
“Adrian, the only person you moved was yourself. You disgusted me.”
I did not take the container. Instead, I stepped back and took out my phone to call emergency services.
The ambulance arrived quickly, sirens wailing.
As the paramedics lifted him onto the stretcher, he clutched the hem of my coat with a death grip, his eyes full of desperate pleading. “Claire, come to the hospital with me, okay? I’m scared.”
“Let go,” I said coldly.
He stubbornly refused, his knuckles turning white from the force of his grip.
Without the slightest hesitation, I took a pair of scissors from my pocket and cut off the section of my coat he was holding.
The sound of tearing fabric was especially clear in the silent snowy night.
Adrian’s hand went rigid, and the light in his eyes went out completely.
He looked at the torn piece of fabric in his hand and finally released his grip in despair.
The ambulance doors slowly closed.
I turned and walked into the convenience store, where I bought a bottle of warm milk.
When I returned to my warm apartment, I threw the coat with the missing corner into the trash.
Some things, once stained, stayed stained. Cutting them away was the only ending they deserved.