Unwanted Days of HOLY HOLIDAY

XENONIA.

The government kept insisting on sanitizers, avoiding unnecessary gatherings, and restricting movement. Who knew when they’d ban trips to the market or even walking down the streets, just like every other country? I decided to leave Guentemalla early, before the end of my course.

If things got serious, I might just die here, unnoticed, swallowed by the city. The thought sent a shiver down my spine. I had always been careful, yet it felt as though no precautions were enough anymore. Everywhere I turned, there were masks hanging loosely, sanitizer bottles gathering dust, and people who acted as if this invisible threat couldn’t touch them. And here I was, rushing to Xavier’s, hoping for some comfort, some small fragment of normalcy in my chaotic day.

I jumped out of the taxi quickly, letting the driver carry my bags to the door as I rang Xavier’s bell, my patience already evaporating. Seconds passed like hours. My chest tightened with each tick of the clock, and I fought the creeping panic. “Don’t want to be rude,” I reminded myself, trying to justify my impatience. The taxi driver returned with my bags, and I realized I had completely blanked on paying him.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologized, fumbling for money in my pocket and handing it over.

“You’re welcome, Miss,” he said with a grin, leaving me alone with my thoughts—and my growing anxiety.

I tried the door—it was locked. Saturday. Xavier should be here. He had no schedule on weekends. I rapped five times, louder this time. A groan came from inside.

“Who is it?” His voice barked through the door, sharp and annoyed. Before I could answer, the door swung open.

His shirt was half unbuttoned, exposing his chest in a way that almost made me forget my anger. Almost. But his eyes widened in surprise, jaw slack, and that brought me back to reality. I should be scolding him—this was not the time for distraction.

“I thought you were supposed to call me?” I demanded, voice trembling with a mix of hurt and fury.

“Wh… but… I…”

I pushed past him, stepping inside, only to freeze. A woman was straightening her batik top on the couch.

“Who are you?” I screeched, incredulous.

“And who are you?” she shot back, hands moving toward her hips, as if she had every right to challenge me.

I turned to Xavier. His eyes were locked outside, still holding the door, avoiding me entirely.

“Can someone explain what’s happening here?” I almost barked. He exhaled and slowly turned to face us.

“Do you really need an explanation for what you just interrupted?” the woman asked, settling casually on the couch like she owned the place.

Seriously? Where did she get the audacity to talk back to me? Did she even know who I was?

“Excuse me? I’m not talking to you!” I screeched again, my voice cracking under the pressure of shock and betrayal.

My bag slipped from my shoulder to the floor. “What is happening here?” I tried to calm my voice, but I couldn’t hide the tremor.

“Who is she?” I demanded again, but neither of them answered.

I picked up my bag, turned toward the door, and left. Xavier didn’t follow. He didn’t even glance my way, quietly turning to the window as I walked out.

My heart ached. I trusted him, with everything I had. Every beat of my heart seemed to scream the betrayal I felt. I had imagined so many moments, conversations, and laughter between us. All of that seemed trivial now, replaced with a cold, empty space that left me shaking.

By the time I reached Uncle’s house, I tried to hide my pale face, but his wife noticed immediately. She followed me to my room, her presence calm and patient, like a lighthouse in my storm.

“Anything you’d like to talk about?” she asked softly, eyes warm with concern.

“I couldn’t finish my literature course… he broke up with me.” I collapsed into her lap, crying harder than I had in years.

I had only ever had two dreams: one, to pursue literature; two, to marry Xavier. Both felt ripped away in an instant.

She patted my back gently, rocking me slightly as if to soothe the ache in my chest. “You are a good writer, even without that course,” she said softly, and her words felt like air rushing back into my lungs.

I exhaled deeply, letting the tears run freely for a few more moments before rising from her lap. “What do you mean?” I asked, surprised. “Have you read my work? I’ve never seen you reading.”

“Amanda talks about your short stories all the time,” she replied with a smile.

Amanda—her ten-year-old daughter. I’d been writing stories for her ever since I knew them. Relief washed over me, and I rubbed the tears from my eyes. For a moment, I felt like I could breathe again.

“How old are you, Eve?” she asked.

“Nineteen,” I answered quietly.

“You have plenty of time to find yourself a good man. Don’t waste yourself on an i***t who never deserved you.” She stood, walking to the door. “Do something during this break,” she added, smirking before closing the door behind her.

The empty room suddenly felt full of hope. A small flame ignited inside me, flickering amidst the shadows of betrayal and heartbreak.

Xavier was harder to erase from my thoughts. I was used to him, in every habit, every small movement, even in moments of doing nothing. The ghost of his presence haunted every corner of my mind, whispering memories I wished I could forget.

But I made a decision. I would try to shake him from my mind—for now. And yet, if he ever came back for me, I wouldn’t hesitate. I loved him. That wouldn’t change, no matter what.

A small smirk tugged at my lips as I lay back on the bed, letting my thoughts drift. Even through the heartbreak, I clung to that tiny spark of hope, refusing to let it die completely.

I thought about all the mornings I had waited for his messages, the tiny moments of anticipation whenever his name flashed on my phone. I thought about the gallery visits, the way he had looked at my writings, the subtle acknowledgment of my presence that no one else seemed to notice. And now, all of that seemed like a cruel tease.

I tried to imagine him at home, perhaps laughing, perhaps with someone else, someone who wasn’t me. The image was unbearable, a sharp twist in my chest. I shook my head violently, trying to cast the thoughts away. No. I couldn’t let them consume me. Not yet.

I decided to distract myself with my writing. My notebook sat on my desk, the pen waiting like a loyal companion. I opened it, letting the words pour out, giving life to the tangled mess of emotions within me. For the first time in hours, I felt a sliver of control returning.

The sentences flowed, messy and chaotic, but alive. Each word was a protest, a scream, a confession. I wrote about dreams I had lost, moments I had cherished, and a love that had anchored me even in the storm. The pen became my shield, my voice, my solace.

Hours slipped by, and the night deepened around me. The silence of the room was no longer oppressive; it was a canvas, stretching endlessly, ready to receive every thought, every hope I had buried. And with each word, the ache in my chest softened, replaced by determination.

I would finish my literature course. I would write, not for Xavier, not for anyone, but for myself. For the girl who had dared to dream, who had dared to love, and who would dare again, despite the heartbreak.

And as I finally set my pen down, exhaustion washing over me, I felt a quiet resolve settling in. Xavier could remain a memory, a lesson, a challenge. But I would not let him—or anyone—steal my passion, my purpose, or the flame that burned within me.

I lay back, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day slowly lifting. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I allowed myself to smile, a small, defiant curve of my lips. I was still me. I was still dreaming. I was still alive.

And that was enough for now.