A thousand years

Nightmares

Estelle’s and Lucas’ Apartment, Bačvice District, Split, Croatia, 2017.

The dream began the same way.

Darkness. The cold weight of death pressing against her chest. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, just feel. A man held her, his arms tight around her body like he was trying to keep her from slipping away. His skin was too pale, fingers sharp against her ribs. Cold. Not alive.

She tried to speak but only a whisper came out. “I’m sorry.”

Then he said her name. “Estelle.”

It echoed, deep and hollow, like a voice from the bottom of a well. She forced her eyelids open, just a c***k, just enough to see him. But his face—blurred. Twisted. Like something pulled through water.

She reached up. One last time. Just to see.

Then she woke.

Sunlight cut through the blinds, thin golden stripes across the rumpled sheets in this Croatian home. Her breath came fast. She lay still, staring at the ceiling, waiting for her pulse to slow. The same dream. Again. For twenty-three nights. Always the same. Always ending before she could see his face.

She sat up slowly, bare feet pressing into the cool wood floor. The apartment was too quiet.

She turned to the other side of the bed. Empty. Cold.

“Lucas?” Her voice cracked.

No answer.

She stood, wrapped the thin robe around her body, and walked down the short hall. The bathroom door was closed. A sliver of light from under it.

“Lucas, are you okay?”

Silence.

She knocked. “Open the door.”

Nothing.

Then a sound. A small clink. Glass hitting porcelain.

Her stomach dropped.

She twisted the knob. Locked.

“Lucas! Open it!”

Still nothing.

She threw her weight against the door once, twice. On the third try, it gave. The lock snapped loose with a sharp c***k.

She stumbled in.

Lucas stood in front of the mirror, eyes wide, one hand near the sink. A small bottle lay in the basin. Clear liquid inside. No label.

He lunged for it.

So did she.

They reached it at the same time. His fingers closed around the glass, hers over his. He tried to pull it back. She held on.

“Let go,” he said, voice low.

“No.”

“Estelle…”

“No!” She twisted his wrist. He winced. She didn’t let go. “Give it to me!”

He shoved her. She stumbled back, hit the wall. But she pushed forward again, grabbed his arm, twisted until he yelped and dropped it.

She snatched the bottle.

He didn’t fight her after that. Just stood there, shoulders rising and falling fast, hands open at his sides like he was waiting for something to fall into them.

She turned on the tap, unscrewed the cap, and poured the liquid down the drain. The water turned faintly cloudy, then clear again.

She dropped the bottle into the trash.

Then she looked at him.

His golden hair was messy, eyes red-rimmed. He wouldn’t meet her gaze.

She stepped closer. “What was in that?”

He didn’t answer.

“Lucas. Tell me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered.

“Yes, it does.” Her voice wavered. “That was poison, wasn’t it?”

He said nothing.

She touched his arm. “You were going to…”

“Stop.” He yanked away. “Just stop.”

“You can’t do this.”

“I can.” He turned to her, face tight. “And you shouldn’t have stopped me.”

She stared at him. “How can you say that?”

“Because I’m tired,” he snapped. “Every day. Every damn morning. Waking up feels like losing a fight I didn’t want to be in.”

She stepped back. “We’ll get help. I’ll call Dr. Hale. Today.”

“No.” He shook his head. “No more doctors. No more pills. No more pretending I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay,” she said, voice rising. “You’re standing in a bathroom with a bottle of poison because you can’t face another day!”

“I can,” he said quietly. “I just don’t want to.”

The words hung between them.

She looked at him—the boy who used to follow her around the house, calling her “Stella,” begging her to braid his hair, to play card games, to stay up late watching cartoons. The same boy who, after the accident, stopped laughing. Stopped speaking for months. The one who still flinched at loud noises. Who slept with the light on.

And now this.

She knelt down in front of him. The tiles were cold.

“Talk to me,” she said.

He looked away. “There’s nothing to say.”

“There is.” Her voice broke. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s the problem,” he whispered.

She froze.

“I’m gonna die anyway,” he said, staring at the floor. “Why wait? Why keep dragging this out?” His voice cracked, not loud, but heavy. “And why do you always come running? Why can’t you just…let me be?”

Estelle squeezed his shoulder. “Because you’re my brother. And I love you. That’s not something I can turn off.”

He turned to look at her. “Love won’t fix a dead heart.”

“It might. Maybe not medically. But it keeps me going. Keeps you going,” she said. “I’m not done trying.”

“Trying what?” He stood, pacing. “You think there’s some miracle hiding in the back of a pharmacy? Some specialist I haven’t seen? Some fairy goddoctor?” He stopped, breathing hard. “I’m done, Estelle. A month. That’s it.”

She stepped closer. “Then we use every second.”

He looked at her then. His blue eyes were empty. “You’re always here. Watching. Worrying. Like I’m one second from breaking. And maybe I am. But you don’t get it. You don’t feel it. The noise in my head. The weight. It never stops. You can’t fix me, Estelle. No one can.”

“I’m not trying to fix you,” she said. “I’m trying to keep you.”

“What’s left? Doctors said a month. Maybe less. I’m twenty-one. No future, no second chances.”

She held his gaze. “Then we make one.”

He looked down. A tear fell. Then another.

She pulled him into her arms. He didn’t resist. Just sank against her, his body shaking.

She held on. Tight.

Outside, the sun rose higher. Light flooded the bathroom. The scent of bleach and chemical still hung in the air.

Eventually, Lucas pulled back. His face was raw.

Estelle wiped her eyes. “No more of this. No more bottles. No more hiding.”

He nodded, slow. “Okay.”

She didn’t believe him.