The ocean was calm, the air warm, and the distance between us disappeared with every step until the silence between us turned into something we both understood without words.
That night she came back to my hotel, and neither of us pretended it meant more than a fragile moment between two people who once loved each other deeply.
The next morning I woke up late, and sunlight filled the room while Rachel stood by the window wearing my white shirt, looking so familiar that it almost hurt to breathe.
Then I got out of bed and froze when I saw the red stain on the sheet, not large but enough to make my entire body go cold.
I stared at it in silence, and nothing about that moment made sense.
I looked up at her, and she turned, following my gaze, and the softness on her face disappeared instantly.
“It is nothing,” she said quickly, but her voice carried a tension I remembered too well.
“That does not look like nothing,” I replied, and she folded her arms like she was holding herself together.
“It is just an old medical issue,” she said, avoiding my eyes.
“What kind of issue,” I asked, stepping closer, but she stiffened, and I stopped.