We are running. Hand in hand, although my feet don’t want to keep up with his long strides. Behind us, footsteps approach, but we keep going. Seconds feel like minutes, and we suddenly reach a clearing up ahead. He drags me around the corner and presses me against a stone sculpture.
“I’ll find you,” there is so much panic in his voice that it scares me, “I won’t stop until I do.” I shake my head, denying it, this isn’t how it ends. I pull him down and kiss him, for the last time. I pull away, my arms still around his neck, but it is too late. A gunshot fires, and I squeeze my eyes closed and brace myself for pain. But no pain comes. Slowly, so very slowly, I open my eyes.
Blood. On the grass, on the sculpture. On me. Blood is on my hands. And the blood belongs to him. I collapse beside him, pressing my hand onto the wound on his side.
“Tessa,” he whispers, and I listen closely, tears stinging my eyes “I’ll find you.”