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noirscript · 17 days ago

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lavender snow

pairing/s: yandere husband x f!reader description: You find the old tape by accident, tucked where no one should’ve known to look—yet somehow, Luca did. As her voice spills softly through the static, you realize you’re not listening to a memory… you’re remembering something you were never meant to forget. warning/s: yandere | hints of memory lost | implied past abuse note/s: I accidentally found out that my mic's fried af and got this idea. I might add this kind of content on my ko-fi for monthly subs? It'll come with complimentary fic of course. Also, I'll add the banner later. p.s. it's unedited audio so it's scuffed as hell.

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You don’t remember the tape.

Not where it came from, not how it ended up inside a box of out-of-season clothes, or why your name is written on the spine in your own handwriting—faint and fading, like it tried to disappear. The box had been buried deep in the attic, hidden beneath moth-eaten sweaters and the sagging ribs of a broken umbrella. You hadn’t even meant to find it. But now it sits in your lap like it’s been waiting for you to come back.

The cassette is warm in your hands. No label, no markings, just a faint impression where something had once been stuck to it. Your stomach tightens. You’re not sure why, but you dig out the old player from the back of a cupboard and feed the tape into its slot. The machine shudders to life with a soft whirr, then static, and then—your voice.

“Hi, sweetheart. If you’re remembering this... I guess that means he’s kept it safe. Just like he promised.”

Your breath catches. The words settle heavily in the space around you, too tender, too familiar. It’s your voice, no doubt about it, but there's something off in the cadence—like someone rehearsing affection through clenched teeth.

You sit still, your eyes fixed on the aging plastic player as your voice continues.

“I thought maybe one day, when the world feels quieter... you’d want to remember this. Us. The way the light used to fall through the window at 4PM. How the air smelled like sun-warmed sheets and cinnamon. He always made sure everything was just perfect, didn’t he?”

A strange pressure blooms in your chest. You don’t remember making this recording. You don’t remember any of it—the window light, the scent of cinnamon, or whoever he is.

You sound so… happy.

Too happy.

The you on the tape laughs lightly, but even that sounds rehearsed. It’s too round, too smooth, like a laugh meant to soothe someone else. Not you.

“I don’t even know how long it’s been now,” your voice says. “Days feel a little soft around the edges. But every one of them is filled with love. He tells me that all the time. That I’m loved. That I’m safe.”

That last word—safe—wraps around your spine and squeezes. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way you say it. Quietly. Soft as a secret. The kind of word you only whisper when the truth is something you’re not allowed to say.

A prickle crawls over the back of your neck.

“Sometimes I dream about the park. That little bench under the jacaranda tree? You remember. I said something silly about the petals looking like lavender snow. You laughed.”

You swallow. Your throat is dry.

“That was before I knew how loud the world could be when you don’t belong to it anymore.”

The air in the room turns cold. You don’t remember that bench. You don’t remember that moment. But your body responds to the sound of it—like it’s chasing something long buried. Your shoulders draw in. Your fingertips twitch. A faint headache blooms at your temples.

“But it’s okay now,” the voice continues. “He says I don’t have to worry about any of that. Not anymore. Not with him.”

The machine clicks faintly as the tape continues to roll. You hear the rustle of fabric in the background. Wood creaking. A low breath, not yours. You pause the tape.

The room is silent.

You press play again, hesitating just long enough to question whether you should.

“I should go. He doesn’t like it when I record too long without him.”

There’s a pause. Barely a second. But it’s there. You can hear your voice hover just a little too long over that sentence, like you're waiting to see if the walls will punish you for saying it aloud.

“But I hope, when you hear this… you smile. Just a little. Just enough to remember me the way he wants me to be remembered.”

Another pause. Your voice drops lower, almost reverent.

“Perfect. Quiet. Home.”

Then: a click. End of tape.

You sit frozen on the floor. The stillness around you is thick and wrong. You want to dismiss it as a prank. Maybe an old performance, an acting exercise, something you’d recorded and forgotten about. But something in your gut rebels at the thought. This wasn't a character. That was you.

You stand, rubbing your arms, suddenly cold despite the sunlight slanting through the blinds. Your feet move without you telling them to, carrying you to the kitchen where you run cold water over your hands. But when you glance down, something catches your eye.

Your left palm.

Faint black ink, faded by time and skin, clings to the lines of your hand like a warning:

don’t trust him

You blink, heart stuttering. The writing is old. Worn. You scrub at it, but it doesn’t fade. You don't remember writing it, don’t even remember seeing it before today. But it’s your handwriting. And the fear in your chest tells you you wrote it for a reason.

You rush back to the box in the attic, tearing through what’s left. Beneath the collapsed lid of a hollowed-out book, you find a crumpled scrap of paper. Another note, also written by you.

“If you find the tape, go to the basement. There’s more.”

The words don’t make sense. You’ve lived in this house for two years. There is no basement.

But your body moves before your thoughts catch up. Your steps lead you to the hallway where a locked door waits. One you’ve always assumed was just a closet. You’ve never had a key.

Today, it’s open.

The stairs beyond descend into shadow.

You hesitate, every part of you screaming to stop, to turn around. But your hand grips the railing and you descend slowly, your heartbeat loud in your ears. The air grows colder with every step. The smell down here is old. Musty. Earthy.

And faintly metallic.

The overhead light flickers to life when you tug the chain, bathing the room in weak, yellow glow. There’s a table against the far wall. And on it—a cassette deck. Surrounding it is a neat stack of tapes. Dozens of them. All unlabeled. All pristine.

You approach slowly, dread sinking like lead into your bones. The deck is already loaded. You press play.

The familiar whir clicks to life. Then:

“Hi, sweetheart. If you’re remembering this...”

Your knees nearly give. It’s the same recording. Or no—not the same. A different take. You’re talking about a different day. Different sunlight. Different cinnamon. Different bruises, maybe.

You grab the next tape. And the next. One by one, you feed them into the machine and listen.

Each time, your voice greets someone with warmth. Each time, you sound a little more distant. A little more tired. A little more robotic. In one, you sound as if you’re crying through a smile. In another, you start to say something else—“If anyone finds th—” before the tape cuts off with a harsh click.

You begin to shake.

And then you hear something you hadn’t before.

In the background, beneath your voice, there’s breathing.

Yours. But not just yours.

Heavier. Male.

Closer.

Footsteps.

Not on the tape. Behind you.

You turn sharply.

Someone is coming down the stairs.

Your stomach turns. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The light above you flickers. A shadow moves across the wall.

Then a voice. Low. Warm. Familiar.

“You always forget, don’t you?”

You can’t breathe.

“That’s why I made the tapes. So you’d remember. So you’d always come back to me.”

He steps into the light. His expression is soft, fond. Too fond.

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

The light buzzes overhead, then sputters out.

In the dark, the tape keeps playing.

And from it—your voice whispers one last thing:

“Perfect. Quiet. Home.”

tbc.

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans @ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

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ingeniousmindoftune · 27 days ago

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Vampire Eyes & Velvet Nights.

South Central, LA. | 1997.

Stack Moore X black!OC.

Part 1 of ?.

Wednesday night. Moon low and swollen, smog turning its light to jaundice. The city roared beyond the walls, but inside the Sable Room it was hushed—wooden floors worn thin by dancers, walls plastered with torn flyers, candles guttering in iron sconces. Incense clung to the air.

Amaya stepped into the single amber spotlight. Her crimson lips gleamed like freshly spilled wine; in her hand, a battered notebook bulged with secrets she’d never dared whisper to a confessor. She read:

“He kissed me like midnight—my veins thrumming till dawn. Sleep fled the moment our lips met.”

A sharp SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. The crowd’s pulses thrummed in time.

In a back booth, a figure shifted. Hooded, broad-shouldered—only the glint of a gold tooth betrayed him when he turned his head. He didn’t clap. He didn’t snap. He simply watched, as if cataloging the sound of her heart.

They called him Stack. No one knew his name, no one remembered when he first drifted in. Some said he used to string words together in smoky bars; others whispered he’d risen from an unmarked grave. To Amaya, he felt ancient, like a storm waiting to break.

When her last line hung in the air, she climbed down, calves trembling. The buzz of the room rushed in. Stack was already at the bar, shoulders bathed in shadow, a black tumbler curled in his hand.

“You write like you’ve tasted flame,” he said, voice a warm rasp.

She tilted her chin; her gold hoops brushed the curve of her jaw. “And you watch like you’ve swallowed ash.”

A slow curl of his lips revealed an ivory flash. “Maybe I have.”

He waved her to a corner booth. She slid in opposite him; candlelight pooled across his cheekbones, over skin that looked too smooth to belong to the living. His drink stayed unmoving—no ice, no condensation, just an inky stillness.

She spoke in staccato bursts—her fear of loneliness, her belief that love was a bullet aimed at the heart. He sat so still she could count each shallow breath, could feel the pulse of the air around him, like static before a storm.

“Always by yourself?” he asked, lifting the tumbler as if reading her pulse.

“Safer,” she said, stirring the straw in her ginger beer. “People bruise you when they get close.”

He chuckled—velvet and crackle. “Not if you’re already broken.”

His finger brushed her knuckles. Ice bloomed under her skin; her blood thundered in her ears. He watched every hitch in her voice, every flicker of her gaze.

She leaned back. “Why don’t you ever blink?”

He tilted his head, dark eyes glittering. “I’ve seen too much to need it.”

She rose, legs still humming. Stack was upright in a breath—no scrape of wood, no rustle of fabric. He moved like a shadow slipping off a wall.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said, soft command.

Outside, the sidewalk glowed under sodium lamps. Her heels clicked a lonely rhythm; behind her, he followed silent as night. Exhaust mixed with the scent of blooming jacarandas.

By her maroon Chevy, she stopped. “Who are you?”

He leaned close, breath cool against her temple. His fingers skimmed her cheek—marble-cold, sending fire down her spine. “Hungry,” he whispered.

Then his lips brushed her hand, deliberate and slow. Soft as silk, but she felt a flash of something sharp beneath. She didn’t pull away; instead her knees weakened, longing for that cold burn.

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zylokv · 1 month ago

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LOST IN TRANSLATION — J-LINE TWICE

" that whole ‘i wanna touch’ thing… we’ll save it for next time. "

synopsis — it’s 3 a.m. in los angeles when you step into an elevator with momo, sana, and mina, unaware that they’re members of TWICE. while they joke about your height and looks in japanese, you stay quiet, until..

notice — i don’t speak japanese, so any japanese phrases used in this story were translated using reverso/google translate and might not be 100% accurate. please forgive any mistakes—and feel free to gently correct me if needed! this is all just for fun and vibes. pairing — sana x mina x hirai momo x reader. disclaimer ! this is a work of fiction. while TWICE is a real k-pop group, the characters in this story are fictionalized based on their public personalities. i do not own TWICE—i only own the story and original character(s). this was written purely for entertainment purposes, with respect to all individuals involved. genre — oneshot.

the streets of downtown los angeles looked like they were holding their breath.

3:07am.

los angeles at 3am was a different kind of quiet. not empty—but softened, like the whole city had exhaled and gone still. the distant hum of traffic was a low pulse in the background, and the air, warm from a lingering spring day, still carried the faint scent of car exhaust and jacaranda trees in bloom.

you were already regretting your decision to hit the gym this late, but there was no turning back now. the oversized hoodie hung loose over your frame, the sleeves hiding half your hands. your gym bag thumped lightly against your hip with each step. you had your headphones on— no music yet, just the silence that came before the rnb playlist started.

insomnia had won again. and when sleep didn’t come, movement did. the gym in the basement was open twenty-four hours, and the thought of hitting the bag for an hour seemed better than staring at your ceiling for the third night in a row.

you hit the button for the elevator with your knuckle, yawning into your sleeve.

ding.

the moment the doors slid open, your brain short-circuited.

three girls were already inside, laughing. loud. barely holding onto their food as they turned around mid-conversation. the scent hit you first—soy sauce, grilled meat, something fried and sweet, maybe donuts. it was like walking into a late-night food truck festival.

they looked up in unison.

one had dumplings in her mouth. literally. mid-bite. the second had strawberry milk in one hand and a chicken sandwich in the other, her expression stuck somewhere between surprise and delight. and the third—hood up, sleeves over her palms—blinked slowly like she hadn’t quite caught up yet.

you stepped in, the doors closing behind you.

the silence was immediate.

momo swallowed first.

“背の高い”

(tall.)

you heard it. clear as day. but you didn’t react. just lifted your water bottle to your lips, watching the elevator numbers tick down.

sana leaned in toward momo, stage-whispering like she wasn’t absolutely audible. " まって、LAの人ってこんなにストイックなの？”

(wait, are people in LA really this intense?)

“たぶん。” momo smirked, eyes dragging from your shoes to your hoodie to your face. “でも、めっちゃタイプ。”

(maybe. but they’re totally my type.)

you kept your face neutral, eyes forward. the air smelled like sesame oil and seaweed snacks and something caramelized. there was a crunch—sana tearing into what looked like a fried chicken sandwich with absolutely no shame. mina stood closest to the elevator buttons. she glanced at you, then down at the floor. then back at you.

“アメリカ人ってああいう感じかな。” she mumbled, half to herself. (i guess americans look like that.)

“ああいう感じってどんな感じ？” momo asked, nudging her.

(what do you mean ‘like that’?)

“なんか…かっこよくて静か。” mina replied.

(like… cool and quiet.)

“それもあなたの好みですか？” sana teased, nudging mina’s arm.

(is that your preference too?)

“彼らはあなたの言うことを聞くことができません、さあ。” sana elbowed her, snorting. “ここアメリカよ？絶対わかんない。”

(they can’t hear you, come on. we’re in america. there’s no way they understand.)

mina turned pink.

you bit your lip, just barely hiding the smile tugging at your mouth.they didn’t know. they really thought you couldn’t understand a word.

“わたしがタイプって言ったのに。” momo muttered, fake-offended.

(i already called dibs.)

“じゃあジャンケンで決めよう。” sana offered, mouth full.

(rock paper scissors for it, then.)

“餃子があるから無理。”

(i’m holding dumplings, i can’t.)

you finally moved—shifted your gym bag onto your other shoulder. the elevator made a soft ding. one more floor.

the scent of sesame oil and fried chicken filled your nose. momo’s shoulder brushed yours as the elevator moved. her arm stayed close. too close. you could feel the warmth through your hoodie.

“彼らの腕を見てください” momo whispered to sana, thinking she was being slick.

(listen, seriously look at their arms.)

sana giggled. “触りたい”

(i wanna touch.)

“私たちはそうすべきでしょうか？” momo asked, completely unserious but somehow entirely serious.

(should we?)

then your phone rang.

you picked it up without a word, answered with the calmest voice you could muster.

“兄さん、今ジムに行くの。”

(brother, i’m going to the gym now.)

dead silence.

it was instant. you didn’t even have to look to know their eyes were huge. but you did. you turned your head just enough to see them in the mirrored elevator wall—wide eyes, open mouths, and a dumpling midair in momo’s chopsticks.

you continued, casually. “エレベーターの中で面白いことを聞いたばかりだちょっと面白い”

(just heard some interesting stuff in the elevator. kinda funny.)

a strangled noise came from behind you.

“日本語…？” mina blinked.

(japanese..?)

“彼らは完璧にそれを話します..” sana whispered, scandalized and thrilled.

(they speak it perfectly..)

you hang up the slight sound evident. you turn your head slightly.

sana was slack-jawed, strawberry milk and chicken sandwich forgotten. momo was wide-eyed, mid-bite again. mina looked like she wanted to melt into the floor.

you gave them a slow smile—lazy, just a little smug. “ありがと。ちなみに、私はそれらの賛辞を早く聞きました。”

(thanks. i heard those compliments earlier, by the way.)

“やっば…” sana whispered, covering her face.

(oh no...) mina made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. or a squeak. maybe both. also looked like she wanted to disappear into her hoodie forever.

you took a step toward the door. paused. let the silence simmer. “君たち3人でゲームを決めよう。” you said, smiling. “誰が勝っても私は地下室にいるよ。”

(you three will decide who win. whoever wins ill be in the gym basement.)

ding.

you stepped out as the doors slid open, tossing a glance over your shoulder.

“「触りたい」ってことは…次回に取っておきましょう。”

(that whole ‘i wanna touch’ thing… we’ll save it for next time.)

the last thing you heard before the elevator doors closed?

“なぜ彼らはあなたのタイプだと大声で言ったのですか!？”

(why did you say out loud that they were your type!?)

"サナ、あの人に触れたいって言ったでしょ!"

(sana, you literally said you wanted to touch them!)

“やめて…” (please stop...) — mina.

kino's note — your sleep deprived writer is back! (sort of) missed my pretty girls and i got this inspo while out on a run at 6am

#kino's file #kino.#zylokv #kpop girls #mina imagines #twice mina #twice sana #mina x reader #myoui mina #myoui mina x reader #twice #twice oneshots #oneshot #zylokv files #kino's archives #twice momo #misamo

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webbgirl34 · 1 year ago

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I have exactly zero idea what the ones outside my building are. And now I’m curious.

i personally love kwanzan cherry blossoms 🌸🌸

#I do love that they turn the street pink this time of year #I miss the jacaranda blooms in San Diego when I was young #so the cherry blossoms help

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johnwickb1tsch · 2 months ago

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bittersweet + ch 51

a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... all chapters

WARNINGS FOR THIS FIC: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, VIOLENCE, YANDERE SH!T. Minors DNI. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

51. don’t cry for me, argentina

You are lucky that you have traveled enough that you practically arrange everything for your journey on autopilot, operating in a daze of excitement and dread, daring to hope yet beating yourself down at every turn.

This isn’t going to amount to anything.

You’re flying to the bottom of the world just to crush yourself again.

Yet in the grand scheme of things, an 11 hour flight seems like the least you can do, to indulge this mystery.

You’ll just go, and see. What’s the harm? Besides to your barely clinging last thread of sanity?

You’ve never had the luxury of planning a trip without a budget. There is something incredibly convenient about just being able to book whatever flights and hotel you want without giving a fuck for the price. The zeroes in your bank account are vast, and this is really the first time you’ve splurged with them.

The hardest part is arranging for the care of Dog with someone you trust. You know Winston would take him if you asked, but the Continental is not a kennel. You think there is some synergy in the Universe, when you recruit a girl from the coffee house who you befriended to housesit and watch your faithful pooch. Dog can tell that the energy of the house has changed as you pack, seeming both anxious and curious in that sage way canines have about them.

“I promise I’m coming back soon,” you tell him, kissing him on the snoot.

You hope you’re telling the truth.

***

You feel as though you are holding your breath for the entire plane ride.

You do not sleep, and when at last you land in Buenos Aires you feel as though you are walking amidst a fever dream, collecting your bags from the carousel on autopilot. A press of people await their loved ones outside security. There are smiling faces, laughter, embraces. You search the crowd, but no one is familiar.

No one is waiting there for you, and you are scared to admit you’d even entertained the slightest sliver of hope.

As though you’re afraid of jinxing yourself, you’ve hardly allowed yourself to consciously admit the purpose of your mission here. Certainly not aloud, and you didn’t even tell Winston where you were going, afraid he would talk you out of it.

The warmth from outside presses through the windows of the last atrium of the airport; you have to take off your coat or you will cook. Stray dogs nap politely in the shade by an unmanned counter. This is a different world than what you’re used to at home, and at last that old familiar energy greets you; the beginning of an adventure.

Anything could happen.

You get your second wind, and with new courage you walk out into the warm day to hail a taxi.

This beautiful city racing past the window seems like a fairyland out the corner of your eye, the bright purple jacaranda trees in full bloom dreamily painting the landscape. You see poverty and wealth existing side by side as you motor down the highway, and you think maybe it’s not so different from the other big cities you have known.

You chat politely but haltingly with your driver. Maybe he can tell that your reluctance to talk has less to do with your grasp of the language than your mind being elsewhere. He gives up halfway to your little hotel in Palermo; you hope he doesn’t think ill of you, and you give him a big tip in American Dollars, the coveted currency in this part of the world where the value of the peso dives on a whim. You packed lightly, but he still insists on carrying your bag into the lobby, and you thank him profusely.

***

Once you are settled in your room, you find you are reluctant to leave it again, and not because of jet lag. Out there lies a whole city to comb; out there you could find redemption–or the absolute devastation of one final disappointment.

In the end, you make yourself go. You didn’t come here to stare out your second-story window, as nice as the view of the tree-lined street is. Your first plan is to check out the travel agency that printed the flyer, which is now crumpled and folded from your repeated perusing of it. They’d seemed perplexed about it over the phone, but very eager to sell you a tour anyway.

It’s a modest little office within walking distance of your hotel, and you would have enjoyed the stroll down the shaded streets, if your heart wasn’t trying to escape from your chest, and your hands weren’t shaking from adrenaline. Posters line the windows advertising gaucho tours on horseback of the Pampas grasslands, epic views of the great Iguazú Falls, and the penguin colonies of the Peninsula Valdés.

All of these things sound interesting, but it’s not what you came for.

You go inside to find a young lady behind the counter. She is wearing a sleeveless pink shirt, showing off toned arms covered in tattoos. Her ears are studded from lobe to helix with silver. She looks intimidating, until her generous mouth parts in a smile. “How are you today? I’m Ava.”

You exchange pleasantries before you pull out your heavily-handled flyer, presenting it to her. “Does your company print these?”

She looks it over with a little frown. “That is our logo,” she says, tapping the paper. “But I’ve never seen this before. Where did you get it?”

“It was sent to my house, in New York?”

This puzzles her even further. “I’m sorry ma’am, we do not do print advertising in the United States? It would be too expensive.”

Of course it would.

You are strangely elated to hear this, a fluttering in your belly like waking butterflies. “I’m looking for a man,” you say. “He’s tall. Handsome. Dark eyes, dark hair.”

She lifts an eyebrow at you, her green eyes veritably sparkling, and you realize you’ve described a great deal of the male population of this country–and it sounds like you’re trying to solicit something untoward. “I have a photo!” you exclaim, your cheeks fiery with embarrassment.

You dig through your phone with trembling fingers until you find a good picture of John (that won’t make you blush even harder). “Have you seen him?”

She studies the photo. Then she studies it a little more, her lips twisting, and you can’t help it. Even with tears in your eyes, you burst out laughing, and she joins you a minute later. “I know, right?”

She covers her smile with her hand, handing you back the phone. “I’m sorry, but I have not seen him. I think I would remember, no?”

“Yeah. You probably would.” Your burst of elation is replaced just as quickly with disappointment as you tuck your phone back into your bag. It’s a dead end, then. Or at least…you’re left with more questions than answers. Someone made that brochure, used this agency’s logo and address, and sent it 5000 miles to your door.

If it wasn’t John, and he’s truly gone…then who? Was it a trap?

Don César was certain the Aragón cartel was all but finished that fateful night, and according to Winston the Camorra were all too glad to be rid of Dante. You know that John Wick had a list of enemies longer than his arm, but why the fuck would any of them care about you?

“Can I give you my hotel?” you ask. “Just in case, you could leave me a message?” You think that might be a little better than your cell number. Can’t you be tracked that way? Should you change your sim card? Should you get a burner phone?

You’re not a spy, and you really don’t know what to do, both wanting to be found, and fearing it.

“Sure,” she agrees. “How long will you be in Argentina?”

“A couple of weeks.” The answer is actually indefinitely, but you figure she doesn’t need to know that.

“I am leading a tour around the city sites tomorrow. It includes wine tasting and lunch at one of the best parrillas in Palermo. There are still openings if you might be interested?”

“How many people are in the group?”

“Right now, there are eight.”

You’d surely be safe in a group, wouldn’t you? You still can’t shake the feeling like you’re caught up in some kind of old school spy craft game, so you agree.

It can't hurt to get the lay of the land from a local, right? And maybe…she’ll take you somewhere you’re supposed to go?

What could go wrong.

***

It's strange pretending that you're a normal tourist, amidst the group of happy couples and young backpackers out to see the city. You make the obligatory smalltalk, though the whole time you are searching the faces of passersby, and the buildings around you, hoping for a clue.

As though she senses you might be a little fragile, or maybe because she feels sorry for you as the only loner in the group, Ava sticks close to you, and you enjoy getting to know her as she leads you all around this beautiful city like a line of lost ducklings in her stompy black boots.

By the end of the day you do feel like you have your bearings more. The tour’s big finale is a feast of various beef cuts grilled on a wood fired parrilla. The red wine flows, and the wooden interior of the restaurant is made extra cozy when it starts to rain, and the waitresses light candles to combat the gloom.

It would be a lovely place to dine with someone special–but even in your little group, you are alone.

By the time you make it back to your hotel room you are soaked, exhausted, a little drunk, and you fear no closer to solving your mystery. You’re not proud of it…but you curl up on your bed, and cry yourself to sleep.

***

You have a checklist of the places to go that were mentioned in the brochure. You visited some of them briefly the day before, or at least went past them. You start with the Gardens, because they’re nearby your hotel.

You don’t really know what you’re doing, of course.

You are operating on the slim hope that if that flyer was sent to you with purpose…he will come to you at one of these places. So you leave your itinerary with the front desk, just in case your “friend” comes looking for you. Maricella, the bespectacled older woman at reception, accepts this routine with poorly disguised annoyance in this day and age of handheld computers that masquerade as phones, but she cheers a little every time you leave her a generous tip.

Maybe it’s silly, but you’re finding your favorite part of having money is the freedom to spread it around.

Though you haven't used your account in ages, you consider leaving breadcrumbs on your Facebook too, just in case. But that little fear in the back of your mind wins out, that maybe this is some kind of trap, so you decide not to project your movements that openly.

At least, not yet.

You tell yourself that you’re not that desperate, yet, even if deep down that scratching feeling inside you only multiplies with every passing day that you do not find even the slightest clue of John. You search the faces in the crowd on the street, in the parks and museums and the fabulous restaurants, hoping. Truth be told, there is no shortage of lovely brown-eyed men in this city…but none of them are the right one.

You go to El Ateneo Grand Splendid, marveling at the multi-story bookstore staged in a resplendent old opera house. You peruse the stacks slowly, praying that you will look up and see a familiar face.

You tour the Japanese Garden, sitting on the bench when your feet hurt, looking around and thinking, John would love this place.

You wander the Plaza de Mayo, marveling at the grand buildings, the pink Casa Rosada where the president headquarters, and the pleasant paths and plantings around the towering white Pirámide de Mayo obelisk, marking the beginning of Argentina’s bid for independence from Spain.

You traipse through the museums of art and history, your attention only half engaged by the displays, even though MALBA contains one of the best collections of Latin American art under one roof. You do stop to give your attention to your old friend Frida. You remember the headlines when it sold for 33 million dollars not long ago, purchased by an Argentine businessman for the museum. It’s titled, “Diego y Yo,” one of Frida’s numerous self portraits, and you think, one of her more haunting. Her black hair frizzes free and wild across the canvas; her gaze daring. Diego Rivera’s likeness sits upon her forehead, her third eye, ever foremost in her thoughts.

The love of her life, and the source of her worst anguishes.

You think you understand this piece better than ever, now.

These excursions all end in disappointment, and the señora must see it all written on your face when you return to your hotel, exhausted inside and out.

“You should never pin your happiness on a man,” she tells you, not looking up from her book where she sits behind the reception desk. “It only ends in heartbreak.”

Are you that obvious?

With a sigh, you nod, agreeing with her. “But how do you go back, when you know you’ll never be happy without them again?” you ask, hoping for some gem of advice in your time of need.

“You have to stop lying to yourself, for one,” she answers frankly. “You don’t know what the future will bring.”

This makes you smile a little, even if her words don’t really help, at least at that very moment. “Gracias, señora,” you say, making to climb the stairs up to your room.

She huffs, as though she suspects you haven’t listened to her at all. “Sientate,” she orders you, pointing at a grouping of chairs in the courtyard connected to the lobby, then she disappears into the back.

Puzzled, you do as you’re told.

Your only other plans for the day were to sit in your room and cry, anyway.

Soon she re-emerges carrying two gourd cups with metal bombilla straws. You recognize the national drink, an herbal tea made of yerba-maté leaves. “You’ll feel better,” she says, setting it down in front of you.

“Thank you.”

You sit in silence for a while, waiting for it to cool. When she takes her first sip you do the same. It’s bitter, but not bad. An acquired taste, for sure.

She breaks the silence with, “My country knows a thing or two about loss.”

You nod, knowing it’s true.

“You have to let it go, niña, or it will eat you alive. And what is the point of living like a ghost? The decision is yours, in the end.”

“I’m not ready,” you admit sadly, staring down into your guampa.

“Well. You’d better get on with it. You seem like a nice girl.”

You look across the table at this woman who does not know you, and yet somehow it seems she can see into your soul. You’re not exactly a fan of tough love, (who is?), but it’s more than your own mother was able to give you over the phone not so long ago.

Are you still a nice girl? If she knew the things you did to survive one fateful night on a boat in the Caribbean, she might think otherwise.

You sigh, tracing the metal rim of your cup. You appreciate the consideration this stranger has paid you, but you know, deep down, you can't. “I’ll think about it,” you say, if just to be polite.

She pays you a look over her glasses that says she knows all too well, but she takes mercy on you with a slightly softened gimlet stare. “Sure you will.”

“Thank you for the maté.”

She waves you off with a smirk, like she knows you need to go crawl off into a hole and mope.

***

But you do think about what Maricella said, more than you actually want to.

Are you just going to stay miserable forever and ever?

You honestly don't know.

You do know that you’re running out of places to go, and you’re running out of hope.

You’re not exactly a religious person, but you find yourself wandering into the massive Catedral Metropolitana off the Plaza. Its neoclassical facade gives way to an opulent baroque interior, and its impossible not to feel an appropriate sense of awe. You walk around slowly, looking and thinking to yourself in the venerated quiet, the low murmurs of tourists and worshippers echoing through the cavernous space.

In truth Catholicism has always felt a little like witchcraft to you. If you say the right magic words enough you can win forgiveness, the answers to your prayers, and maybe even salvation. At a side altar you buy a candle, lighting it and placing it with a cluster of others.

You do not talk to God, per se…but you do talk to John. Whether it's healthy or not…he is the principal deity in your personal pantheon.

Wherever you are…I hope you’ve found peace. I love you. I’ll always love you.

When you leave, you can’t say it’s with a sense of closure or anything so helpful. But maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit of weight lifts off your shoulders.

Maybe it’s time you stop chasing ghosts and go home, to your Dog who loves you and needs you, to your life that’s been on hold. If John was here…he would have come to you. You find you are able to admit that to yourself, now. You’ve done your due diligence.

Maybe it's time to get back to the living. You find you are able to even think about giving yourself permission to do that now, in a way you just couldn’t, before.

When you get back to the hotel you buy your return ticket to New York.

***

It does occur to you, now that you’re finally starting to accept the idea that John is truly gone, that someone sent you that flyer to lure you here, and that’s probably not a good thing in your world. You’ve been careful, and somehow so far you’ve skated by unscathed, though a part of you starts to wonder if you’re being watched. It’s a tingling little feeling on the hairs of the back of your neck that you mostly chalk off to paranoia, as you walk down the street.

You decided you want to spend your last day in Buenos Aires at the epic Sunday street fair in San Telmo. It’s a neighborhood that dates back to the very beginnings of the city. Once the home of the first settlers, then the wealthy, then the wave of new immigrants from all over Europe at the end of the nineteenth century, now it is a bohemian enclave filled with markets and galleries and restaurants.

It’s the only place on the brochure where you haven’t yet been.

The stone cobbled streets are closed down for the feria. Market stalls line either side of the roads, and the crowd teems shoulder to shoulder. You marvel at the handmade goods on offer. Carved gourd maté cups and leather goods of all kinds, textiles and knickknacks and antiques. You didn’t think you wanted to shop so much as you just wanted to see it, but you find yourself infected by the energy of the crowd, and you are handing money over left and right for little things that tickle your fancy.

A booth with silver jewelry set with natural stones takes you for most of the rest of your pocket money. You pick out a necklace set with pink rhodochrosite, the national stone of Argentina, a malachite inlay cuff bracelet for your housesitter back home, and pair of filigree earrings with dangling garnets that remind you of pomegranate seeds. You wear them immediately with a poignant pang in your heart.

Tired and hungry after hours of wandering, you pick up a choripan sausage with bread and chimichurri sauce, and find a place to sit on the bench in the tree-shaded Plaza Dorrego. There are more booths here, and street performers as well. After you finish your late lunch you sit and watch a pair of dancers performing the Tango on a makeshift square of flooring set down for their stage. They’re beautiful, their movements sweeping and graceful yet so precise, full of the push and pull emotion that embodies the spirit of the mournfully romantic dance. She struts away, only to forcefully be pulled back again into his arms. Through twists and turns and dips and lifts, variations of the same struggle play out again and again.

You wonder if the partners dancing are in love. They certainly make it seem like they are, but maybe it’s all for show. You find yourself hoping for a cynical moment, for their sakes, that their passion is all a facade.

This thought sideswipes you. Are you going to turn into a bitter old woman now, cautioning youngsters against the dangers of love?

If you could go back, would you caution yourself to love John less?

You realize the answer is no. No matter how you feel now…all the anguish was worth the elation, even if you only possessed it for a fleeting moment in the grand scheme of things.

Just when you thought you’d managed to cry yourself dry, fat tears fill your eyes and you have to hide your face in your hands for a good long minute before you get ahold of yourself again. You’re quiet about it, but passersby are looking at you with worried expressions. You feel a supporting hand on your shoulder. Everyone is so sweet in this country. You’re going to miss it. “Estoy bien, todo bien, gracias, gracias,” you stammer with an apologetic smile, and they nod sympathetically, letting you be.

Deciding it’s time to go back to your hotel, you gather your things and take a long pull off your water bottle. You’re fine.

You’re going to be fine.

If you keep telling yourself that, maybe eventually it will be true.

You throw some money in the bowl for the dancers who ripped out your heart with the beauty of their performance, and make your exit.

Yet, as you pick your way through the crowd to a less packed street, hoping to find a taxi…it starts to become apparent that you are not fine. Your limbs feel heavy, and you lean against the side of a stucco building, struggling for a deep breath. As your vision goes blurry at the edges and the darkness trickles in, your last thought is: Motherfucker, not again.

TBC...

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-all chapters buenos aires photo collage II

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