Chapter Text
Michaela could feel it, the dense shift in the air, the hot blood burning through her veins with every thundering beat of her unsteady heart, the soft and rhythmic click of horse shoes softening as the carriage squeaked and stifled to a painful slow stop outside the Kilmartin house in London. The tight breath that she had fought and willed her body to hold on to, released in a shaky and slow exhale, as the lights of the modest house became brighter and fuller, almost imploring her to retreat at once to a safer and more simple state of affairs.
There would be nothing simple about this. Michaela knew that arriving in the same manor she slipped away two years ago, silently and all at once, would not be well received by the Bridgerton family…by her. The very thought of walking up those steps, one-by-one, then through the carefully varnished patterned front door, to be announced as returned in front of a crowd of high London society, sent a distinctive wave of sickness up her already tight throat and a dangerous chill down her spine.
“We have arrived, Lady Stirling” the coachman called out.
For a long moment, Michaela remained silent, eyes shut, gripping whatever nerve she could steal from herself, wondering over and over and over again, if she had gone truly mad to have come back.
“Miss?” he prompted once more.
“My apologies, Nathaniel”, Michaela responded kindly after another laboured breath, “it seems I'm slightly more affected to return to this place than I expected to be”.
Nathaniel nodded, smiled, and hopped down from his seat at the front of the carriage, tending to the jet black horse, that had brought them through woodland and through cobble stone back to London, whilst Michaela wiped her clammy palms against her gown in a final attempt to prepare herself for what was to befall her upon entering the all too familiar home.
***
Inside, a flurry of gowns, frocks and flowing drinks gathered. Candles flickered in rhythm with the sharp pluck of violins and the soft melodic pull of a harp, casting playful shadows on gilded walls. Couples twirled like living paintings and gentlemen stood in groups in shaded corners, eyeing the endless opportunity of pretty, delicate ladies that they may offer the next dance to.
Laughter reverberated around the elegant room, as Eloise surveyed the crowd with a distracted smile, watching as Benedict and Sophie giggled childishly, sharing a story in their small group, of renovation mishaps at My Cottage. She watched her mother, engaged in deep, hushed conversation with Lady Danbury, over something she was almost certain consisted of a conspiracy to get her into the marriage mart, or something equally as unappetising. With an eyeroll, she turned her gaze over to Colin, who was animatedly praising his wife and her heroic efforts, to his friends, about the birth of their second child, who arrived sooner than anyone had anticipated, joyfully describing the similarities and differences between his two children that had, annoyingly, become his most favored topic of conversation.
Sipping from her glass, Eloise’s focus drifted to Francesca, her dearest younger sister, who had, after two years of near complete silence and withdrawal from society, reluctantly reopened her home, caving only to the persistent encouragement of their relentless family. Francesca stood quietly, in her gentle and calm pastel blue gown with a delicate glass in her hand, beside Anthony, Kate, and their friends, her expression proving to Eloise that her mind had quietly disengaged from the conversation at hand, choosing instead to be involuntarily captivated by the musicians and the secret language they played, while the words around her grew muffled and incoherent.
Eloise had, admittedly, a very soft spot for Francesca, whom she had tried her best to support during the shaky months following John’s death. But there was something else. Something that she knew was tormenting her from the inside to the out, something unexpressed and unbearably painful that, Eloise knew, she was desperately trying to keep locked away every second of every day. Having been witness to the struggle Francesca was so evidently battling her way through, Eloise didn’t dare try to push, or guess, or pry it out of her sister, fearing that whatever it was, the unspoken dilemma had evoked reactions from her, stronger than that of the emotions Francesca rarely expressed relating to the death of her own husband.
Smiling gently, watching Francesca, in her own peaceful and quiet world enjoying the classical pieces being performed, Eloise’s train of thought was interrupted by the tall and booming voice of the footman standing by the entrance of the packed and stuffy room, announcing the arrival of a new guest to the evening's gathering:
“The Countess of Kilmartin, Miss Michaela Stirling”.
Eloise’s eyes snapped to the entryway, taking in the figure that had been absent from their lives over the past twenty-four months, a presence that the whole family had grown quite fond of, and quite quickly! Without a second thought, her eyes snapped back over to Francesca, who was so engrossed in the music, that she had completely missed the announcement that had Eloise’s head turning from one direction to the next at such a pace.
A sense of pure excitement came over Eloise, to see Michaela, their friend, standing so close to them again, looking forward to hearing about her travels, her new stories, her fresh and brilliant perspectives of life. But the feeling was swiftly replaced by a sudden urge to get to Michaela before she had a chance to speak to Francesca. To get to her, and to warn her. ‘To warn her of what, exactly?’ she thought to herself, as her footsteps carried her over toward the recent arrival.
“Michaela! You escape artist! What on earth are you doing here!”, Eloise chuckled out as she reached her.
In her typical cool and collected fashion, Michaela smirked and stretched out her arm to lightly wrap it around Eloise and greet the energized Bridgerton sister, whom she was greatly relieved had not dismissed her return upon finding her standing by the entrance.
“This is my house, by name, is it not?" Michaela responded in her notorious cheeky inflection.
Withdrawing her arm from the friendly embrace, she added “I suspected it was about time I made my return. To deal with the thrill of documents and solicitors - and what not”.
Eloise was about to launch into an in-depth inquisition of every place that Michaela had been during her time away, but her eye caught Francesca, swaying lightly to the music, with her eyes gently pressed shut enjoying every single note intentionally, and she knew her questions would have to wait.
“Of course it is!”, Eloise responded. “It is just that...you sent no word of your intent to return back to Mayfair”, looking back to Michaela, awaiting some sort of an explanation.
“I know,” Michaela replied with a smile, eyes scanning the room full of guests she did not completely recognize, socialising in her London house that was inherited two years ago.
“I had meant to” she continued, eyes settling back to Eloise with a timid smile. “But it all happened rather suddenly”.
Eloise nodded and glanced back over to Francesca, who was now softly responding to something Kate had said to her, trying to rope her back into the small group’s polite conversation.
Something in Eloise twisted, and she opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again, trying to find the right words, for a sentiment, she still did not know how to place.
“Well, it’s wonderful to have you back” she settled on, with a genuine smile “truly!”.
Michaela smiled back at her, then continued to scan the crowd.
The anticipation was eating her alive. Her body, it seemed, knew that Francesca was here - could feel it. But, of course she would be, this was her home too, afterall. However, between all of the buoyant dresses and stiff suits, the music and muffled voices of crowds of chatter, she was struggling to find her, no matter how desperately she wanted to.
“...Michaela”, Eloise began.
But Michaela, intent on finding the one person she had actually returned for, continued to search the room, missing the sincerity in Eloise’s voice as she continued.
“...does Francesca know you have returned?” Eloise asked “did you write to her, to tell her you would be coming back to Mayfair?”.
Eloise continued, adding questions, following-up by trying to explain to Michaela that Francesca had not been the same, ever since the day that Michaela left during the middle of the night. She tried to warn her that her sister, despite her usual quietness and shy nature, had also retreated, in a way. Albeit differently to physically leaving, but still, had left in her own unique way.
There was no use.
Michaela could not hear a single word.
She could not bring herself to even try and pretend to listen.
She needed to find Francesca.
“...i’ve been quite concerned for her, you know”, Eloise’s muffled voice emerged out of Michaela’s inner monologue.
Michaela locked eyes with her and shook her head ever so slightly, attempting to focus.
“Of course, we all expected her to be quite affected by John’s passing, that was no surprise”, Eloise noted, lowering her voice slightly as she spoke John’s name out loud. “But, I do believe…your departure”, she continued almost sheepishly, “did also…affect her”.
The guilt that had never truly dissolved for Michaela, began to burn her heart again.
She wasn’t under the impression that Francesca would be completely unphased by her running away, without even a measly note for her to find.
Francesca had asked her to say.
She had taken her hand.
She had taken her hand, looked into her eyes, and asked her to stay.
And Michaela had run.
Her departure had affected Francesca.
Affected her how?
Michaela was about to ask. She had opened her mouth to find out if Francesca had been hurt by her sudden disappearance. Or, was she furious? Did Francesca never want to lay eyes on her again? Was she disappointed that they had become a strange and tentative version of friends, then only to be abandoned with no rhyme or reason. Had Francesca felt abandoned by the only other person who had lost John in the same way she had?
Just as Michaela breathed in, steadying herself before she could ask the question she was almost certain she was not strong enough to hear the answer to, she spotted her.
Glass in hand, crisp gentle hair, tied halfway up, fell just below her exposed collarbones, over a pale blue lace decorated dress. Her lips pressed upward together in a shy smile, eyes reflecting the warmth of the candle light above her, brighter than any of the damn stars Michaela had stared at longingly during her travels, ones she had spent nights wishing upon to forget and for John to forgive.
Francesca’s shoulders lifted, then fell again, as she politely laughed along to something one of her companions had said. Michaela, although standing a good many metres away, could almost hear it - could remember the feel of it, from the quiet moments they shared, moments that had burned into her memory forever.
Eloise was still talking, but Michaela could not comprehend a single word. Her eyes were fixated on the one person she had longed for, had yearned to be close to, since the very second she stepped into the carriage that she had requested in a panic, to take her away.
A smile flickered across Michaela’s face as she watched her from afar. It steadied her nerves to know that, whatever effect Eloise claimed her retreat from London two years prior had had on Francesca, it had not altered that perfect, beautiful smile.
Eloise, who by now had quite perceived that Michaela’s attention was otherwise engaged, followed her gaze and soon landed upon her sister, who was wholly unaware of the particular intensity with which she was being observed.
“Shall I take you to her, then?” Eloise asked, with an air of knowing, though quite what she knew, even she could not have said.
Michaela choked back an inhale.
“Take me to her?” Michaela asked, her tone almost mocking the notion that she required assistance to reach the woman who occupied her every thought - though a subtle tremor betrayed the effect the idea of speaking to her had already wrought.
Eloise chuckled, “come on” and with an eye roll, began weaving through the crowd towards Francesca.
Michaela followed, hands behind her back, squeezing her fingers together and twisting her ring, praying silently to a God she did not know, for Francesca to not turn her away.
Kate spotted her first, squinting at her, determined to see if she was looking at who she thought she was. Feeling the subtle shift in his wife’s demeanor, Anthony turned to face Michaela as she and Eloise approached them slowly from across the room.
“I don’t believe it! Do my eyes deceive me, or has the Countess of Kilmartin finally made an appearance at her very own abode?” Anthony chortled, grinning from ear to ear.
Francesca’s heart quickened at her elder brother’s words. She gripped Kate’s hand and, with a slight turn of her body, followed the direction of his statement.
It was as if the icy waters that surrounded the lakes of the estate in Scotland had been thrown over her, unapologetically freezing her into place as she watched Michaela step toward them, slowly and steadily, and all at once. All too much to bear.
“Fran…” Michaela breathed.
The single name all she could summon as she came to a halt before Francesca, Kate, and Anthony.
Upon hearing the first half of her name fall from Michaela’s lips, Francesca’s vision blurred, her eyes betraying her as unwanted tears welled embarrassingly instantly. She swallowed harshly, her throat tightening as though it might close entirely. Francesca blinked steadily, trying to clear away the moisture that had gathered, and for a moment, unconsciously indulged herself by taking in the figure before her, slowly and meticulously.
The first thing Francesca noted was how Michaela, at first glance, had not changed at all. Her curls were still neatly styled atop her head, with two delicate strands framing either side of her face, falling just below her ears. Her dress, a deep shade of forest green, clung to her figure, tracing each curve and gentle contour of her body with an elegance that seemed completely effortless. A silver necklace rested at her chest, the shining pendant a striking contrast to her skin, which looked as if had remained impossibly soft, almost luminous in the glow of the candlelight .
But Francesca, in her study of the woman before her, noted the differences that their two years apart had forced her to confront.
Michaela’s sharp jawline, which clenched as she watched Francesca take her in, seemed to have become more striking and defined in her absence, that she had single-handedly enforced upon them. Her eyes, gorgeous dark brown liquid eyes, which to an untrained individual, would have remained unchanged, but for Francesca, could see the subtle shift from the mischievousness and playfulness they once held, to a quietly fatigued and sincere demeanour. Her lips, full and parted, devoid of any makeup but more captivating than she ever remembered, open and closed as she watched her take in another unsteady breath.
Francesca did not move, and she did not utter a single word. She continued to stare at Michaela, trying desperately to conjure up a coherent thought that she could voice.
But she did not speak.
After what felt like an eternity of silence, Kate, who seemed to take pity on Francesca’s inability to respond to simply being addressed by the woman in front her, glanced empathetically at her sister in law, before offering a question to Michaela to relieve Francesca from the torment brewing inside of her.
“Miss Stirling, it is so splendid to see you again”, Kate broke the silence kindly. “What brings you back to Mayfair?”.
Michaela’s eyes moved over to Kate for a moment, and she smiled politely, before returning her focus intently back to Francesca before responding.
“I had been travelling exhaustively across the ocean”, Michaela spoke softly, refusing to direct her answer to anyone but Francesca “...but over the last months, I longed, more than ever, to return home”.
Hearing Michaela’s vague explanation for her sudden reappearance in London, Francesca’s frantic heartbeat would not relent against her ribcage, as she continued to struggle to get sound out of her mouth.
Eloise, standing beside Michaela, who appeared quite incapable of removing her gaze from her sister, shifted impatiently, angling herself in a determined attempt to be noticed.
“Does this mean you are returned to us in Mayfair permanently?” she demanded, rising onto her toes with barely contained energy, before rushing on, “You will stay for the season, won’t you? Oh, this is excellent - at last, I shall have someone tolerably interesting to—”
Before Eloise could complete her excited ramblings, she was interrupted by a quiet, but sturdy voice.
“So, you are here to stay?”, Francesca asked, holding her breath, toying with her own pendant that sat across her chest, as she awaited Michaela’s answer.
Michaela chewed on the inside of her cheek, desperately trying to hold back the smile that threatened to spill onto her face at the sound of Francesca’s voice.
Without looking away from her, Michaela lowered her head ever so slightly with a nod.
“I am here”, she replied almost in a whisper. “I am here, here to stay”.
A thick silence, even amongst the crowd of dancing and music, settled amongst the small group, each person looking between Michaela and Francesca, waiting for one of them to break the chill that had settled amongst them.
Kate, glancing at Francesca, thought she glimpsed a hundred different emotions flickering across the younger Bridgerton’s face. Francesca’s gaze remained fixed upon Michaela, as though she scarcely dared to look away.
The Viscountess recognised it at once. Longing, cruelly entangled with that all-too-familiar ache of hurt and confusion, as though Francesca were striving to make sense of a hundred unanswered questions, while at the same time resisting the quiet, undeniable pull that seemed to draw her, with a force, toward Michaela.
Kate lifted her gaze to Anthony and, for a fleeting moment, found herself grateful that they had overcome the very same pain, one that now seemed to hold both Francesca and Michaela so firmly in its grasp.
“We are delighted to have you back, Miss Stirling”, Kate spoke, breaking the silence once more.
Finally, removing her stare from Francesca, Michaela turned to acknowledge Kate’s acceptance and nodded at her with a smile.
“Brother!” Francesca exclaimed suddenly.
At once, the group’s attention snapped to her. Yet she did not look at any of them; her gaze had dropped to the floor, as though the words had escaped her unbidden while she addressed her elder brother from somewhere far deeper than the moment allowed.
“I should like to get some air”, Francesca added, her voice catching ever so slightly.
Michaela hastily released her trembling hands from where they had been clasped behind her back and, almost without thought, reached towards Francesca, only to stop herself short and draw them back with equal haste.
Anthony, taken aback by Michaela’s sudden movement and Francesca’s frantic request, furrowed his brow, struggling to comprehend the unspoken tension that hung so palpably in the air.
“Shall I accompany you?” Michaela offered instantly, palming the side of her gown to occupy her unsettled hands.
“No thank you” Francesca replied clumsily, with eyes fixed firmly to the floor.
Michaela’s heart sank at the instant refusal.
“No, that is quite alright, Miss Stirling,” Francesca added, a touch more composed this time. “I merely require a moment to breathe in some fresh air.”
Michaela nodded gently, catching Francesca’s gaze for the briefest of moments before the younger Bridgerton turned on her heel and slipped away into the cool embrace of the night air. Each step Francesca took seemed to tear Michaela’s heart further, leaving it in fragments with every inch of distance between them.
Anthony, still perplexed by the tense hush that had settled around them, opened his mouth to speak to Michaela, but his wife was quicker, interjecting before he could find the words.
“It is dreadfully warm in here, is it not?” Kate remarked with a gentle grin, extending her hand toward Anthony. “Shall we find something to drink, my love?”
Anthony’s gaze softened, settling on Kate and instantly banishing every other thought from his mind, taking her hand to lead them toward the refreshments.
Eloise and Michaela, stood awkwardly as they watched the Viscount and Viscountess navigate the crowd, toward something a little less contentious.
Michaela let out a frustrated sigh, not knowing how to alleviate the unspoken strain that had settled between them.
Eloise observed Michaela, who was now staring hopefully at the door Francesca had slipped through, awaiting for when she may rejoin the party.
“She’ll be fine, Michaela,” Eloise reassured her kindly. “You know how overwhelmed these occasions make her”.
Michaela forced another polite smile at Eloise, acknowledging the statement.
“This is the first time in two years that Francesca has hosted such a gathering”, Eloise explained gently.
Michaela swallowed the surge of emotion threatening to spill from her, forcing herself to remain composed as Eloise continued to carry the conversation for both of them.
“My mother has been, rather unsubtly, urging Francesca back into society,” Eloise added. “I suspect she merely needed a moment to remind herself how to navigate it once more.”
Another silence settled between them. Michaela tried to take comfort in Eloise’s explanation, yet her thoughts wandered restlessly, picturing Francesca alone in the cold, and she shifted uneasily with the worry gnawing at her.
Eloise softened, understanding that whatever effect Michaela’s return had had on Francesca, Michaela too, was clearly equally as afflicted.
“It is truly a joy to see you again, Michaela,” Eloise said, her hand resting gently on her arm in reassurance. “Francesca will come around, I am certain of it,” she added, offering a hopeful smile.
Michaela nodded in a silent thanks and returned Eloises’ careful smile.
“I know she said she did not require company outside,” Eloise began cautiously, “but should you wish to join her for a moment of fresh air… I sincerely doubt she would object.”
With a gentle squeeze of Michaela’s arm, Eloise excused herself and drifted toward a less emotionally charged corner of the room.
Michaela shut her eyes for a moment, trying to ground her intrusive thoughts.
Every instinct within her urged flight. To run and escape the torment of simply existing near Francesca, who could scarcely bear to remain in her presence even for an instant.
It would be safer that way. To attempt to live out her life, pushing away the all encompassing desire to pull Francesca into her, to spend every remaining moment by her side.
Yet that was precisely why she had returned. The torment of distance had proven unbearable. In deciding to come back to London, Michaela had reconciled herself with the notion that simply being near Francesca, without speaking of her longing, without acting on her deepest wishes, would have to suffice, for it was far better than the misery that endless separation had brought. To go without hearing her voice, without admiring her features, without the quiet comfort that had started to exist between them… Michaela could no longer endure it.
Without any real control over the matter, Michaela turned to the doorway she last saw Francesca sweep through in a hurry, and made her way to join her, her chest dangerously threatening to collapse in on itself as she left the busy room behind.
***
Outside, Francesca stood on the balcony, watching over the modest yet artfully tended garden, now darkened, but gently illumined beneath the full moon in the star scattered sky. Her trembling hands found purchase upon the cool iron railing, clinging to its steady presence as though it alone tethered her to the earth, as if at any moment, she might drift away entirely.
Michaela was here. She had stood before her, after two whole years of distance and silence. She had not left a note, not one single letter to inform Francesca of her movement, of where she had ended up, or if she intended to ever come back.
At first, Francesca had raged. Though it was not a loud, unrestrained fury, instead a quieter, brewing storm that bubbled dangerously beneath the surface. It stirred within her breast, sharp and unrelenting, its true force concealed behind the careful composure she had been so rigorously used to maintain. Without being able to fully admit, or acknowledge the real reasoning behind her anger, it would escape her in the form of a quick and sharp snap at Benedict, who tried to encourage her to resume her piano forte, when she simply had no motivation to. At other times, it lingered in the cool, shadowed cast of a glare at her mother, who with well-meaning concern, endeavoured to persuade her, pointlessly, into a promenade, as though a change of scenery might soothe what lay so stubbornly unsettled within her.
As the first six months following Michaela’s departure slipped quietly by, the angry heat that had once coursed through Francesca’s veins began, at last, to soften. What had once burned so fiercely within her settled into something gentler, yet no less consuming. In its place bloomed a sadness that caught her entirely off guard, as though her own heart had conspired to grieve without her consent.
She was no stranger to grief; indeed, it had been a near-constant companion throughout her life. First her father, then her husband. Francesca knew it well. The quiet, enduring ache of loss, the solemn days that took space during days that felt like infinite hours of mourning, the slow and unforgiving attempts of reshaping a life after. And yet, the emptiness Michaela had left in her wake struck her with a force unlike any bereavement she had previously endured. It was not merely absence, but a hollowing, vast and echoing, grief that no prior sorrow had ever evoked within her. Grieving and missing someone who was very much still breathing.
Francesca could scarcely think about what meal was next, nor which of her gowns remained fit for wear and which had been sullied by her solemn, muddy walks along a lonely, bleak garden. Nor could she persuade herself to entertain the prospect of calling upon friends or family, even in the face of those bright new arrivals, swaddled in fine linen and announced by the tender cries of new born life, whose presence might once have stirred in her some measure of warmth.
After the first year came to a close, Francesca was finally able to bring herself to accept visitors at the Kilmartin House in London again. First, came Benedict, who seemed to understand her need for stillness and simply sat with her, keeping her company by fiddling with the keys on the piano forte, just to fill the space with sound that was not conversation. Then Eloise, who brought on each of her visits a number of complex puzzles, briefly and blissfully distracting Francesca’s mind from the one person who consumed her every thought. Kate and Anthony, who always had too much to say, joined her on walks around the garden, but Francesca began to enjoy listening to their chatter, relieved from the pressure to respond, but appreciating it nevertheless.
Kate would watch her with a quiet, searching intensity, silently imploring her to admit to the true cause of her distress. There was understanding there, unmistakable and deeply felt, as if she recognised the shape of such a burden and longed to help her bear it, having once carried something similar herself, for Francesca’s own brother.
But Francesca could not. She dared not.
She feared that to give voice to it, even once, would be to unravel entirely; that the fragile composure she had so carefully maintained would come undone beyond all repair. To speak the truth aloud would render it undeniable, transforming what she had struggled to confine to the quietest corners of her mind into something far too real, far too vast to contain. And so she held it, though her heart knew it well.
And so, Francesca continued, at a pace too slow for her mother to be truly relieved about, to carefully emerge from the debris that Michaela’s absence had left.
Bringing her to this very moment, goosebumps forming on the back of her neck, as she closed her eyes, trying to recall the smell of a perfume that had engulfed her moments ago, one that had not been present at Kilmartin for two years.
Behind her, Francesca heard the soft, deliberate click of the door as it opened, followed by the faint sound of footsteps meeting the cool stone of the balcony. The door fell shut once more with a gentle, measured push. Quiet, yet unmistakable in the stillness of the night.
She did not turn to greet them, nor did she trouble herself to enquire if they had lost their way.
Francesca knew.
And she was far too weary to do anything but allow it.
Michaela came to stand beside her with unhurried quiet, her presence neither announced nor concealed, as though she had always belonged there. Her hands rose, gentle and deliberate, to rest upon the railing as well, close enough that Francesca could feel the subtle warmth of her, a welcome contrast to the cool hush of the late-night air, yet still not so near as to permit the slightest touch.
The two of them stood side by side silently. Neither dared to meet the other’s eyes, though each felt, with quiet and unacknowledged longing, the desperate urge to do exactly that, an urge that neither would admit, even to themselves, and certainly not aloud.
The wind whispered softly around them, carrying the scent of night-blooming roses as they both watched over the garden. There was a serene beauty to the scene, yet beneath its quiet, each knew that the silence could not hold forever. Sooner or later, one of them would have to yield, and the delicate balance between them would shatter.
After several long, suspended moments, Michaela could no longer restrain herself. Her head tilted toward Francesca, her fingers clenched against the railing. Her knees wavered slightly, the sudden nearness overwhelming her all over again, yet she did not step back, did not say a word, and continued to look.
Francesca’s body flamed with heat as Michaela watched her so unabashedly. The sensation left her both vulnerable and addicted, and at last she released a slow, resigned sigh, carrying the faintest hint of surrender to the situation.
“I have missed you…”, Francesca pointed out casually.
Michaela’s eyes widened, caught off guard that Francesca had been the first to speak.
“…more than I have ever felt missing anyone,” Francesca murmured, her voice low and tight with restrained ache, “…if I am to be honest.” She let out a soft, resigned sigh.
Michaela felt her chest constrict, a sudden, sharp tightness of guilt and relief that left her breathless. She had steeled herself for dismissal, but not for this. Francesca’s words, calm and unflinching, struck her instead, leaving her both stunned and achingly aware of the space between them, a space suddenly charged with everything they had yet to admit.
“Francesca I -”, Michaela began, but sealed her lips, as she tried to steady her thoughts. “..I want to apologize", she admitted sheepishly, trying to keep her voice as steady as she could.
With another tight squeeze of the railing, Michaela began, her voice barely above a whisper, “I want to explain why I-”
“…left me?” Francesca cut in, her words sharp yet soft, finishing the sentence Michaela could not.
The quiet that Francesca had destroyed moments ago, settled between them once more, heavier now for what had been spoken. Michaela’s mind raced, thoughts tumbling at speed, searching for an explanation that might suffice, yet still guarding the fragile state of her own heart.
“Why you left me? In the dead of night. As I waited for you to return home…” Francesca resumed, each word enunciated, landing like a punch to Michaela’s already nauseous stomach.
“Not only did I wait…”, Francesca spat, her head snapping to look at Michaela now as she continued “...I asked you to stay. I asked you NOT to go” she choked out, her voice increasing in volume as her frustration bubbled away.
“…and you said you would stay! After everything! You said you would stay…” Francesca’s voice broke, sharp and aching. “…and I…fool that I am, believed you,” she finished, the words carrying a sting that left them both breathless, eyes locked in frantic, desperate search for understanding.
The cool night pressed around them. The only sound was their jagged, anxious breaths, sharp and uneven, echoing the turmoil neither dared to voice. Every inhale wanting to pull them closer, every exhale a reminder of the space that still held them apart.
“So,” Francesca whispered, her voice tight as she fought to steady herself, “I do not want your explanation, Michaela. Not when I have scarcely begun to recover from the disappointment of a once-dear friend.” she lied out loud, to herself, and to the woman next to her.
Michaela, letting go of the balcony railings, turned fully now, to face Francesca properly. A sudden wave of bravery taking over her.
“I will not explain then… not yet, at least,” Michaela murmured, voice low and trembling just enough to betray her restraint. Her eyes held Francesca’s, burning, impossible to look away. “But you must understand… I never meant to hurt you. Every step I took away from you… was heavier than you could ever imagine.”
Francesca did not answer. The anger that had so fiercely consumed her moments ago seemed to vanish, leaving only a fragile, bewildered ache. Not when Michaela stood before her, speaking of the weight she had carried in their long separation, her words pressing gently against the walls Francesca had so carefully built. And why, she wondered, with a desperation she could not name, had it been so unbearably hard for her to be apart? She, the one who had chosen to leave?
Michaela caught the tiniest flicker across Francesca’s face, the rigid lines of anguish and anger softening, giving way to a delicate haze of confusion and quiet wonder. The change was so slight, so fleeting, that it might have been missed by anyone else, but Michaela saw it and desperately wanted to hold onto the sliver of hope Francesca had accidentally offered her.
Michaela let out a quiet sigh, the sound almost lost in the night air. She knew she could not lay bare the whole truth to Francesca, she could not risk exposing the depth of what she felt, but still, she longed to offer something, anything, that might ease the ache she had caused.
“I want to stay here with you, Francesca,” she admitted, voice low, carrying all the weight she could muster. “I want to make amends for leaving… to be the friend you once needed me to be.”
Francesca shivered, caught off guard by the unguarded honesty she was so unaccustomed to receiving from Michaela.
She wanted to slap her, she wanted to push her back far away to where she had escaped to.
But, she wanted her close. That’s all she had wanted, if she was to be truthful. Something about Michaela, forced her to want her close by. And Francesca relented.
“You may try,” Francesca said, her tone carefully measured, calm on the surface though her heart fluttered with a nervous, unacknowledged joy. “If you can remain… without slipping away wordlessly again, then perhaps I’ll let you try to make amends.” A small, almost imperceptible thrill ran through her, betraying her desired indifference.
Michaela settled beside her, a timid smirk tugging at her lips. The notion that Francesca was allowing her to make amends sent a rush of heat curling through her, urgent and undeniable, one she was simply unable to really ignore.
“Thank you,” Michaela said. This time, as she reached for Francesca’s soft, delicate hand, she did not withdraw. Instead, she grabbed it and squeezed once, gently but with unmistakable intent. “I will,” she whispered.