The bolter - part 5
☆ Summary: Alexia didn't expect to run into you five years after you disappeared on her, especially not with a little girl calling you mami, and looking just a little too much like her.
☆ Word count: 6.7K
☆ Warnings: mentions of grieving, miscarriage, animal loss, lots of hurt/comfort and then just straight up hurt again.
☆ The bolter masterlist here
We don't have to talk about everything today," she offered, her voice careful. "If you aren't feeling well, we can just-"
"No," you said quickly, straightening yourself and trying to look put together even though you were sure your mascara was running, and your eyes were swollen. "I told you we would talk. I'm not leaving until you hear everything."
Alexia took a long look at you. She saw the decisive expression on your face and the stubborn set of your jaw, a trait she claimed you got from her after a decade of coexistence.
"Okay," she said quietly, her eyes never leaving yours, as if respecting how hard you were standing your ground. "We'll go as long as you want to."
You took a deep breath, feeling the air cooling down the fire in your chest. You needed to tell Alexia everything.
You leaned back slightly, eyes fixed on the space between you, and continued.
Barcelona - November 2020
You didn't have the heart to throw his bed away, nor his feeding bowl.
In fact, the bowl still held a small pile of food in it, even though a week had passed since he had gone. The kibble sat there untouched, as if at any moment Bartolomeu might come trotting in, meowing with that desperate hunger he always had.
The sight of it felt ridiculous. A metallic bowl of kibble shouldn't mean this much - it was just pet food - and yet, it felt like a sacred relic. Bartolomeu was very old, but his death still felt sudden and unexpected. It hurt. It hurt far more than you ever thought it would.
Your companion, your only companion, the one who had witnessed the highs and lows of your life with Alexia for the last three years, had left you.
Now, the apartment felt hollow, a pit that couldn't be filled without Bartolomeu's constant scratching at the bedroom door or his demanding meows that used to wake you at six in the morning.
The silence he left behind was asphyxiating. You kept turning around, expecting to catch a glimpse of his ginger fur curled into a ball on the corner of the sofa where the sun always shone. But there was nothing, only the heavy space where he used to be.
You remembered the first time you realised things were shifting, when the air in the apartment first began to feel off.
Three weeks earlier.
"Bartolomeu?" you called softly, crouching down beside his bed on the floor, the expensive one he never used because he always preferred the sofa, the softness of your mattress or an old cardboard box.
He lifted his head slowly; his movements heavy and stiff, blinking at you with cloudy eyes. His gaze felt distant, as if it was too hard to focus on what he was seeing; his eyes slipped close again and his tiny head dropped back down.
Your hand hovered over his fur hesitantly. He felt smaller somehow, thinner, as if he were folding into himself and trying to make himself disappear against the green fabric of the bed.
"Hey, Meu," you murmured, your voice barely a breath. You didn't want to startle him. "Are you hungry? You haven't eaten this morning."
There was no response, not even a flick of his tail or a twitch of his ears. It was as if he weren't even listening to you, not registering your presence at all.
From the kitchen, you could feel Alexia's gaze on you. She was leaning against the counter, her arms crossed, with that familiar crease between her eyebrows, the one that appeared whenever she was worried, even when she was trying not to show it.
"He'll eat later," you said, the words directed more to yourself than to her. "He's just... tired. And maybe he's cold too. Winter is coming, anyway."
Alexia didn't say a word. She simply turned back to the sink, the sound of the running water filling the silence as she began doing the dishes. But you heard it, that quiet exhale that meant she disagreed, but didn't have the heart to start an argument right now.
Days passed like that.
Each morning, the first thing you did was check his bowl, and each morning, his pile of kibble remained exactly as you had left it. Your heart shattered a little more with every check. He wasn't eating, and the small pile had become a small monument to your denial.
"Amor-" Alexia said one afternoon after training, sitting beside you on the sofa.
Across the room, Bartolomeu was curled in his bed, his breathing deep, uneven and laboured, every symptom no one wanted to see in an elderly animal.
"We should talk about--"
"He's fine," you cut her off, your voice sharper than intended. "He's just old, Ale. Old cats sleep a lot, and they aren't hungry all the time."
"I know, bebé, but look at him," Alexia countered, her voice steady. "He hasn't moved since I left for training. We have to be realistic about what's happening."
"Can we not do this right now?" You stood abruptly, needing some distance from her, from the cat, from the suffocating air of the apartment. "I have to... I have to call the clinic for the next appointment. I'm going to see if anyone is there."
It was Saturday. The clinic didn't open on Saturdays, and both of you knew it, but Alexia didn't call you out; she let you walk away.
That night, you both lay in bed in silence. The darkness felt oppressive; it was pressing down on your chest like a physical weight, filled with uncertainty. Your mind kept circling back to the living room, to the small cat that was sleeping alone out there.
Beside you, you knew Alexia was awake. You could hear the subtle shift in her breathing.
"My love," she whispered, her hand finding yours under the covers. She pulled you closer, tucking your head securely under her chin and drawing your torso against hers.
Her warmth should have been comforting, but instead it made your throat tighten.
"You know he's not doing okay," she breathed into your hair
You shook your head against her chest, your eyes already becoming glassy. "He's just old, Ale. That's all. He's just... he's very old."
"Yeah, baby," Alexia murmured, holding you tighter as her hand traced slow circles on your back. Her voice was so gentle it bruised you. "That's why he'll need to rest soon. We can't let him suffer just because we aren't ready to let go."
The word 'rest' hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken meaning, with everything she wasn't saying and everything you were so hard trying to ignore.
Your whole body went rigid in her arms. "Don't. Don't say it like that."
"Mi amor-"
"I said don't." You tried to pull away, to crawl back into your side of the bed, but she wouldn't let go. "He's not... he's going to be fine. He's survived this long, he'll-"
"I think we just need to be prepared," Alexia said softly, her voice careful, like she was handling something fragile – you. "He was already old when we found him, and it's been a few years now. I just... I don't want you to be blindsided, baby. Ignoring it won't make it hurt less when it happens."
You wanted to scream at her. You wanted to tell Alexia she was wrong, that she didn't know what she was talking about, that she didn't understand Bartolomeu like you did, that he would wake up tomorrow and be himself again.
But the words died in your throat because some part of you, the part you were desperately trying to silence, knew she was right.
"I can't lose him, Ale," you whispered instead, your voice breaking. "Amor, I can't. He's my baby, my first baby. He can't leave me. Not now. Not when everything else feels so-"
You couldn't finish the thought, and you didn't need to. Alexia knew what you meant.
The miscarriage from a year ago was still too fresh and too raw. With this new baby on the way, the idea of losing Bartolomeu felt like the universe was meticulously stripping piece by piece of your life away.
"I know," Alexia murmured into your hair. "I know, amor. I'm so sorry."
You cried messily into her chest that night. She held you through every sob, whispering reassurances, words you barely understood between your cries, but felt deeply in your bones and in your heart.
Alexia was the only one keeping you from drifting away entirely.
The appointment was scheduled for 2 PM.
You had been awake since dawn, moving blindly around the apartment to check on Bartolomeu every thirty minutes. You watched the shallow rise and fall of his ribs, counting every agonising second between his breaths.
At 1:45 pm, you were sitting in the clinic's waiting room. Alone. Again. Your phone buzzed against your palm, and you knew immediately who was calling.
Alexia: Training is running late, bebé. I'm so sorry, I'm leaving now, sí?
Alexia: I'll be there. I promise.
You stared at the screen, feeling that familiar simmer of anger building in your chest. It was happening again. You didn't understand why you still allowed yourself to expect her presence, or why you bothered scheduling appointments during Alexia's supposedly free hours when something always came up, and she could never make it anyway.
It was always a long training session. Always a physio session that went overtime, or meetings that dragged on. It was always football. Her career felt like a third person in your marriage, and it always claimed priority, even on the day you were supposed to find out the sex of your child.
"Ms Putellas?" The nurse appeared in the doorway. "We're ready for you. Shall we?"
You glanced at your phone one more time. Nothing, no more buzzes. You couldn't bring yourself to tell the nurse that your partner was 'on her way' again. It was too embarrassing and humiliating the first time.
"Yeah, of course," you said, clutching your purse, feeling your palm damp with a nervous sweat. "Let's go."
You desperately needed this appointment to go well. You needed to hear that healthy and steady rhythm of the baby's heartbeat, needed to hear that they were still growing strong, just like the last check-up.
This was the 16-week mark, one of the key anatomic checks. During this scan, the doctor could evaluate for any developmental complications. You couldn't even fathom receiving bad news in an empty room. If Alexia weren't there to hold you if something went wrong, you would simply crumble to the floor and never get back up again.
"Ms.? Please, the doctor is waiting for you," the nurse called again.
This time, your legs obeyed, and you walked into the ultrasound room.
The examination room was freezing.
You lay on the table, the sanitary paper crinkling loudly beneath you every time you shifted. You tried to focus on the white ceiling above you, tracing the thin crack in the plaster and a spider's web in the far left corner, desperate to look at anything other than the dark room, the soft beeping of the machine, or the empty chair beside you where Alexia should have been.
The doctor was just beginning to calibrate the ultrasound equipment when the door burst open.
Alexia practically stumbled inside. She was breathless, sweaty, and flushed; her ponytail was half undone and her purple training kit still on. If you looked closely enough, you could see the faint streaks of grass and dirt smeared across her temples.
"I'm here! You didn't start yet, right?" she said, her voice loud. She crossed the room in two long strides, sitting in the once-empty chair.
She turned to you, her expression softening instantly, her eyebrows drawn lazily over her eyes with that one look of profound guilt she wore so well.
"Lo siento, amor. I'm here, sí? Perdón. I'm here."
You wanted to stay angry. You really did. You had been rehearsing what you would say to her in your head, how you would make her understand that she couldn't keep doing this, couldn't keep prioritising football over everything else, over her family, and that the strain was making you physically and mentally ill.
But she looked soo genuinely distressed, so scared she had missed the moment, that your anger deflated slightly. In this light, she didn't look like an Alexia Putellas, the grand captain and absent wife; she looked like a mother terrified of missing her kid's first school presentation.
You had to remind yourself that she was this baby's mama, too, even if her absence often made you feel like you were carrying the weight of this family alone.
"You're late," you said anyway, because there weren't enough words going through your brain, not when you were scared that you would find something wrong with the baby. "Again."
"I know. I'm sorry. Training ran long, and then there was traffic and-" She cut herself, taking a sharp breath, and leaning closer. She reached for your hand, her thumb gently across your damp palm. "I'm here now. That's what matters, sí?"
You wanted to tell her that no, what really mattered was that awful feeling of being alone in a white, sterile clinic room. But before you could argue, the doctor was already squeezing and spreading the cold gel across your belly. You flinched instantly at the sudden contact, and Alexia's grip on your hand tightened.
Suddenly, the argument died. Nothing else mattered the moment the doctor pressed the transducer down, and the monitor flickered, showing… absolutely nothing. The screen was grey, and no sound was coming from it.
The silence felt heavy and crushing, and you could feel the sensory receptors of your auditory system begging to receive any high-frequency sound, any sound that would mean the baby was okay.
You froze and felt Alexia go rigid beside you, too. You needed to hear it. Needed to hear the heartbeat. It had been there the last time you did an ultrasound just two weeks ago. It had to be there now, or else-
"Alright," the doctor said cheerfully, too cheerfully for how scared you felt. "Let's see what we have here."
The only sound was the low hum of the ultrasound machine. You held your breath without realising, squeezing Alexia's hand so hard you were likely bruising her knuckles, but she didn't flinch or complain.
The doctor moved the transducer slowly; her eyes fixed on the screen. Thirty seconds passed, and you thought you were being tortured in slow-motion. Alexia's eyes were glued to the monitor, as if in her ten years as a professional athlete, she could somehow learn to read an ultrasound image because of pure desperation.
"...Is everything okay?" Alexia blurted out. You had to give it to her; you had expected her to crack much, much sooner. "It's... It's the baby… I mean, the baby's size? Is it okay? I don't think we can see anything–?"
The doctor didn't answer right away. She kept pressing the probe deeper into your abdomen. It was starting to hurt. "I can't see just yet," the doctor murmured, squinting over her glasses. "This one's a bit shy, huh? Let's see and…"
She angled the transducer to the far left of your belly, and suddenly, the unmistakable curve of a tiny foot appeared on the screen.
"Here we go," the doctor said. You heard the audible sigh of relief escape Alexia's lungs, a mirror to your own. "The baby's just in an awkward position," The doctor explained. "That's why it was a bit hard to find them."
Your eyes were locked on the screen. Alexia was leaning so far forward she was almost touching the monitor with her nose.
"Let me turn on the audio," the doctor said. "So we can catch the heartbeat."
This time it didn't take too long. The room filled with a steady and frantic (and beautiful) thump thump thump. The sound hit you like a burst of sunlight on a cold, winter day. It was literally the sound of life, and you were so overwhelmingly grateful to hear such melody.
"Oh," you breathed, tears immediately springing to your eyes, a sob breaking through your throat.
"Strong heartbeat," the doctor commented, adjusting the probe and turning the volume up slightly. "Very steady."
Then the doctor looked over to Alexia, whose eyes were just as glassy with tears as yours. "You are the athlete, right? Spain's captain?"
Alexia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and nodded. "Yes, yes. That's me."
"You'll have a good athlete on your hands, mama," the doctor said, with a small smile, then she turned back to you "That's good for your wife, but maybe not so good for you, huh? I can see you'll have a very active kid given the heartbeat. Prepare yourself for some scraped knees."
Alexia let out a sound that was half-chuckle, half-sob. She leaned in, pressing her forehead against your shoulder for a few lingering seconds. You didn't miss the way she breathed a soft "Te quiero" against your skin. [I love you]
The doctor continued, moving the probe as the grey static on the screen shifted.
"Is the baby's head okay?" Alexia asked suddenly, her voice tight with what only could be called maternal anxiety. "Babies can have big heads, right? Is it called... hydro-hydrocephalus? Something like that?"
The doctor nodded patiently, tracing a line she had measured on the screen. "It's a valid concern, Ms Putellas, but your baby looks perfect. Normal head size, nothing to worry about."
"Okay," Alexia breathed. "...And the spine?"
"It's fine too. No signs of spina bifida or anything. But we already knew that. We checked for it in the last ultrasound."
"Right. Okay. What about the limbs? Do they both have arms and legs and–"
"Alexia," you whispered, tightening your grip on her hand in warning. "Stop it, let her speak."
The doctor smiled gently. "It's completely normal to worry; the sixteen weeks check-up is when we can investigate for concerning issues like that, but everything I'm seeing looks appropriate for the baby's gestational age."
"Here…" the doctor continued, moving the probe, and you could see it: the baby's hand. "Five perfect fingers… Maybe we have a goalie?"
Alexia pouted. "No, centre back, maximum."
You rolled your eyes and smiled. "The baby will do whatever they want, Alexia."
The doctor did a few more measurements, and when she was all done, you and Alexia looked at each other. You had discussed this, gone back and forth. Part of you wanted to wait, wanted the surprise, one of those baby parties where you shared the news with your family.
But a bigger part of you needed to know, needed something concrete to hold on to. You wanted to know more and more about this baby, wanting to know everything thing you could.
"Can… can we know the gender, please?" you asked.
"Let's see if the baby will be kind to their curious parents," the doctor said jokingly. "Let's see if their legs are open."
The doctor smiled and adjusted the angle of the probe, then adjusted the screen. She circled something and typed on the screen: N I Ñ A
"Well, congratulations," she said with a warm smile. "You're having a little girl."
The world stopped completely. Your breathing caught in your throat, and for a second you were scared Alexia was going to fall from her seat.
"A girl?" you whispered, not believing her words. "Oh, my God!"
All this time, you hadn't allowed yourself to wonder what the baby was. You hadn't allowed yourself to dream about it – about her. You hadn't wanted to picture it, terrified that if you let yourself hope, you would lose her, too.
"A girl," the doctor confirmed, pointing at the screen. "See right there? That's between her legs. And here," she moved the probe, "That's her face. And look at her, she's smiling. She must have heard your voice, mama."
"I told you," Alexia murmured, her voice thick with emotion. Her thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. "Told you we would have a girl. I knew it before the transfer was done... siempre lo supe, princesita." [I always knew it, my little princess.]
You couldn't take your eyes off the screen. Your anger from earlier evaporated completely, burned away by the overwhelming reality of what you were seeing.
"Isabel," Alexia said decidedly, looking at the screen.
"Isabel," you allowed yourself to say the name out loud for the first time. "Hi, Isabel," you whispered, placing your hand on the abdomen where there was no gel. "Hi, amorcito."
Talking to Isabel felt dangerous. Like you were tempting fate too much. But you needed to, needed to make her real.
"Isabel," Alexia repeated softly.
She leaned closer to the screen, her free hand reaching out as if she could touch the baby through the monitor. "Mira, amor, she's beautiful. Look at her, she's so precious."
"I can't see anything," you laughed weakly, tears still streaming down your face.
Honestly, you had a hard time making out much beyond a vague blob that might have been a face, but she was your daughter, so she was obviously the most beautiful thing in the universe.
"That's because you're not looking right," Alexia insisted, pointing at the screen. "Look, that's her, that's her little face--"
"That's her knee, Ms Putellas," the doctor chuckled. "This is her face," she moved the probe again. "Here... at this point her features aren't fully developed, but you can see a little bit of her nose and mouth."
"From now on," the doctor continued. "Her facial expressions will become more frequent and visible. She's just learning to smile now… Since her nervous system is developing, she might start to practice some reflexes, like kicking or sucking her thumb."
"She's perfect," you said, and meant it with every fibre of your being.
The doctor continued to speak, explaining what to expect next, what foods you should eat, and what should be avoided, but you barely registered her words. You and Alexia were in your own world, watching your daughter move on the screen, seeing her tiny hand curl into a fist.
"We need to paint the nursery," Alexia said suddenly. "And get a crib. A good one. Maybe that canopy crib we saw on IKEA? You wanted that one, right? We can get it; hell, we'll get whatever you want."
"Ale," you laughed despite yourself, "we have time."
"I know, but–" She looked at you, her eyes bright with excitement. "I want to do this right. I want to be ready. I want to… I want to enjoy this." Her voice cracked slightly. "She'll have everything."
What she didn't say, but what you both understood: I want to do better than last time. Enjoy every second. Make sure she's here to stay.
"She will have everything, Ale," you assured her, squeezing her hand. "We'll make sure of it."
During the drive home, Alexia couldn't stop talking. Her hand rested warm against your thigh as she drove, and for the first time in months, you felt something like hope blooming in your chest.
"We should get one of those,-what are they called? The baby carriers you wear on your chest," Alexia was saying, gesturing with one hand while the other stayed on the wheel. "So, I can take her to training as soon as she can. Let her see the pitch, meet the girls."
"She'll be about fifteen days old once she gets her vaccines and can actually leave the house," you replied, shaking your head, laughing.
"So? Never too early to learn. And we need to find a good paediatrician. Someone who understands athletes' schedules. Oh, and-"
"Alexia," you interrupted gently, but you were smiling. "Breathe."
She glanced at you, grinning sheepishly. "I'm excited. Can you blame me?"
"No," you admitted. "I'm excited too."
It felt strange to say it out loud, to admit that you were letting yourself hope again, letting yourself imagine a future where you brought your daughter home, and she grew up and learned to walk and talk and maybe, yes, play football with Alexia.
"Isabel María Putellas Seguras," Alexia said, trying out the full name. "It sounds good, no?"
"It sounds perfect."
The rest of the drive passed in comfortable chatter, making plans that felt both impossibly far away and right around the corner. You let yourself sink into the fantasy of it, let yourself believe that everything would be okay this time.
The bubble burst the moment you walked through the front door.
The silence hit you first. That terrible, absolute silence that shouldn't exist in a home with a cat. "Bartolomeu?" you called out, your voice echoing slightly in the quiet apartment.
Nothing.
You tilted your head, confused for just a second. He always greeted you at the door, always. Even when he was feeling terrible, he would at least meow from wherever he was resting.
"Bartolomeu?" you called again, louder this time, stepping deeper into the apartment.
Behind you, you heard Alexia close the door softly. She didn't say anything, but you felt her presence, felt her tension. You found his bed first. Empty. "Baby boy? Where are you?"
You checked his usual spots, the corner of the sofa, your bedroom, the sunlit patch by the window. Nothing.
"Amor," Alexia's voice came from the guest room, and something in her tone made your blood run cold.
"What?" You rushed to where she stood in the doorway. "What is it? Did you find him?"
Alexia didn't answer immediately. She was staring at something on the floor, her face pale. You pushed past her and saw him. Bartolomeu, curled up in the corner, in some other cat bed that you had moved in there the week before. He looked like he was sleeping, his body curved into that familiar comma shape, his tail wrapped around himself.
"Bartolomeu?" Your voice came out small, childlike.
He didn't move.
"Baby boy?" You crouched down, reaching a hesitant hand to touch him. His fur was soft under your fingers, but cold.
"No," you whispered. "No, no, no-"
"Amor…" Alexia placed a gentle hand on your shoulder.
"He's just sleeping," you said, even though you knew the truth. God, you knew. "He's just…Bartolomeu, wake up. Wake up, baby. Please."
"He's gone," Alexia said softly, kneeling beside you. "I'm so sorry. He's-"
"Don't," you choked out. "Don't say it. He's not…he can't be."
But he was. You could see it now, the stillness that was too still, the way his little body didn't rise and fall with breath.
"No," you sobbed, gathering him into your arms even though you knew it wouldn't change anything. He was so small, so light. "No, please. Please, Bartolomeu. Please don't leave me."
Alexia's arms came around you from behind, holding you as you held him. "I'm sorry," she kept saying. "I'm so sorry, amor."
"We just… we just found out about Isabel," you gasped between sobs. "We were so happy. We were finally… and now he's…"
You couldn't finish. Couldn't articulate the cruelty of it, the way joy and grief had collided on the same day, in the exact same hour. Alexia held you tighter. "I know. I know, baby. I'm here. I've got you."
Afterwards, you weren't sure how much time had passed; Alexia gently took Bartolomeu from your arms. "We should... we need to take him to the vet. They can... they'll help us."
You nodded numbly, watching as she carefully placed his small body in a shoebox she had found in the closet. It was from a pair of her football boots, and somehow that detail broke something else inside you.
"I'll drive," Alexia said quietly. "Come on, amor."
The vet's office was too bright, too clean. Everything felt surreal, like you were watching it happen to someone else.
"I'm very sorry for your loss," the vet said, her voice professionally sympathetic. She was examining Bartolomeu's body, no, not his body, because he wasn't Bartolomeu anymore, was he? "It looks like kidney disease. Very advanced. Even if you had brought him in sooner, there's not much we could have done. He was very old."
"How old?" you heard yourself ask.
"Based on his condition, I would estimate at least seventeen years, possibly older. You gave him a good life."
Seventeen years. He had lived an entire life before you even found him. And now that life was over.
"He died peacefully," the vet continued gently. "In his sleep. That's the best we can hope for."
You wanted to scream at her that nothing about this was peaceful, that losing him felt like losing a piece of yourself. But you just stood there, mute and nodded, letting Alexia handle everything else.
That night, back home, you sat on the couch staring at his empty bed. Alexia sat beside you, close but not touching, giving you space.
"I can..." she started carefully, "I can call the shelter tomorrow. There's probably kittens who need homes. We could-"
"What?" You turned to stare at her, incredulous.
"I just thought… maybe it would help. Having another cat. You always wanted a kitten, no? This way you can–"
"Replace him?" Your voice rose. "You think we can just replace Bartolomeu? Like he's, what? Like he's one of your football boots that wore out?"
"No, that's not-"
"He's not replaceable, Alexia!" You were shouting now, all your grief transmuting into rage because it was easier to be angry than to be broken. "He's not just so-some thing you can swap out for a newer model!"
"I know that," Alexia said, her voice still calm, still patient. "I'm not trying to replace him. I just thought-"
"Well, don't think!" You stood abruptly, needing to move, needing to do something with all this energy burning through you. "Stop trying to fix everything! Not everything can be fixed!"
"I'm just trying to help!"
"I don't want help! I want-" Your voice broke. "I want him back. I want him back, and I can't have him, and you getting me another cat isn't going to change that."
Alexia stood too, reaching for you. "You're right. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I just… I hate seeing you hurt."
"Well, I am hurt!" Tears were streaming down your face now. "I'm so fucking hurt, and there's nothing you can do about it!"
"I know," Alexia said softly. "I know, amor. Come here."
She pulled you into her arms, and you collapsed into her, all your anger draining away as quickly as it had come. You sobbed into her shirt, clutching at her like she was the only solid thing in a world that had become untethered.
"I've got you," she murmured, holding you tight. "I've got you, bebé. I'm not going anywhere."
You cried until you had nothing left, until your throat was raw and your eyes were swollen and your body felt like it weighed a thousand kilos. And through it all, Alexia held you. She didn't check her phone, didn't say anything about tomorrow's training session or next week's match. She simply held you, her chin resting on top of your head, letting you break.
Because sometimes that's all you can do. Sometimes you just have to break, and trust that someone will be there to help you put the pieces back together.
Much later, when you had exhausted yourself into a numb sort of calm, Alexia spoke quietly into the darkness.
"He loved you, you know. So much."
You didn't answer, only pressed closer against her chest.
"And Isabel-" her hand moved to rest on your stomach, "-she's going to love you too. She's going to be so lucky to have you as her mama."
"I'm scared," you admitted in a whisper.
"Me too," Alexia confessed. "But we'll figure it out. Together. Okay?"
"Okay," you echoed, not quite believing it, but desperately wanting to.
Outside, Barcelona continued to exist normally; it continued to hum with its late-night energy and its cosiness that brought tourists from all over the world to the city. Inside, you mourned what you had lost and tried too hard about what was coming next.
One day at a time. That's all you could manage. One day at a time.
Barcelona - First Week of December
You were as far along as you were during the first pregnancy with your baby boy. Twenty weeks. Five months. The dangerous zone you barely survived last time.
These past few weeks have been the worst for you. Trying to cope and process Bartolomeu's death while also trying to overcome the morning sickness, which, despite its name, lasted all day. You were also struggling with Alexia's constant absence.
Your body felt like a battlefield, and you were losing. Every morning you woke up feeling like you had already been defeated, and you had no one there to comfort you. Alexia was out of the house as soon as seven am. She made breakfast for you, though, not that you could eat with how nauseous you had been feeling.
At first, you convinced yourself the cramps were just from the stress you were under, that the baby was growing way too fast and your body was struggling to accommodate her. Just growing pains, you told yourself. Normal pregnancy things. The books all said it was normal.
But then, like a cruel flashback to a year ago, blood began dripping down your legs while you stood in the shower. The cramps have been there for a day now. They weren't painful, not really, just uncomfortable, just the normal pains the doctor told you you could expect.
"Some cramping is completely normal," she had said at your last appointment. "Your uterus is expanding, so it might get a bit uncomfortable for a few weeks, but then it should feel painless again."
What she said you couldn't expect was the bleeding.
Crimson dripped down your legs, pooling directly into the shower drain, and you stared at it, unsure whether you were your present self or the version of you from a year ago who had gone through this exact same nightmare when you lost the baby boy. The water turned pink at your feet, swirling down, down, down, taking everything with it.
Just like the first time, you were losing this baby, too.
You were miscarrying, and Isabel was no longer here. She was slipping down the drain.
You didn't remember screaming or crying.
You didn't remember anything clearly; it was all fragments, sharp-edged pieces that refused to fit together. But Alexia appeared in the shower doorway like a ghost materialising. Her hair was already in a ponytail; she was wearing her travel kit, those stupid designer joggers she loved, ready to leave in a few hours for an away game.
Champions League final.
She went pale. Completely, deathly pale at the sight of the blood dripping down your skin, her hands were trembling, and for a second, you thought she was going to pass out, that she would collapse right there onto the cold bathroom floor and force you to care for her instead of yourself.
She didn't say a word. Without thinking, without hesitating, she stripped off her clothes and stepped in the shower with you, pulling your shaking frame against her chest. You couldn't process what she was saying, just muffled questions that sounded like you were underwater, drowning and drowning on the sea.
She kept asking: "Are you okay? Are you hurt? What's happening? Do we need to go to the hospital? We should, right?"
You told her you lost Isabel. And just like that, you lost Alexia, too.
You could see it happen in real-time, the light going out of her eyes, her face draining even more of colour, her body going rigid against yours. She was right here, but she was gone. You knew that look; you had seen it before.
She insisted on taking you to the hospital, her voice rising with panic, but you reminded her what happened the first time. You had gone to the hospital mid-miscarriage, only for them to send you home, casually explaining that the baby would come out without medical intervention and that you could try again for another pregnancy in three months.
Just like that. As if your baby was merely a failed attempt. As if his life hadn't mattered. As if you were a broken machine that just needed a reset before another attempt.
You told her you would never step a foot in that hospital again.
You had lost your daughter. You had lost Isabel, just like your son. Just like Bartolomeu.
You had nothing left. Nothing. You didn't deserve children. Your body was wrong, defective, broken beyond repair. You couldn't carry a child. You couldn't carry Alexia's children. They died. They always died. Your babies were dead, and your body was to blame. You were the common denominator in all of this loss.
You weren't sure who was more dissociated, you or Alexia.
Eventually, the bleeding slowed, and the cramps stopped. Without saying anything, without expressing any emotion, Alexia cleaned you up, mechanically and thoroughly; her movements were robotic and efficient. She dried your skin while you wept, wordless sobs that shook your entire frame.
She dressed you in your pyjamas, the soft pair with the faded logo, and laid you down in bed while you whispered repeatedly that you had killed the baby again.
Alexia was a ghost again. The spark in her eyes had completely extinguished, and she moved through the apartment like a sleepwalker. She went to the kitchen, sliced up fruit, mango, your favourite, and left the plate on the bedside table, even though you both knew you wouldn't touch it. Its bright orange flesh looked obscene against the plain white plate.
Then she walked into the living room, and through the cracked door, you heard her talking to Alba on the phone. Her voice was flat and hollow, as if she was reading from a script. She asked Alba to come over because you had miscarried and she had to go.
You couldn't believe her words.
"You are leaving?" you screamed,d sitting up in bed so fast your vision blurred and the room tilted. "I miscarried, and you are fucking leaving me?"
You locked eyes with Alexia, but she just stood frozen in the doorway. Her hands trembled at her sides, her jaw working like she was trying to form words that refused to come, like her mouth had forgotten how to shape sounds.
"I have to go," she whispered finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I have a game. I can't stay here, I-I can't-"
"Alexia?!" Your voice broke on her name, splintering into something raw and desperate. It was the same sound an animal made when it was held on a steel-jaw leghold trap.
"Alba will be here in a minute," Alexia said, but it sounded more to herself than anything else, like she was trying to convince herself that it was okay, that this was acceptable, that leaving you like this was somehow justified. "I…I have to go, amor, I can't--"
With that, Alexia was gone. And you were gone, too.
No wife. No babies. No cat. No mom. No sister. No nothing.
You didn't think.
You couldn't think. If you let yourself think, you would shatter completely, breaking into so many pieces that no one would ever be able to put you back together.
You grabbed bag after bag and packed everything you owned. Clothes, toiletries, your camera, your laptop, chargers, the books you hadn't read. You moved through the apartment like a robot, each item going into them. You didn't fold anything properly. You just shoved it all in. The last thing you took was Isabel's ultrasound picture and your baby boy's ultrasound picture, tucking them inside your bag carefully as if they were made of glass, like they were the only things in the world that mattered.
You left the apartment like a cat in the night, silent and swift. You didn't leave a note. You didn't turn off the lights. You just walked out.
At the airport, you looked for the fastest ticket to anywhere. Lisbon. The next flight was in two hours. You bought it without thinking, without calling anyone, without leaving any indication of where you were going. Your credit card didn't even hesitate when you tapped it.
Just like that, you were gone.
And Alexia didn't see you again for five years.
A/n: oh well hello! I hope you guys liked this update! Sorry for how sad it is; it will be better in the next part, promise! I haven't re-read any of Bolter's chapter, so I'm sorry if the timeline is messy; I just kept on writing where I left off. Come talk to me about the story :DDDD
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