I give him the moment he asked for, and more than that. Not because I want to be away from him, but because I can't get myself to even get up.
I'm mad at myself, for pushing this. For not noticing that he wasn't into it, though I was pretty sure he was up until a certain point.
When I finally do get myself to get off of the bed, I can't for the life of me manage to go outside. In stead, I find myself in the bathroom with the door locked.
In the mirror, I find my face with frustration behind its eyes, but sadness too. It's a reminder of how screwed up we still are, and how this trip hasn't fixed it a single bit, we've both just been really good at hiding it.
Lucien doesn't even feel like he can tell me he's not in the mood to sleep with me, his walls apparently all the way back up without me noticing.
The sound of a random playlist I've turned on drowns out my thoughts slightly, my torso still in just a bra, as I stare at myself.
My mind races with a multitude of thoughts I don't want to welcome in, but still do somehow. When I first miscarried, I couldn't look at Lucien, because looking at him meant being reminded of what we lost.
Now, he must feel that way about me. I still look pregnant, which is where all of this mess started in the first place, and I can understand why Lucien wouldn't find me attractive, though he tries so hard to do it.
They're all thoughts I know are unfair to the both of us, if not fully untrue, but I can't help them.
Even after a long and hot shower, I still feel like nothing could clean this feeling off of me. When I return to the bedroom, Lucien still isn't there.
I don't know where he is, or if he's okay, but I also know I'm probably the last person he wants to talk to right now.
So I do what any rational person would do right now, and lay in bed for what feels like hours, staring up at the ceiling. I pretend to be asleep until I actually do fall asleep, unsure if Lucien joins me in our bedroom or if he doesn't. Piece of me hopes he won't.

He has left me a note when I wake up, and I find it on the coffee table. He's out for a run, or that's at least what he claims he's doing.
It leaves me with even more time to overthink, so wallow in some kind of self-pity, as a form of self-harm. All I can do is blame myself for what happened, simply because I feel like an idiot for assuming everything would just be fine just because we've had a couple of good days.
I have breakfast, consisting of a simple cup of coffee, by myself in the dining hall, avoiding any glare I might imagine that people shoot me, all alone.
Our flight doesn't have a set time, one of the luxuries of flying private, but it worries me that Lucien doesn't return even when it's past noon. That must be a long ass run.
There's a billion scenarios running through my head, and though I try pushing them all back, I still can't help myself from losing track of time whilst exploring all of them. I've packed my bags whilst lost in these thoughts, and have even started packing Lucien's to kill the time.
When I hear the door open, I have to force myself not to look up immediately. His footsteps pass our bedroom, into the livingroom and out onto the balcony. At first I think he might be looking for me, but I don't hear him come back inside, so that idea immediately gets thrown out the window.
It's maybe fifteen minutes until he does come inside, the sliding glass door to the balcony closing and his footsteps signaling his return.
All I want to do is walk up to him, hold him, tell him everything is going to be just fine, that we'll work through this too, that there's no pressure on him just like there was no pressure on me. But I can't. I'm too afraid of the rejection, and I suddenly understand how Lucien felt all those days, if not weeks, when all I did was push him away.
"Hey," he breathes when he peers into the bedroom, where I'm folding one of his shirts. Eggshells. I now understand what he meant by them, and how hard it is to believe that they can simply be thrown out.
"Hey," I copy, watching him avoid my gaze. "I packed most of your stuff.. I hope that's okay."
He just nods, his eyes looking anywhere but in my direction.
"Do you still want me to come?" I've asked the question before I gave it a second thought, something I immediately regret. The last thing I want for him is to have to answer that honestly, because I know the answer might hurt me. He's still too afraid to hurt me, which makes me afraid to do anything, because I feel like he'll feel pressured into helping me, to joining me, to do whatever.
He's too afraid that I'll blame him, that he'll cause me harm, that I'm lying to make him feel okay, which is why he's started doing exactly that - lying, to make sure I'm okay. "If you... want some time alone, I understand. I don't want you to feel like you have to put walls up and pretend all the time, or worry about me. Eggshells. I can go home, if you'd rather go to Paris alone."

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