Until The Last Day (Claire and Lorenzo) novel Chapter 5

Claire’s POV

When we returned home, Lorenzo wouldn’t stop apologizing. He carefully cleaned and bandaged my wounds.

For the next few days, he didn’t go out. He stayed by my side almost constantly.

He stayed beside me every hour, helping me eat, adjusting my blanket, asking if I was in pain. If I dropped something, he rushed to pick it up.

I remained indifferent to his action.

A few nights later, I rolled my wheelchair out of the room and down the dim hallway toward the study.

I knew exactly where he had hidden it. The second drawer on the right. Beneath the folders. His diary.

I pulled it out and opened it to the most recent page and saw the page filled with words: “Lorenzo, you’re such a piece of shit.” I closed it without reading further.

Just as I left the study,the bedroom door burst open, and Lorenzo came running out, shirtless, barefoot, his hair disheveled from sleep.

When he saw I was unharmed, he let out a long sigh of relief. “Claire, it’s so late. What are you doing out here yourself?”

I turned the chair toward him, keeping my face calm. “I was just thirsty.”

He hurried into the kitchen, filled a glass of water, and knelt in front of me, pressing it into my hands.

“Next time, call me, okay?” he said, his tone soft but urgent. “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

I watched him.

“Lorenzo,” I said quietly, “is there something you want to tell me?”

If he had been honest, I would have let him go without a fight.

He froze. Then he shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

I closed her eyes and smiled, hiding the disappointment in my gaze.

The next morning, I began erasing us.

I started with the photo albums. The ones filled with pictures of our youth, our trips, our smiles. And then I cut them.

Lorenzo stared at the fragments covering the floor, stunned. “Why did you cut up all our photos?”

I didn’t even look up. “They got wet,” I said simply. “The photos blurred. Not worth keeping.”

He stared at me. “You could’ve just printed new copies—”

“I’ll take new ones later,” I said calmly, cutting through another image. “These don’t look good anymore.”

Something in my calmness unnerved him more than anger ever could.He stood there for a while, silent, searching my face for something he couldn’t name.

Finally, he said softly, “Alright… if that’s what you want.”

Then he turned and walked away.

On the third morning, I called the housekeeper.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” I said softly. “I hope you’re doing well. We’ll see each other soon.”

Lorenzo shifted beside me. “What do you mean?” he asked, uneasy.

Before I could answer, a voice called from behind.

“Lorenzo?”

We turned.

Aria stood a few steps away, pale and damp from the rain. Her hair clung to her face, her ankle wrapped in a thin bandage.

“Aria?” Lorenzo’s expression changed instantly — concern replacing confusion. “What happened? Why are you here?”

“I was visiting my grandmother,” she said weakly. “I slipped and hurt my ankle.” Her voice trembled, threaded with pain. “It hurts so much, Lorenzo… I can barely walk.”

Without hesitation, he rushed toward her.

“Let me see,” he said, crouching beside her. “Can you stand?”

“No.” Aria cried. “Please take me to the hospital.”

He nodded quickly. “Of course. Don’t move.”

Then he turned back toward me, his voice hurried but soft. “Claire, stay here with your parents for a bit. I’ll take Aria to the hospital and come right back, alright?”

Before I could say a word, he had already lifted Aria by the arm, supporting her as they walked away through the rain, leaving me alone in the cemetery.