Give me one more night of your love (I)

The rain hammered against the attic window, mimicking the frantic beat of Michael's heart. Below, the farewell party raged on, a cacophony of forced cheer and clinking glasses. Tonight was Amelia's last night in London, her last night with him.

They'd met a year ago at a poetry slam, two souls drawn together by the raw vulnerability in each other's words. He, a struggling musician with calloused fingertips and a heart brimming with unplayed melodies. She, a free spirit with eyes that held galaxies and a wanderlust etched into her every move. Their love story unfolded like a jazz improvisation, spontaneous and exhilarating. Late-night conversations fueled by stolen coffee and shared dreams, lazy mornings tangled in bedsheets, stolen kisses under the moonlight – it had all been a whirlwind romance.

But Amelia wasn't built for permanence. Her spirit craved uncharted territories, and a one-way ticket to Nepal thrummed impatiently in her pocket. They'd tried to make it work – late-night video calls filled with static and longing, shared dreams becoming solo journeys. But the distance gnawed at them, turning their love into a fading melody.

Now, as the party throbbed below, Amelia sat perched on a dusty trunk, her backpack overflowing with dreams and travel journals. Michael stood by the window, the cityscape slick with rain mirroring the tears he refused to shed.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Amelia broke the silence, her voice surprisingly steady.
Michael turned, his own voice rough. "The city? Or the way you're ruining it?"
A ghost of a smile played on her lips. "Both, I guess." She walked towards him, her hand finding his. The touch felt foreign, an echo of a warmth slowly turning cold. "Don't be angry, Michael."

"Angry? How can I not be?" His voice cracked. "We had something, Amelia. Something real."
"We do," she whispered, her fingers tracing patterns on his palm. "It's real, even if it can't last."
He pulled her close, the familiar scent of lavender shampoo filling his senses. He wanted to scream, to plead, to trap her in this moment. But in her eyes, he saw a distant horizon, a world calling out to her.

"Give me one more night of your love," he choked out. "Just one."
Amelia's eyes welled up. "Michael…"
"Please," he pressed, his voice raw. "Let me drown in it before we have to face the emptiness."

And Amelia, her own heart a battleground of conflicting emotions, couldn't refuse the desperate plea in his eyes.

The attic became their sanctuary. They talked all night, reminiscing about their first kiss under the cherry blossom tree, the way his guitar sang when he wrote her a song, the warmth of her laughter filling a cold winter's day. They laughed, they cried, they clung to each other like drowning sailors to a piece of driftwood.

He played his guitar, his fingers weaving a tapestry of bittersweet melodies. He sang her a song he'd never completed, the lyrics spilling out of him like a dam breaking. It was a song of love both fierce and fragile, of joy and pain, of a goodbye that felt like a beginning.

As dawn painted the sky a bruised purple, they lay entwined, the echoes of his song lingering in the air. Exhaustion finally claimed them, but even in sleep, they clung to each other, a silent promise of cherishing this final embrace.

The morning light found Amelia packing. The last item in her bag was a worn notebook filled with Michael's lyrics, each line a testament to their love story. He watched her from the doorway, his heart a lead weight in his chest.
"I'll call you," he managed, his voice hoarse.

"Write to me," she corrected, a small smile playing on her lips. "Your words travel better than phone calls."

She walked to him, her arms reaching for him one last time. The embrace was tight, desperate, a silent farewell whispered against each other's skin. When they pulled away, there were tears in both their eyes.

He held her gaze, memorizing every detail – the freckles that danced across her nose, the way the light caught in her hair, the love and sorrow reflected in her eyes.
"Go chase your dreams, Amelia," he finally whispered. "Don't let anything hold you back."
She nodded, a single tear trailing down her cheek. "Promise me you'll keep playing music, Michael."

He cupped her face, his touch a final farewell. "Every note will be for you."
As Amelia walked down the stairs, a piece of Michael went with her. The party was over, the house quiet.....