"I am different," Alice replied. "I'm doing thirteen mad things for myself. This is number nine." "And what is number nine?"
She took out a pen and a fresh notebook. For the first time in her life, she didn't write a to-do list or a schedule. She didn't write a letter to someone else.
As she descended, she realized she was approaching the final madness. She returned to the small villa by the sea. She sat on the terrace, watching the waves crash against the rocks with a violence that felt like home.
They didn't fall back into bed. Instead, they sat on the floor and talked until the sun turned the sky the color of a bruised peach. They spoke of the people they used to be as if they were old friends who had moved away. It wasn't a reconciliation of a romance, but a reclamation of a memory. Alice left the studio feeling lighter, the phantom weight on her shoulders finally dissolving.