Your Tone Changed Your Tone Changed Your Tone Changed Just Say You Hate Me

your tone changed your tone changed your tone changed just say you hate me

Reblog if you miss Alan Rickman.

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hicanivent

6 months ago

i was watching tv and the greatest showman was on and girl i-

my country doesn't have english as its official language and i swear hugh's dub was so bad😭

Golden - A Javi Gutierrez One Shot ☀️

Written for @perotovar 's Frith Writing Challenge. I adopted Javi G for this challenge, and he's paired with the Norse God Baldr. Gorgeous mood board created by @perotovar - thank you, Erin! 🖤 Read all the other stories in this challenge here.☀️ Read my other Offering of Frith story with Pero Tovar here.

Summary: He's always there, just like the sunshine, cutting through the fog. Even if you can't remember him, he makes sure you'll always find your way.

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x F!Reader (No name, confirmed age, ethnicity or physical description of reader, except a brief mention that they have hair. Otherwise, it's you, bub.)

Word Count: 6.7k

Scoville Smut Rating: None, it's fluff. You're safe. A little drizzle of angst.

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Mentions of death and references to dementia.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: My silly sunshine man, I just love him! 🥹☀️ I personally didn't know too much about Baldr before writing this, but I leaned more towards the mythology about him where he guides you into the afterlife, so I hope this makes sense.

MAIN MASTERLIST | JAVI GUTIERREZ MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

Spring is here. Or at least, you think it is.

There's a faint whisper of life humming in the air, though it feels hazy, just out of reach. The sunlight pours through the large bay window, its brightness pooling in familiar, golden honey patterns across the floor.

You squint, eyes watering as they struggle to adjust, a sensation both new and strangely familiar. There’s a sharpness to the light, a crispness that makes you pause, wondering if it’s always been this way, this intensely bright.

Outside, the world looks warm - pleasant, even. Trees sway gently, their branches crowned with delicate buds. You watch them for a moment, admiring the way the green seems to glow in the sunlight, though you can’t quite place if they’ve been like that for days or if this is the first time you’ve noticed. There’s a sense of renewal beyond the glass, a quiet unfolding of life, though the details are slippery, hard to hold onto.

You think you’ve felt this before - this soft warmth bathing you, this feeling that makes everything feel a little lighter. It’s familiar, isn’t it? Spring, that’s what this is. You’re sure of it, or at least you think you are. The sun looks like it does in the springtime, and the trees have that vibrant newness to them. But the clarity of the moment feels distant, as if it's been borrowed from someone else's memory, one you’re only half-remembering.

You glance again through the window, trying to focus on the outside. The light plays tricks, shifting in ways that make it hard to tell if it’s morning or afternoon. Time has been doing that lately - stretching, bending, losing its edges.

The distant hum of life beyond the walls feels muted, as though the world has tiptoed away without you. What time is it? Has it been morning for hours, or is the afternoon already fading? You can’t tell. The light that filters through the window is soft, timeless, offering no clues.

But it’s spring, isn’t it?

The warmth on the other side of the glass is unmistakable, inviting you out, calling you to feel it for yourself.

Yet, there’s a flicker of hesitation. It feels like spring, but the certainty of it wavers, like a thought that slips away just as you reach for it. The room around you feels still. Silent.

How long has it been this quiet?

You close your eyes, just listening to… nothing. The stillness presses in, thick like fog, and you try to remember if there was ever any sound here at all.

You glance down at your hands, clasped loosely in your lap, and for a moment, you stare at them, puzzled. They don’t look like you remember. The skin, thin and papery, stretches over knuckles that seem too prominent. Veins snake beneath the surface, tracing lines you don’t recall having seen before.

These hands - they feel like someone else's. But no, they must be yours. You can feel them, the faint, dull sensation as they rest against your knees, but they don't seem to belong to you in the way they once did. When did they change?

When did you change?

Something catches your eye on the sill. Petals, once radiant in their brilliance, now slouch in weariness, drooping with the quiet dignity of inevitable decline. Their smooth, silken forms have lost their youthful reach, folding inward as if yielding to an unspoken melancholy.

You try to summon a memory, something simple, like them holding a cup of tea or brushing your fingers through soft hair. But the images that come to mind are blurry, like an old photograph that’s been handled too many times.

You blink, shaking your head lightly, as if that will clear the crowd of butterflies that flit around obscuring your thoughts from something tangible, coherent.

A few, unable to hold on any longer, have detached themselves and have drifted soundlessly to the windowsill. There, they lie in gentle disarray, fragile vestiges of what they once were - pale spectres of fleeting grandeur. Their edges, brittle and curling, crackle faintly in the warmth, like the crumbling vellum of ancient manuscripts whose tales have long slipped from human grasp.

The leaves, still clinging to their verdant hue but drained of their former vigour, the way they bend and curl is not frantic, but rather, resigned. Their movements, subtle and serpentine, suggest a quiet struggle, a dance with the inevitable.

You can't quite recall how long these flowers have been here, or where they even came from. They appeared one day, and you never questioned their arrival. Or did you? Did you thank the bringer of them? Who was it?

Was it you?

You lean closer to the flowers. They’re neither fully alive nor fully gone, caught in that fragile in-between state. It feels as though they’re not just fading, but evolving - changing into something else. Something quieter, perhaps, but no less meaningful.

Their pale, crispy yellow petals, delicate and unassuming, have a softness that seems to speak directly to you, though you've never considered why. It’s a hue that feels timeless, like a colour that has always belonged to you, though perhaps you only realise it now. There’s a quiet warmth in it - a subtle radiance that doesn’t demand attention but gently insists on being felt.

Yellow. Yellow. Yes, it feels right.

It settles into your mind like an old, forgotten favourite, resurfacing just when it’s needed most. Comforting in a way you can’t put your finger on.

"Oh," comes a gentle cadence from behind, and it startles you.

You reach out to touch one of the petals, your shaky fingertips grazing its surface. It’s delicate, almost translucent now, but still holding onto some small semblance of what it once was. As you lift your hand away, a petal comes loose, drifting down to the sill below.

You watch it fall, weightless and unburdened, as if it’s always known this moment would come. It lands without a sound, settling amongst the others, and you feel an odd sense of peace.

You hadn’t heard him enter, but now he’s here, his presence announced only by the subtle trace of vetiver that lingers in the air between you and a sad sigh that escapes him.

"Oh wow, this is dreadful!" he exclaims, his voice laced with a mix of exaggerated concern and the soft click of disapproval.

His large hands reach for the vase, fingers brushing delicately against the brittle petals as if afraid they might disintegrate further under his touch.

You can’t help but notice the way his bouncy curls tumble into his face, almost concealing the glint of his eyes, which seem to catch everything - even the details you always somehow miss.

His name escapes you, slipping away like so many other details lost in the haze, but his face - his face is always there, a constant amid the swirling fog that clouds your thoughts. Somehow, through the blur of forgotten moments, he remains a steady presence, a fixed point in a world that often feels untethered.

You blink, trying to place him. He’s in there, somewhere. You can feel him. He’s in yellow. The others are always in white, bland and so stark, but his shirt is always yellow. Yellow, your favourite, you think.

There’s something achingly familiar about him, a sense of recognition that hovers just beyond your grasp.

There’s a quiet reassurance in him, like the echo of a memory you can almost, but not quite, reach. He coaxes a smile from your thin lips. You can feel the corners of your mouth lift, a slow, tentative motion, as if your muscles are relearning the gesture. The sensation is strange - your skin stretches in unfamiliar ways, and your face aches with the effort.

"Haaa-veee," you murmur, sounding out the name like you’re trying it on for the first time.

Your eyes drift down to the tag pinned neatly above his breast. Hello, my name is Javi, it reads, and just beneath it, a little smiling sun sticker beams up at you, its cheerful simplicity somehow cutting through the swampy fog in your mind.

There’s something about the image - so unassuming, so optimistic in it's holographic glimmer - that tugs more of a smile from your lips.

"Yes. I am Javi," he replies warmly, his lips curving into a smile of his own that feels genuine and unhurried.

There’s something calming about the way he stands there, not rushing, not pushing for answers, just letting the moment settle between the two of you. His voice is soft but carries a sense of assurance, like he's been through this before, like he's used to being remembered only in fragments.

The room settles into a soft silence once more, broken only by the gentle rustle of withering petals as they shift with his movements. You find yourself pondering how many times you’ve uttered his name before, or how often he’s graced you with that disarming smile when you did. The specifics blur like watercolours running together, each detail fading into the turpentine as it strips it all away.

Yet, curiously, those particulars seem less significant than the warmth of the connection that lingers between you. It feels tangible, almost electric, a fleeting yet profound thread binding you together in this moment - reminding you that somehow, the details don’t seem as important.

It feels like you know him. He has a face that makes you smile and doesn’t frighten you.

"Good morning, señorita," Javi says, cradling the vase gently against his broad chest. His voice is light, playful, and it pulls you out of your thoughts, if only for a moment. "Breakfast, I think, yes?" he asks, tilting his head slightly as he waits for your response.

You nod, though there’s a flicker of uncertainty. Are you hungry? You can’t remember if you’ve eaten already today. Maybe you have, maybe not - it’s hard to tell. The days confuse you like that sometimes.

The sound of squeaking wheels cuts through the room, and you watch as a trolley is pushed in. Javi busies himself with the vase, carefully placing it on the table with a soft thud. His fingers skim the wilting petals again, his brow creasing as he studies the dried-out flowers.

"Oh dear," he sighs, almost to himself, "too much sun and not enough water for the crocus, I think."

Without thinking, you mutter, "No such thing as too much sun," but the words feel distant, as though they belong to someone else. Your lips don’t quite feel like your own as they form the sentence, like they’re moving on their own accord.

Javi freezes for a moment, then his face lights up with a broad, delighted grin. "That's right!" he exclaims, clapping his hands together in an enthusiastic burst of approval.

His joy is infectious, and before you realise it, a laugh escapes your mouth. It’s a crackled, sweet sound, the kind that feels unfamiliar but comforting, almost like it’s coming from a part of you that hasn’t been touched in a long time. Delicate, easily torn. Your laughter feels all gummy around your tongue, your smile wide and easy, and for just a second, everything feels lighter.

Javi beams at you, as if your laughter is the best thing he’s heard all day, and in that small moment, the wilting flowers, the fading memories, and the fog in your mind all seem to recede.

"Let's see now, oh, dios mio! We have a feast this morning!" (My god) Javi announces cheerfully as he positions the trolley right in front of you.

He pulls the lid off each dish with a bit of flair, revealing eggs, golden pastries, yoghurts, fresh fruit, and something else - something that smells both tart and sweet, the scent so familiar that it makes your eyes light up. You can almost taste it in the air before you even see it - dusted with powdered sugar and topped with glossy, ruby-red fruit. The smell wraps itself around you, pulling you back to a place you can’t quite name but feel deep in your bones.

"Is that-?" you begin, the words catching in your throat as the scent envelops you.

It lingers at the edges of your memory, teasing you with its familiarity. The sweetness, the warmth - it brings with it a sense of ease, of laughter that flows effortlessly, of sunlight warming your skin as you throw your head back without a care in the world.

"French toast!" Javi coos, as though he’s revealing a treasure, his hands deftly tucking a napkin into the collar of your blouse with the care of someone who’s done this many times before.

You can almost feel it now - yourself, younger, lighter, sitting at a small café table, the air thick with the smell of fresh bread and cinnamon, your hands cradling a cup of coffee as the world bustles around you.

You remember the sound of laughter - yours, carefree and unburdened - and the way your fingers would brush over the edges of the plate, collecting a bit of powdered sugar that had fallen onto your dress.

You smile softly. "Gosh, I haven't had French toast since..."

"Since 1992. At least, authentic French toast," Javi interrupts, his voice gentle yet certain, weaving through the air like a soft melody.

His smile holds a knowing quality, like a cherished secret he’s delighted to share with you as you look at him in wonder. "Paris, if I’m not mistaken," he continues, his eyes sparkling with the joy of the memory. "Le Petit Café. Montmartre. You had it with a raspberry compote. Your favourite."

As he speaks, your mind flutters, trying to catch hold of the image in your butterfly net he conjures. You can almost see the cobblestone streets of Montmartre, the golden glow of sunlight filtering through the leaves of the trees lining the sidewalk. You can hear the distant laughter of patrons, the clink of cutlery against porcelain, and the low murmur of conversation that dances around the cosy café.

You’re there, you can feel it as you smile at the plate. Sipping your café au lait on the sun-drenched terrace, you savour the warmth of the morning sun. The air is rich with the scent of fresh pastries, and the decadent melodies of distant conversation. As you relish your French toast, you glance up and catch sight of a man across the street.

It’s the kind of smile that teases the edges of something thrilling, as though in this moment, time itself might pause, and you could slip away with him into something frivolous. A whirlwind romance, perhaps - of stolen kisses in shadowed corners, laughter spilling recklessly as rain drenches both of you in the streets of the city of love.

He leans casually against a lamppost, dressed simply yet stylishly, with tousled curls that dance in the gentle breeze. The sunlight catches his aquiline features, creating a soft halo around him that gives him an almost ethereal quality. For a fleeting moment, your heart quickens as his eyes lock onto yours, your breath stolen from your lungs.

He smiles, as if he’s holding onto a delightful secret that you’re just about to uncover.

You remember standing beside him, fingers intertwined, the air thick with the promise of forever, though even then, perhaps, you knew nothing lasts. Still, the memory remains, even if the details have begun to slip through your grasp.

You can almost feel it - his skin, golden from the sun and warm under your touch, the subtle rise and fall of his breath as you press your nose against his neck, inhaling that familiar, intoxicating scent. Sea salt lingers in his skin too; heights that are jumped from hand-in-hand, cliff faces, splashes and giggles. Wild euphoria.

The soft glow of the afternoon sun filtering through half-drawn curtains, casting light pools on wrinkled bed sheets tangled beneath the both of you.

There’s the echo of laughter, intimate and carefree, punctuated by the rhythm of hands and lips and the headboard creaking - a love spoken in many languages that feels weightless and eternal. The last sunset you watched together flickers at the edges of your mind - golden light sinking slowly below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues that seem to blur now, like that watercolour paint bleeding into paper.

He holds your gaze for just a second longer, and you sense a shared understanding, a fleeting recognition that transcends words. Like he, too, can see your chapters together writing themselves in the air above you. Then, with a playful grin, he lifts his coffee cup in a silent toast before turning to walk away, disappearing amongst the crowd.

You blink, your heart fluttering with something unnameable, but as the throng of people swirls around him, his figure begins to blur. He melds into the lively parade of tourists and locals, each person absorbed in their own narratives, and suddenly, he’s just another face lost among the bustling streets of Paris.

You strain to recall his features, they slip away like sand through your fingers, leaving only an inexplicable sense of longing. The vibrant city feels both alive and distant now, a romantic kaleidoscope of colours and sounds that vibrate around you, yet the image of him remains just out of reach, like a dream you’re struggling to remember less and less each day you wake.

Yet, just as quickly as the memory rises, it slips away with the taste, leaving you with only the warmth of Javi’s smile and the echoes of his words.

"Raspberry compote," you murmur, letting the syllables roll off your tongue as if trying to anchor yourself to the moment.

It feels significant, somehow - a thread connecting you to a past that exists just out of reach, woven together by the richness of experience and the gentle guidance of someone who remembers.

"Yes," Javi nods, his expression encouraging. "You loved it. It was a special day, full of laughter and sunshine. You wore that yellow dress with the white polka dots."

"I had a polka dot dress?" you inquire, the thought seeming almost absurd, as if it belongs to someone else’s story rather than your own.

"Yes," Javi chuckles, the sound warm and inviting, wrapping around you like a favourite blanket. "You had it just above your knees back then, scandalous.” He titters. “A cheerful yellow. It is your favourite colour.”

“It is?” You ask, flummoxed.

"I’ll share a little secret, mi sol," (my sun) he leans in conspiratorially, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "It’s my favourite colour, too." Javi smiles.

"Yell-ow," you muse, letting the word linger on your tongue like a drop of honey. “I like… yellow. And raspberry compote. And Javi.” You beam.

The sun warms your skin as you savour the first bite of French toast, its texture pillowy and light. A dollop of raspberry compote glistens atop, the tartness contrasting beautifully with the sweetness of the bread. You can taste the delicate balance of flavours, the way the warmth of the dish complements the coolness of the berries.

"Precisely!" Javi exclaims, nodding enthusiastically, his expression brightening even further. "Now," he says, his voice light as he carefully slices into the French toast, cutting it into neat, bite-sized squares.

He holds up a forkful, offering it to you with a gentle smile. "Today is another very special day. Do you know what day this is?"

But his question lingers in the air, pulling you back into the present, even as the memories and the taste swirl together. What day is it? You think hard, the answer just out of reach, hovering like a foreign word on the tip of your tongue. You try to grasp at it, but it slips away, lost in the haze that clouds so many things now.

You chew slowly, savouring the taste, and a quiet moan escapes your lips, the pleasure of it almost overwhelming. It’s as if the flavours unlock something deep inside - a feeling of comfort, of familiarity, of being cared for.

Of mornings spent with French toast served to you on a floral plate by strong hands and a smile as blinding as the sun. Crocus flowers gifted in a vase. A cardigan placed neatly on your shoulders, a kiss pressed to your cheek and temples. Walking with arms linked, your body wrapped up in a soft towel, and dancing. Always dancing.

Javi watches you closely, not rushing, giving you time. His presence is calm, steady. Finally, you shake your head slightly, not trusting your voice.

He doesn't seem disappointed, only nods with that same understanding smile. "It’s alright," he says gently, cutting another piece of toast. "It’s Wednesday. The second of April. But more importantly..." He pauses, his eyes searching yours, as though willing you to remember, though he never forces it. "It’s the day we always have French toast together," he continues.

"We do?" you ask, the words hesitant, fragile, as though you’re unsure of their weight.

Javi’s smile softens as he responds, "Yes, mi sol. We always have it on Wednesdays."

He holds out another piece of French toast, patiently waiting for you to take it, as though this ritual - this simple act of feeding and sharing food - could somehow bring clarity.

"I can't... remember," you whisper after swallowing, the words sticking in your throat, thick with frustration and sadness. It's like trying to grasp at smoke, the harder you reach, the quicker it slips away.

You chew slowly, each bite feeling heavier than the last, the sweetness of the compote doing little to mask the dull ache of something missing, something lost. A hollow space where memories should live.

But they’re not there - at least, not fully. They flicker, shadows at the edge of your consciousness, close but just out of reach.

A dry cough escapes you, and before you can react, Javi is already there - handing you a glass of water, his fingers brushing lightly against yours. His touch is warm, grounding, though your own hand trembles as you take the glass.

You sip slowly, feeling the cool liquid slide down your throat, but it doesn’t wash away the heaviness.

“You’re alright, mi sol. Just drink, slowly. Breathe.” He reassures.

As your fingers grip the glass, another memory bursts to life, sudden and sharp. Not yours, but his - his sickness. The smell of antiseptic fills your mind. You see his pale, sweaty skin, feel the way his body convulsed as he coughed and retched, helpless in your arms. The image is vivid - the sterile hospital corridor, the muted beeping of machines, the tubes that surrounded him, keeping him alive.

You remember your own hand stroking his back in slow circles, trying to soothe him, trying to calm him, telling him to breathe too, though terror had already settled deep within you.

His fingers had gripped yours so tightly, as though letting go would mean something irreversible. His eyes, wide and terrified, had locked onto yours, pleading without words as they wheeled him down the corridor. Wheeled him away from you.

He hadn’t wanted to let go, and neither had you.

The glass trembles in your hand as the memory fades, leaving behind a cold, hollow silence. You blink, but the weight of that moment lingers, pressing against your chest. You glance up at Javi, who watches you with an unreadable expression - calm, steady, as if waiting for you to find your way back to him.

The memory sharpens - his eyes, watery and desperate, disappearing behind the doors as the metallic hum faded away. And then, the sound of your own voice, cracking with wails and screams, when he wouldn’t wake up. When you couldn’t pull him back.

When you couldn’t say goodbye.

"It’s alright," he murmurs softly, brushing a stray curl away from his face. "You don’t have to remember everything. That’s what I’m here for." His words wrap around you, offering a comfort you can’t quite grasp but are grateful for nonetheless.

"Haaa-veeee. Javi." You smile up at him. The sun seems to shine from him, casting a glow that makes everything else seem less heavy. "Javi. My sunshine man," you murmur, and the words come easily, as though they've always belonged to him.

Javi's smile deepens as he gently wipes at your lips with a napkin, his touch light and careful.

"Yes. That is me," he says with a playful warmth, and with a soft laugh, he boops your nose with the napkin and it pulls a giggle from you. "Come on now, eat up," he encourages, nodding toward the last few bites on the plate. "I have a great day planned ahead of us, mi sol."

Your eyes widen in surprise, the excitement bubbling up inside you. "You do?"

"Yes!" Javi grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief and promise. "We’re going on an adventure today."

Your heart skips a beat at the word, your curiosity piqued. "Where?" you ask, your voice filled with childlike wonder.

Javi leans in slightly. "Ah, well, that’s part of the surprise. But I can tell you this: there will be ice cream." He winks, and the sparkle in his eyes feels contagious, lifting your spirits.

"Ice cream?" you ask, the excitement rising in your voice. You watch as he jumps up and heads over to your closet. He rummages, searching through hangers.

"Of course," he chuckles. "What kind of adventure would it be without a little sweetness?"

"Do I like ice cream?" you ask, a touch of uncertainty in your voice.

Javi smiles warmly over his shoulder, without a hint of hesitation. "You love ice cream," he replies, his eyes soft with affection. "With chocolate sauce. Always with the chocolate sauce."

“A-ha!” He coos as he pulls an item from your closet. You look at it as he holds it up. A yellow dress with white polka dots.

His voice is so sure, so filled with certainty, that it feels like the truth - even if you can’t quite pull the memory forward yourself.

For a moment, you try to remember the taste, the cool sweetness of ice cream melting on your tongue, the rich chocolate sauce dripping down in velvety swirls. It’s faint, like a shadow in your mind, but Javi’s words make it feel real. You smile at him, trusting his certainty as your own.

You stare at it, the colour catching your eye, soft yet vibrant. It feels familiar, and yet it doesn’t. You tilt your head, studying the fabric, trying to make sense of the strange pull it has on you.

“Is that… mine?” you ask, your voice laced with genuine curiosity, as though the dress is a long-lost artefact from a life you’re not sure you lived. He steps closer, bringing it over, the faint scent of lavender clinging to it.

“Yes. Your favourite," Javi replies, his voice tender. “You used to wear it all the time. You said it made you feel like sunshine.”

You reach out tentatively to touch the pretty fabric, running your fingers over the soft cotton. There’s a flicker in the back of your mind - a flash of sunlight, laughter, the sensation of wind on your bare legs, and the feeling of warmth that wrapped around you whenever you wore it.

"Is it my birthday?" you ask, your voice carrying a quiet hopefulness.

For a brief second, you catch the way Javi’s smile dips - just a flicker, so quick it almost goes unnoticed. But you see it, and something in the air shifts, though only for a moment.

You can see the man smiling at you again from across the Parisian street. He’s so achingly beautiful.

"No," he says softly, his voice gentle but sure. "It’s not your birthday. But..." He pauses, his smile returning, this time softer, more thoughtful. "It is a very special day."

"A special day?" you echo, curious but uncertain.

"Yes," Javi replies, his eyes steady on yours, as if to anchor you in the moment. "A day just for us. For adventures, for smiles, and maybe even a little magic." He tilts his head slightly, his grin widening again. "Doesn’t that sound like something to celebrate?"

It’s hard not to feel comforted by his words, even if you don’t understand all of it. The fog in your mind feels a little less dense with him here, and whatever this special day is, you trust him.

"That sounds wonderful," you say, a smile blooming on your face.

"I thought it would," Javi replies with a playful wink. There's something in the way he looks at you - like he knows just how to make the heaviness feel lighter, how to fill the space between the forgotten and the remembered with little moments of joy.

And it is a joyful day, one that has you laughing so hard your chest tightens, the kind of laughter that steals the breath right from you, leaving you gasping in the most wonderful way.

There’s an ease to the day, a rhythm to it, as if time itself has bent to the shape of your happiness. The air feels different - crisp, yet soft around the edges, as though the universe is conspiring to keep you in this bubble just a little longer. The dress, light and airy against your skin, flutters with your movements, as if it too is caught up in the laughter.

The sun is high, warm against your skin, and the world feels light, almost weightless, as though nothing dark could ever touch this moment. You can hear your own laughter ringing out, bright and full, mingling with the breeze.

It’s a sound that seems to come from a time when everything was simple and pure, when joy was something you could reach out and physically hold in your hands as it stroked you back.

“Just like that! Let the music in your heart guide you!” he encourages, his eyes sparkling with delight, and you can’t help but laugh, the sound ringing out like a bell.

He said there would be magic, and it is indeed magical - the way he has you up on your feet again, twirling and spinning with him on the pier after the delicious ice cream he promised you; the wooden boards creaking beneath your weight.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a golden glow that dances upon the water, reflecting the light like scattered yellow diamonds. Each step feels as if you’re floating, your worries fading into the breeze as Javi pulls you closer, his laughter mingling with the sound of the waves crashing against the posts.

The world around you blurs into a kaleidoscope of colour as he twirls you - blues and yellows, the cerulean sky mixing with the sun-soaked wood, and in this moment, nothing else exists.

“Up there,” Javi nods towards the cliff face, its rugged edges glistening in the sunlight, a chalky challenge painted against the clear blue sky. “We’ll climb it.”

“I can’t climb that, not with these knees anymore,” you grumble, an edge of frustration lacing your voice.

“Just hold on tight,” he says, his tone playful yet reassuring. “I’ve got you.” You wrap your arms around his neck, feeling the strength of his embrace, and suddenly the daunting cliff doesn’t seem so intimidating.

But before you can voice another protest, Javi has already scooped you up into his arms, effortlessly lifting you as if you were weightless. You’re caught off guard, surprise bubbling up inside you, mingling with laughter.

The world tilts slightly as he starts walking, your heart racing not just from the unexpected lift but from the thrill of his unwavering confidence.

“How did you get so strong?” You ask admiring his arm around you and his shoulders, so broad.

“Years of practice,” he replies with a wink, a playful smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. “It won't be the last time I carry you up this cliff."

You chuckle, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. It’s moments like these that remind you, the memories fluttering back in, of the countless adventures you’ve shared, the way he’s always been your anchor, lifting you when the weight of the world felt too heavy to bear and navigate through on your own.

Soon, you’re both sitting on the edge, feet dangling with the ocean below and his arm is still around you keeping you steady and nestled into his side.

“You are just as beautiful as when I first laid eyes on you, mi sol.” Javi whispers to you, his hand gentle on your hip, but reassuring.

You turn to meet his gaze, and in his eyes, you see a flicker of something timeless - a spark that ignites a flutter in your chest. It's as if he can see beyond the weakened, wrinkly surfaces of you now, past the layers of forgetfulness and uncertainty that have settled in like dust.

And in his eyes, you’re not the old, forgetful crone you’ve become, but the young woman back in Paris, entranced by a man glowing like the sun, with chocolate curls and dark, excitable eyes that seemed to dance with life.

All the years slip away like shadows fading in the light, and you’re that spirited girl again - full of dreams, laughter, and who once danced through the streets of Montmartre, belly full of French toast and in love.

He takes your hand in his, and the touch feels both fragile and grounding - your fingers are once again papery and thin. The warmth of his presence is tinged with a quiet resignation as it settles between the both of you.

The world around you transforms; the cliff fades, the salty breeze becomes the fragrant Parisian air, thick with the scent of fresh croissants and blooming lilacs. You can almost hear the distant strains of an accordion playing a lively tune, the sound weaving through the air like a magical thread that pulls you into the past.

The cobblestone streets of Paris materialise in your mind, each stone a reminder of the adventures you shared with him - moments filled with spontaneous laughter, whispered secrets beneath the stars, and promises made with the enthusiasm only youth and love can muster.

“It is time,” Javi says, and though he smiles, the warmth doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which are clouded with a depth of emotion that makes your heart ache.

A sense of impending finality hangs in the air, heavy and charged. But you’re not afraid. You study him closely, searching for any hint of reassurance, and as you do, you can’t help but feel a deep sadness welling up within you.

“You look sad,” you say gently, your voice breaking the silence that feels almost sacred in its weight.

“I am sad because I am really going to miss you,” he replies, and the truth in his words hits you like a wave.

You can see it in the way his smile falters, a flicker of something deeper dancing in his eyes - a longing that mirrors your own.

“Are you not coming?” you ask, and his brow furrows slightly as if the very thought pains him.

“No, I can’t,” he murmurs, swallowing hard against the tide of emotion rising within you. “I have to stay here. But I will see you again soon.”

He shakes his head, and with that simple motion, your heart sinks. You feel the weight of his words pressing on your chest suffocating you.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, as if you’re being pulled in two different directions - between what you want and what you must accept.

Javi's hand lingers in yours, the warmth between you a fragile tether against the backdrop of the reality that looms ahead.

“But I don’t want to say goodbye,” you confess, your voice trembling as you grapple with the impending separation.

He holds your gaze, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face - sadness, acceptance, and a profound understanding.

“Neither do I. Each time we do, it does not hurt any less,” he admits softly, squeezing your hand with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “You have been my sunshine for such a long time.”

“Paris,” you murmur, the word slipping from your lips. “You were there in Paris. You've always been there with me, haven’t you?”

“Take me where?” you ask, a mix of curiosity and trepidation swirling within you.

“Yes,” Javi replies, his voice resonating with a depth that sends shivers through you.

"I... remember you, Javi. I remember that I love you. And that you love me, too." You say, and his eyes water, sparkly and big.

His hand cups your cheek delicately. “I have been equally waiting for this day, where you would remember again. And dreading this day, because I will take you forward myself.”

“To your next life,” he says, and the weight of his words hangs in the air, heavy yet shimmering with possibility.

His eyes hold yours, a deep well of understanding and promise, as if he’s offering you a glimpse beyond the veil that separates what is known from what lies ahead.

The thought sends a cascade of emotions through you - fear, excitement, and an overwhelming sense of inevitability. But more confusingly, peace.

“I will hold your hand all the way,” Javi says, his voice soft yet firm, an anchor amidst the uncertainty swirling around you. “There is nothing to be frightened of. It will be easy, painless. We can just watch the sunset together, like we used to.”

“My next life...” you echo, trying to grasp the enormity of what he’s saying.

You can feel your heart quickening, as though it understands something you don’t quite comprehend yet.

You turn your gaze to the horizon, where the sun dips low, a hue that bathes the world in a warm embrace.

“It’s really pretty. Golden,” you say, a smile blooming on your lips as the sky transforms into a canvas of vibrant oranges and soft pinks.

The colours dance together, a beautiful farewell to the day that has been indeed special. Javi helps you to your feet and stands beside you, his gaze fixed on the horizon too, and for a moment, you can’t tell if the colours of the sunset reflect in his eyes or if they're simply just a part of him.

He looks serene, with his name tag fluttering in the breeze on his yellow shirt, as if he’s found his place in this world; a guide, a carer, a husband... and you can’t help but feel a sense of gratitude wash over you.

“Thank you for this life, Javi,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, laden with emotion. “Thank you for loving me in every lifetime.”

He turns to you, his expression softening. “It has been an honour to share it all with you, mi sol. Every moment we’ve danced, every kiss we’ve shared, it’s all been magic.”

You nod, feeling the truth of his words resonate deep within you. Each shared experience, each memory, feels like a thread weaving your lives together, rich with laughter and love - gosh were you loved! - even amidst the struggles of losing him over and over.

“Even the hard moments?” you ask, seeking reassurance that the shadows were just as meaningful as the light.

“Especially those,” he replies, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “They taught us how to appreciate the sunshine that follows.”

The sun dips lower, long shadows stretching, and you feel that sense of peace enveloping you again.

“Close your eyes, mi sol,” Javi whispers, his tone soothing. “Take a nice long breath in and out, and then, we will jump, like we used to.”

You smile, allowing the corners of your lips to curve upward as you close your eyes, leaving yourself with the final image of him - his dark curls catching the fading light, his smile radiant, as bright as the sun.

“Will you find me there, Javi?” You ask, blindly.

“I’ll always find you.” He promises. You feel him press a kiss to the back of your hand.

Nodding, you take a deep breath. The air fills your lungs, cool and refreshing - expanding. You hold it for a moment, savouring the beauty of the life you’ve shared, the laughter, the love, the adventures that have painted your existence in vibrant colours.

All the shades of stunning yellow. Golden.

The last thing you remember is Javi Gutierrez - the man who loves you in every lifetime - standing across the street in Paris, smiling fondly at you.

Then, slowly, you release it, letting go of all the worries, the uncertainty, the foggy shadows that have clouded the edges of your mind.

You wonder where he’ll be in the next life. How he’ll come to you again. How he’ll love you again. How he’ll take your hand and lead you into the afterlife again. You giggle and he laughs with you.

And then, you jump.