Chapter 3

The whole drive back to his flat was silent.

I couldn't think straight.

My knee knocked against the shoe rack as I stepped inside and I hissed in pain, eyes watering.

"You're going to Sydney for a year?" I finally said.

"Nothing's confirmed yet. And even if the application goes through, it won't be until next term." He crouched down and rubbed my knee, his voice gentle. "Either way, it's only a year. I'm not staying permanently. Sophie — we've made it through four years long-distance, haven't we?"

Four years long-distance.

He said it so easily.

I thought of the train tickets crammed into my travel wallet — every single journey I'd made between Bristol and London over the years.

And him? I could count on one hand the number of times he'd come to me instead.

When I'd been chasing every London job lead I could find, just to be closer to him — he'd been studying for IELTS.

When I'd been furnishing a flat and planning what our future might look like — he'd been researching the cost of living in Sydney.

I looked at him. "You're already planning to go with Celia. What makes you think I'd wait?"

His brow furrowed. "Sophie. She's a colleague. I don't understand why you always take it this far with Celia. This exchange is a serious academic opportunity — we're both people who care about our careers. I don't know what you're imagining, but whatever it is—"

He paused, then added, quieter: "You used to pass along love letters to me for other girls in sixth form, and you never made a thing of it. When did you become so paranoid about everything?"

Something ignited.

"Friends and girlfriends aren't the same thing!" I shouted, and my voice came out louder and uglier than I meant it to.

Julian looked at me for a long moment.

"I've been thinking," he said at last, his tone dropping to something very still, "that maybe we're better off as friends."

He was completely calm. "I've been exhausted with the application materials and the research. I don't want to argue about this. Let's take some time apart — cool down, both of us."

Just like that, Julian ended things.

For the first month, the sky every morning looked grey.

There was a physical weight to it — a tightness in my chest, a blunted hunger that made eating feel pointless. The air was like a constant sting behind the eyes.

I stopped checking social media. I dropped out of every group chat where I might accidentally hear his name. I cut off every channel that might carry news of him.

Then one night, coming home late after a long shift, my phone rang.

Mum.

"Did the package of oranges arrive? I sent a whole box."

I looked at the box sitting by the door — nearly waist-high. "Mum. It's too many. Don't send more."

"Give some to Julian! You're practically around the corner from his university."

She was off before I could stop her.

"I heard from Patricia — Julian's seeing someone. The girl sounds lovely. Tall, bright, great fun at parties." A brief pause, then: "You really should be meeting someone too, sweetheart. When are you going to bring someone home?"

I don't remember how I ended the call.

It was past midnight. I grabbed a bag of oranges, left the flat, and marched to Julian's without thinking.

He answered the door looking exactly the same — fresh haircut, effortlessly good-looking. As though nothing had happened.

"Don't listen to my mum," he said at once. "Celia just needed someone to show her around Bristol when she was visiting friends. I played tour guide for half a day. That's all it was."

He'd clearly been expecting this. Expecting me to hear about it, to crack, to come to him.

And when he took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders — I let him. I wrapped my arms around him and said quietly, "You were right. One year's nothing."

We'd barely got through the door before he pushed me against the wall and kissed me like he was starving.

Later, lying in the dark, I watched him sleep.

The heat and the dizziness cleared from my thoughts, leaving something very cold and very steady behind.

Long-distance had always meant arguments. And Julian had always been used to me backing down first.

But this time, I hadn't come to save what we had.

I'd come to do the opposite — one last close encounter before leaving, to make sure there was nothing left to miss.

I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could.

And replied to the email that had been sitting unanswered in my inbox for weeks:

Dear Sophie — we'd like to confirm your placement at the São Paulo branch for one year. Do you accept?

Yes.