Chapter 5

On the walk back, Julian tried to take my hand.

"I was out of line earlier. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that." A pause. "But I need you to understand — I was just trying to be a decent guest. All that fuss in the kitchen was nothing. Come on." He gave my fingers a small pull. "We'll get rid of the viewing, call the agent, take the flat off the market. Yeah?"

I pulled my hand away.

"Julian." I looked at him properly. "Do you think I'm joking?"

"Since you insist on coming with me, fine — this works out. Come back and get your things out of my flat."

When soft and hard both failed to move me, he got irritated.

"Sophie, isn't this a bit much? We're together. You don't just — make unilateral decisions about where you're living without talking to me first."

I almost laughed.

"You decided to go on a research trip to Sydney without mentioning it, let alone asking me. You didn't even tell me it was happening. But now you're policing my decisions?"

"That's completely different." His voice climbed. "I was still in the application process — nothing was confirmed. I wasn't trying to hide it, I was trying to protect you from overthinking before there was anything to think about."

Something flooded up from somewhere deep.

"Stop making excuses. You get a first-class scholarship every year. You always knew you'd get in."

I held his gaze. "You never factored me into any of your plans. So I'm taking you out of mine."

Julian blinked. When he spoke again, something had gone quiet in him. "What does that mean?"

We reached the flat before he could get an answer.

He stepped inside and stopped.

On the coffee table: the matching Christmas scarves we'd picked out together last winter. Our Disney photo, framed. The jacaranda snow globe. A dozen small things — a year's worth of ordinary, unmistakable us, collected and left out like evidence.

All of it for him to take.

He looked at it, and something moved across his face that he couldn't quite hide.

"You don't want any of it?"

"No."

"Where are you going?"

"Work transfer. São Paulo."

He let out a short, incredulous sound.

"Sophie. Is this a game? Are you trying to get me to cancel my trip?"

"Because we sorted all of this out. We were fine."

That night, I packed Julian's things into a cardboard box and left it outside my front door.

Three days of silence.

What he didn't know: the day his flight to Sydney departed, mine to São Paulo was scheduled at the same time. London to São Paulo is one of the longest routes in the world — nearly thirty hours of air travel halfway around the planet.

I was nervous. Of course I was. But underneath the nerves was something lighter — something that felt, unmistakably, like relief.

Once I landed, I'd call him properly. End things the right way.

Then a cyclone over the southern Pacific veered off course and hit the eastern seaboard. Julian's flight was delayed.

He called when I'd just cleared security.

"Sophie, maybe this is the universe giving me a second chance." His voice was unsteady. "Can we see each other? I don't want to take this mess abroad with me."

I scanned the departures hall.

In a restaurant nearby, a couple sat by the window — young, laughing, sharing a set meal. There was a promotional banner on the wall: For Two, Always.

And through the glass, I could see Julian. He saw me at the same moment.

Before he could speak, I said, quietly, "There's nothing to fix. Enjoy your dinner." And I ended the call.

He came through the restaurant doors and onto the concourse.

"Sophie — it's not what you think. Celia wanted the gift they were giving away with the set meal. I was just keeping her company."

Then he saw my suitcase.

The colour left his face.

"Where are you going?"

He looked around — only then registering that we were standing in the international departures terminal.

"You're actually going to São Paulo?"

He stared at me. "Work means that much to you?"

I nodded. "You said it yourself, Julian. Career comes first."

The boarding announcement came over the speaker.

He grabbed the handle of my suitcase and wouldn't let go. His eyes were red at the edges. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight with something that sounded almost like rage — but wasn't.

"Sophie — if this is really goodbye, then I'll go to Celia. I'll start something with her."

He exhaled. "She told me how she felt, half a year ago. The day you came back to me. I turned her down. But I don't have to."

I looked at him for a moment.

Then: "Go ahead."

His eyes went cold and still.

"That's on you," he said. "Don't regret it."