Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Everything is too loud. The silence is deafening. The chirps from the birds outside resonate like a fire alarm. The sun shining through my bedroom window is so bright it annoys me. How dare it come out when I need the darkness the most?
After hanging up with Emma, the only logical response was to get rid of the achiness with a warm shower and an aggressively long nap. Naturally, the universe had other plans.
The water stays warm until I have shampooed my hair—the moment of no return—and then it decides to freeze on me. I yelp and jump out, slipping once and nearly dying. I finish rinsing my head in the sink like a child.
Back in my room, I reach for my pajamas, and my hand lands on his t-shirt. The one he left the last night he stayed over. It still smells like him, and it throws me for a loop.
Curtains don’t help. I don’t even have blinds, just sheer panels that pretend to be useful.
There is not a single cloud in the sky blocking the sun, and it’s so vibrant it barely gets a hint darker.
I crawl under the blankets, head and all, but two minutes in, I’m sweating and gasping like I’m in a sauna with stuffy air and anxiety. How do people sleep like this?
I sigh, defeated. The only thing left is to lie still and wait for my body to give up. I grab my phone and open my socials.
A couple of weeks ago when we first hit the news, I had to turn off my notifications. For every single app. Then, I made everything private. Still not enough to keep the vultures away.
Friend requests keep coming. Hundreds of them each day. Some of them are gossip-thirsty randos. Others—well, they come with messages. The kind you wouldn’t wish upon your worst enemy.
Apparently, dating him was a felony punishable by psychological warfare.
Before today, I’d gone through deleting everything without a second glance. But right now? Right now, I’m sad enough to gravitate toward things that will make me feel worse.
@Lakesidedreamer: Nobody asked for you to enter the narrative. Could you please leave?
Check that off the list. Next.
@Justaubrey: What a pathetic excuse for someone trying to fake their way into something you clearly don’t—and will never—belong in.
Lovely to know I can incite these feelings in people without ever saying a word.
Why do they all think I’m faking it? I can’t lie with a straight face to save my life.
I keep scrolling. Same poison, different usernames. A few make me wonder where exactly we went wrong as a race to harbor such hate.
I’m almost to the end when I come across my undoing. A death threat disguised as fan mail.
@anonymoususer3765: Dear Julia, I hope everything is going well during your stay in our magical city of London.
I understand your want to get romantically involved with Joshua (who wouldn’t) and I didn’t mind it as much at the beginning since Emily was not in the picture.
Now that she’s back, you need to leave. I’m asking nicely.
Fans have been waiting for this reunion for a year, and I’m not going to let you take it away from us.
So, unless you want to be checking your back every second and double-locking your doors, I suggest (nicely) getting the fuck out before you have a terrible accident that lands you underground.
Anyways, have a lovely rest of your day, and hopefully you go back to your country soon enough. Fingers crossed!
What. The actual. Hell.
Name-calling? I can handle that. People commenting on my face? Whatever. Harrison taught me how not to care. They try to bring me down but only end up boosting me up.
But this?
This is too much.
I won’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they got to me. That they made me question my safety. My sanity. My place here.
I might have commitment issues, but I’m sure as hell not scared of a lonely woman on her laptop typing away threats like it’s her full-time job just to make herself feel better.
One by one, I log into each of my accounts and delete them until I’m merely a ghost in both his life and mine.
It’s time to take control back. They don’t get to narrate my story anymore.
But it’s a hard adjustment. No one tells you how much time you actually spend on social media until it’s gone. I try to read, but I’m not functioning enough to understand anything that’s happening. When I find myself rereading the same page for the fifth time, I call it quits.
I check my phone again, out of muscle memory, just to confirm there’s indeed nothing there. No new messages. No alerts.
It’s peaceful. And a little terrifying.
A small part of me wonders if I should’ve posted the messages instead of isolating myself from the rest of the world. Screenshot them. Blown them up for the everyone to see. Let them witness the bullying in high-def. Would they still defend these people if they saw the truth?
Unfortunately, I don’t think it would’ve changed much. Reporting their accounts, getting them deleted—none of it stops people like that. They grow back like weeds.
With nowhere else to turn, I open my messages and read over my conversation with Harrison. Would he answer if I texted him? His final message was cryptic enough to leave me wondering whether he still wanted us—or if he’d realized he was better off.
I still have so many questions. What happened to his dream of producing? Was joining the show ever about him, or was it always for me? Was he planning to sacrifice his own happiness for a version of us that was still in the works?
My fingers hover above the letters. I draft a dozen messages in my head, none of them good enough. Eventually, I decide it’s better to leave those questions unanswered—it would only do more damage.
Deep down, I already know what he’d say. Hearing it from him would only shatter the last fragile reason I’ve held onto for keeping him at a distance. And my decision is final. It has to be.
The week crawls.
On Monday, I told the girls everything over coffee. They didn’t ask questions. They pulled me into a hug, reassuring me if there was someone that could come out brighter on the other side, it was me. I didn’t believe them, but I appreciated the effort.
Since then, they haven’t brought it up.
Without me saying a word, my coworkers have been showing up in quiet, thoughtful ways—lunch invites, help with reports, even Lucy’s colorful updates on her latest conquests. (Not surprising: Charlie made the list.)
It’s been a distraction I didn’t realize I needed.
And it’s made me realize how much I’m going to miss them once I’m gone. I got lucky here. This team, this place. I only wish friendship could fix a broken heart.
Friday morning. Like every morning since he left, I check my phone.
Nothing.
It’s been almost a week. He said he’d give me space, so I wasn’t expecting anything. I’d just been holding out hope for the grand gesture—the kind that fixes everything.
The silence comes with a realization: if I really want a shot at moving on, I need to leave all of it behind. Every date, all the memories in this apartment and in his. The Anchor. Even London.
I open my laptop. This time it’s not to check headlines or search his name. I type out an email requesting a last-minute meeting with the head of the department and HR.
No more waiting around. I’ve finished all my projects. There’s nothing left for me to do here. Suddenly, the only thing I want is to be wrapped in Emma’s hug, under my own roof, in a city that knows how to feel like home.
They give me a thirty-minute window after lunch. It is a tight morning, tying up loose ends, making sure I’m ready.
When I arrive, Chris is waiting outside the conference room with a woman I recognize from around the floor—the HR liaison, I think.
“Hi,” I say, taking a seat in front of them. “Thanks for squeezing me in.”
“Of course,” Chris says. “What can we do for you?”
“Well… I know this is a bit unorthodox, but I was hoping to finish out my assignment by the end of this week. I’ve completed everything—projects, reports, deliverables. It’s all wrapped.”
They exchange a glance. Chris’s expression is mixed with concern.
“Is everything all right?”
“Everything here has been wonderful,” I say, my voice already threatening to break. “Your team’s incredible. They complement each other so well. You can trust that they’ll represent the brand just as well as we do in the States.”
“Are you sure you want to go? You only have one week left.”
I nod before he can say anything that will change my mind. I haven’t had much face time with Chris, but he’s always struck me as sincere.
“There are a few personal things I need to take care of back home,” I say carefully. “And I could really use the extra week. I understand if it’s not possible—I believe I still have some vacation days. Maybe I could use those.”
Chris turns to the woman. “If we clear it with the US office, can you have the paperwork ready?”
She opens her tablet, tapping and scrolling for a couple of tedious seconds. “Yes, I could have it done.”
He nods, turning back to me.
“Alright. I’ll have a chat with Jeff and let you know by the end of the day.”
I start to stand, but he speaks again.
“Ms. Thomas.”
I pause midway to the door. “It’s been a pleasure having you.
You’re an outstanding employee. I’m aware things got a little strange after your last meeting with Jeff, but whatever you decide—stay in this field or lean into photography, which, by the way, you have a real eye for—I want you to know, you’re going to go far. Be proud of your work. It’s excellent.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, trying not to tear up. “It means more than you know to hear that. I won’t forget it.”
“Call me Chris,” he dismisses. “If you ever want to come back, you know how to reach me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The confirmation comes through a couple of hours later. The team is still here, chatting away behind me. I swivel in my chair to face them.
“Can I request a team dinner tonight?” I ask, barely holding it together. “I’ll even have fish and chips if you want.”
“What’s going on?” Claire asks, immediately suspicious.
I sigh, “I’m going back home early.”
“How early?” Lucy asks.
“Today’s my last day,” I reply, focusing on a neon pink Post-it stuck to the wall like it might be the answer to my problems. “Hence, the dinner invitation.”
“I’ll cancel my plans,” Daniel states.
“Me too,” Lucy adds. “My next bad date can wait until.”
“I take back what I said about this being a good end to the week,” Henry mutters, wrapping me in an unexpected hug.
The rest of the afternoon turns into a rotating farewell tour. I bounce between them in 30-minute slots—except no one is annoyed, and they all fight to have me at their cubicle.
It’s wild how nervous I was walking in here that first day, and now I’m leaving people who feel like coworkers I’ve had forever.
“This sucks,” Lucy says later, taking another fry from the center basket. “I wish you would’ve come with a warning. I don’t like getting attached—”
“No, no, no,” I cut her off. “Don’t start moping, or I’ll start crying, and I’ve been doing so well.”
“Well, too bad! I have feelings!”
We all laugh, too shy to admit we are all thinking the exact same thing. This hurts more than we expected.
“We all have feelings,” Claire says, ever the voice of reason. “But let’s focus on the positive. Now we can take a holiday to visit her. I’ve always wanted to go to the States.”
“I’ve never had much interest,” James admits, “but I do now.”
“I’m sure it’s no London, but if you promise a celebrity house tour, I’m all in,” Oliver says, grinning.
We keep the rest of dinner as light as possible, avoiding any topics that might send Lucy—and truthfully me as well—over the emotional edge. We stay until the waitress has cleaned every other table but ours.
The goodbye is hard. We do our best to hold it together. The boys all puff up and pretend to be stoic, but we know better. Daniel especially.
Claire pulls me aside last.
“You’re sure about this?”
“It’s time,” I say, mustering up a smile. “It’ll be good to have the week off to adjust. Jet lag is no joke, and I want to settle in before I’m back in the office. It’s for the best.”
“This has nothing to do with a certain British actor?” she asks.
I lie, and I shake my head.
She narrows her eyes. “He hasn’t said anything since Sunday?”
“No,” I whisper. “It’s okay. I’m moving on. I’m leaving him here.”
She hums in a way that only Claire does—like she’s saving the truth for later.
“What if he calls?” she questions. “Will you pick up?”