Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The apartment is strange today. My suitcases are wide open—one in the living room, the other in my bedroom. I’ve been chipping away at packing all day. The girls offered to help, but I want to do it alone.
I pause over my I Heart London mug. It’s coming with me, but putting it away feels like boxing up yet another memory.
It reminds me of my last move from university. Watching my space slowly fade back into a plain double room in Krise Hall—one I’d never set foot in again. Like erasing a piece of your life until it’s no longer yours. You can’t access it anymore. It’s someone else’s turn.
The living room and kitchen already look like I was never here. The suitcase is overflowing with stuff. Some I didn’t even realize I’d bought, some from home I never took out. Oh, the joys of packing.
Normally, I’m an exceptional packer. I make reusable lists that live in my suitcase. I’m so organized I can afford to unpack on a week-long vacation because I know how and where everything will go afterward.
This is different, though. I didn’t realize how settled I’d become until now—with all my things out of sight. I sit on the suitcase and lean my weight into it until the zipper glides closed.
Now for the room I’ve been dreading: the bedroom. Keeper of all mementos.
I tried to start here earlier, but I gave up the second I found his t-shirt. (Yes, the same one I found a week ago that I kept in case he showed). It’s lying on my bed, staring me down.
I can do this, I tell myself.
I take it in my hands, scrunching the soft white fabric between my fingers. His scent lingers faintly—clean, earthy, and so undeniably him. What used to feel like comfort is now nothing more than a residual smell in an old tee.
I should throw it away.
I glance at the discard pile by the foot of the bed.
Just throw the t-shirt, I think.
No can do, battles my heart.
I exhale loudly but fold it and place it gently in the suitcase.
Everything in here holds a piece of the last three months.
On my bedside table, I find the welcome folder from my first day.
The umbrella Harrison bought still hangs on the back of my door.
I won’t need it back home, but I pack it anyway.
In the pocket of my coat, I find a contact card for the fish and chips place we first went to. The corner is stained with grease.
While folding the last little bit of clothing, I come across a shoebox from the shopping spree.
My breath catches when I open it. No heels inside.
Instead, it’s now the home of the disposable cameras from our tourist day and the notes we left for each other at The Anchor.
All neatly stacked, bound by a black hair tie.
I hold one of his notes. The feeling of his handwriting under my fingertips makes something inside me ache—and then settle.
I’m not going to text him. I’m not going to call. I’m going to write him one last letter.
For me.
I slide the welcome folder from under a pile of clothes and tear out a blank page. My mind instantly goes into overthinking mode. I quiet it as much as I can. Grab a pen.
One draft. No rewriting. It’s only fitting to finish it as it started.
Dear Josh,
By the time you get this letter, London, you and everything that happened here will be miles away. I know things didn’t end up how we hoped. But that’s okay. I think.
I wanted to be angry. I really did. I just can’t. Because, putting aside the past couple of weeks, I have so much to thank you for.
You’ve reminded me of who I was. Who I am. You gave me back that confidence I’d lost long ago. You’ve been like a breath of fresh air just when I thought I was out of oxygen.
I’m not fully healed. We both know I’ve got a long way to go—to trust again, to live without flinching at the idea of it. But every day, I feel a little better.
You told me once you never gave up on love, not even after what happened. And now I know I don’t want to give up on it either. Maybe my life won’t look like a movie, but I’ll keep chasing that happily ever after.
It’s hard to imagine I’ll ever feel this way about someone again. Maybe we’re the typical ‘right person, wrong time’ cliché. Whatever it is, I’m glad I lived it.
Take care of Tony. I know you already do, but now that you’re working again, make time for him. That man loves you more than you know.
Thank you, Josh. For everything.
J. Thomas.
PS. I can now report back on how helpful it is to move across the world to get over someone. You’d think it worked. The person I came here to forget is long gone.
Now I just have something else to let go of.
I draw a small hourglass at the bottom of the page.
Talk about closure.
My morning is wild. It’s finally Monday. My flight leaves at two p.m. from Heathrow, and I need to be there at least three hours before.
I wake up earlier than I have in years—probably not since I left high school—to make sure that I’m not forgetting anything on my list.
Last night, I scheduled a taxi to take me into town and then to Terminal 5. It’s expensive, but it beats dragging two overstuffed suitcases across cobblestone paving.
The driver is right on time, which I’m grateful for. I used to love flying. I’m not sure when I became the nervous traveler I am today, always panicked that I’ll miss my flight.
I ask him to park in the side alley. He gives me a strange look but does it anyway.
The Anchor is quiet in the early morning. Tony’s already got the coffee machine going, the aroma surrounding you the second you step inside. A few regulars are getting their fix before heading off to their respective cubicles.
He looks up at me, his expression one of surprise and confusion.
“Hi, Tony,” I say, sliding into my usual stool—the one where all the notes were written, back when.
“Ms. Julia,” he frowns, giving me a once-over like he’s trying to figure out why I’m in a sweat set instead of my usual office attire. “Shouldn’t you be at work? Is everything okay?”
“I’m not going to work,” I begin, trying to soften the blow. “I’m heading to the airport.”
His frown deepens. He turns around toward the wall clock with the date beside it.
“What?” he says, puzzled. “Don’t you still have one more week?”
“I did. But I realized I was going to need some time to adjust, and I had nothing left to work on anyway.”
“Does Josh know?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“No. I haven’t spoken to him in over a week.”
Tony runs his hand through his hair—a stressed-out gesture I’ve never seen from him before. Something’s off.
“He’s been out of the country and… Are you sure this is what you want?”
He definitely knows something that I don’t.
“What’s going on?” I press. “You’re acting awfully suspicious, and I don’t have long.”
“He’s been gone for work since Sunday. I don’t know where exactly or what’s going on, and what I do know I can’t really share,” he says, apologetically. It clearly pains him to keep another secret that isn’t his to tell.
“Yeah, yeah,” I try to brush it off. I don’t want Tony feeling bad for someone else’s choices. “I’ve gotten used to it. Everything around him is confidential these days. It’s probably better that it stays that way.”
“I’m sorry, Julia. I wish I could do more,” he offers an apology. “Are you sure you’re ready to go back home? He was supposed to get back today.”
“Maybe it’s for the best that he left. Helped me realize I have a life I need to continue—outside of him,” I say. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll cherish everything I experienced here. I’ll never forget it. But it’s time to let him go.”
I glance around the bar one last time. My old memories of pool nights have been replaced with new ones. Our booth sits empty.
“I don’t think he’s letting you go.”
I turn back and pull out an envelope from my purse. Josh is scribbled on the front.
“One last note,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. “More of a letter, really. Maybe this will help him. Will you give it to him?”
“Of course. The minute he’s back, this will be in his hands. I’ll make sure he knows you stopped by.”
I nod, feeling the heaviness of another goodbye. This might be the hardest one yet.
“I have to go. My taxi’s waiting.”
He comes around the bar and wraps me in a short but meaningful hug.
“I hope we see each other again someday,” he whispers. He pulls out his waiter’s notepad and writes something on the front before tearing it off. “Here. Now you can email me about your American life whenever you want. I’ll be expecting it.”
“I will. I’ll make sure I send you pictures of everywhere I go from here,” I tell him. And I mean it—this time, I’ve found people worth keeping in touch with.
“Thank you, Tony.”
The most stressful part of catching a flight is, hands down, getting through security. I’ve got everything neatly packed away in my purse—liquids already zipped into their little plastic bag, laptop out and ready—determined to make this process as painless as possible.
Still, the people behind me are nudging my bins forward while I’m mid-shoelace bend. I manage to put them in my tray just in time.
I step into the full-body scanner—the one where you have to raise your arms up like you’ve been caught robbing a bank—and thankfully, I’m cleared as a non-threatening individual.
Unlike everyone else who seems to think it’s a great idea to hold up the line and stuff their personal belongings back into their bags, I grab my tray and move to one of the side tables.
The stress of making it on time slowly dissipates until it’s gone completely by the time I settle in on the seats in front of my gate.
I guess I shouldn’t say it’s gone. Now it’s questions. The ones I thought I’d buried when I woke up this morning, clear-eyed and certain. But Tony has inadvertently brought all my doubts back. Is Harrison planning something I’m about to miss out on because I chose to run away?
Ah. There it is. The phrase that’s been circling like a vulture over every decision I’ve made in the past week. Run away.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought before it can bloom into something stickier. That’s enough overthinking.
I reach into my bag and pull out my current read, Deadly Steps, determined to figure out who the killer is before the protagonist does. I’m one paragraph in, and I’m hooked. My shoulders relax as I get lost in the pages of the thriller.
I pull out my pencil and start sketching possible theories inside the back cover. Only two books have ever pulled off a twist big enough to fool me.
The first boarding call comes and goes. The line snakes around the seating area but moves surprisingly fast. In case you’re wondering: I’m the kind of person who waits until everyone’s boarded to avoid the human traffic jam. We have assigned seats anyway.
Once the last person queues up, I pack away my book and check my phone. Just a message from Emma, full of exclamation marks and airport countdowns. Still nothing from Harrison.
The final boarding call echoes through the terminal, and I realize I’ve been frozen in place for the last two minutes.
This is it.
Am I really doing this? Should I turn around and go find him?
I glance at the screen, flashing for last-minute passengers in angry red letters.
A big part of me wants to chase that ache to fight for something—for someone.
But I don’t.
He didn’t fight for me like he said he would.
Maybe he should have.
Maybe I should’ve too.
It’s too late now.
I board the plane. My empty window seat sticks out in the blur of boarding chaos. The air is cranked up, a steady white noise washing out the chatter. I buckle in, leaning my head against the cool plane.
It’s crazy to think it’s over. Just like that.
Three months in London, and now, in eleven hours, I’ll be back on American soil, in sunny Los Angeles. Back to my old life.
The plane rumbles down the runway, and my heart picks up right with it. I stare out the small round glass, watching as London fades away beneath my feet until the only thing left to look at is the blanket of grey clouds.
My reflection stares back at me—a faint silhouette in the window. I don’t look like the same homesick girl who arrived here.
My eyes have something new sparkling in them, something fierce. And now that I’ve noticed, I can feel it. A new kind of strength that’s enough for me to pursue my dreams.