Twenty Five
The Leap
AUSTIN
THREE WEEKS.
Twenty-one days.
Five hundred and four excruciating hours.
That’s how long it’s been since Mia tore my heart out and stomped all over it. Not that I’m counting.
And now, here I am, standing in the middle of a half-empty flat just outside of York;s city centre. I am surrounded by boxes and the distant, irritating sound of a car alarm that’s been going off for the past twenty minutes.
A perfect soundtrack to my new life.
The flat is . . . fine. That’s the best word for it. It’s not the sleek, modern London apartment I had before, the one where Mia used to curl up on my sofa and leave half-drunk cups of tea in places I wouldn’t find until days later.
No, this place is smaller—quaint, with creaky wooden floors that whisper under every step.
And the view? Straight into the windows of the building opposite, where an old lady has been watching me unpack with the kind of judgmental stare only decades of experience and a finely tuned bullshit detector can produce.
I’m renting this place until I find the perfect flat. Hopefully, that won’t take forever.
“New place, new start,” Callum had said, clapping me on the back like this was some kind of personal triumph rather than an elaborate escape plan.
Michael, ever the pragmatist, had merely raised an eyebrow. “York is a long way to run just to avoid bumping into Mia.”
I’d ignored them both. Because this isn’t about Mia.
It’s absolutely about Mia
I drop onto the lumpy sofa I bought off Facebook Marketplace letting out a long sigh.
It smells vaguely of someone else’s life choices, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that.
I left my old place in such a rush, all my stuff is still sitting in my flat in London.
The estate agent had called this place ‘charming’—which, in property terms, means ‘falling apart but in an expensive way.’ The walls are a little too bare, the furniture it did come with, a little too impersonal, and the whole place smells faintly of fresh paint and abandonment.
My phone buzzes. Callum, no doubt checking in to see if I’ve thrown myself into the River Ouse yet.
Callum: Settled in yet?
Me: Sure. If you count sitting on a questionable sofa and staring into the abyss as settled.
Callum: Excellent. That’s the proper moving-in experience. Have you christened the place yet?
Me: By crying into my whiskey? Yes.
Callum: By shagging someone in it, you tragic bastard.
I roll my eyes and toss my phone onto the coffee table. He means well, but the thought of being with someone else makes my stomach turn. My ‘heartbreak era,’ as Callum so helpfully calls it, is still in full swing.
Unpacking is a slow process. I work through one box, then another, until I find the one with the things I shouldn’t have brought.
A mug Mia used to steal from my kitchen.
A scarf she left in my car that still faintly smells like her vanilla perfume.
A stupid Polaroid of us, her nose scrunched mid-laugh as I whispered something stupid in her ear.
I should throw it away.
Instead, I shove it to the bottom of the box and push it under the bed.
Progress.
By the time evening rolls around, I’ve made a dent in the mess, though the flat still looks like a half-finished project. I make a cup of tea, standing by the window as I watch the world move on outside.
Mia would like York. The cobbled streets, the little independent bookshops, the way the city feels like it belongs to a different time. I wonder if she’s seen the picture Callum posted of me with that blonde at the gallery. If she cared. If she’s moved on already.
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. Probably my new neighbour, coming to introduce themselves and pretend they care about making small talk.
I brace myself, plastering on something that might pass for a polite smile, and open the door.
A woman stands there, she’s about my age and she is holding a plate of brownies. She is wearing an expression that says she’s probably done this before, for people who were much better at receiving kindness.
“Hi,” she says, shifting slightly. “I saw you moving in and thought I’d come say hello. Welcome to the building.”
I glance down at the brownies. They look homemade. I should probably say something friendly. Instead, I rub a hand over my face and sigh.
“Do they have alcohol in them?”
She blinks. “Uh, no?”`
“Shame.” I step aside. “You’d better come in anyway.”
She hesitates for a second—probably wondering if she’s about to be murdered—but then steps inside, placing the plate on my questionably stable coffee table.
Up close, she’s pretty in an effortless kind of way, all dark curls and warm brown eyes. She looks like someone who recycles properly and never forgets to pay her bills on time.
“I’m Fern, by the way,” she says, glancing around at the half-unpacked boxes. “Figured I should introduce myself since we’ll be seeing each other in the hallway.”
“Austin,” I reply, sinking onto the sofa. “And don’t worry, I’m very committed to the whole ‘avoiding eye contact with neighbours’ thing.”
She laughs, sliding her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “Good to know. So, what brings you to York? I’m assuming from your accent you aren’t from around here?”
I could lie. Say it was a change of scenery, or that I just really love overpriced rental properties and aggressive seagulls. Instead, I go with, “Heartbreak.”
Her eyebrows lift. “That honest, huh?”
“May as well be.” I gesture vaguely around the room. “It’s why this place looks like a depressing Airbnb.”
She studies me for a second, then sits on the arm of the chair across from me. “Well, in that case, you should eat a brownie. They won’t fix your heartbreak, but they have an obscene amount of chocolate in them, which is basically the same thing.”
I smirk, reaching for one. “Is this part of some neighbourly welcome package?”
“Absolutely. Next week I’ll be bringing you a houseplant and unsolicited life advice.”
I bite into the brownie—it’s unfairly good—and swallow before saying, “Good, because my last neighbour just used to bang on the wall whenever I sneezed too loudly.”
She grins, tilting her head. “Well, as long as you don’t practice the trumpet at midnight, I think we’ll be fine.”
Callum’s voice echoes in my head. You need to get back out there.
I glance at Fern. She’s funny. Kind. The kind of person I should probably be interested in.
I clear my throat, shifting slightly. “So, uh . . . do you live here alone?”
She blinks. “Yeah?”
“Cool. That’s . . . cool.”
A beat of silence.
She squints at me. “Are you trying to flirt with me, or something?”
“Depends,” I say, leaning back. “Is it working?”
She pops a piece of brownie into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully before replying, “Not even a little bit.”
I let out a breath of laughter, shaking my head. “Yeah. Didn’t think so.”
Fern grins, nudging the plate towards me. “Stick to eating brownies, heartbreak boy. You’ll have better luck.”