Chapter 65 Chapter 65: Part 2

Chapter 65 Chapter 65: Part 2
Paris
The map said it was only sixty-eight miles from York to Manchester, but as I looked at the boxes piled in the back of Fabian’s new car, those miles felt like an ocean I wasn’t sure I knew how to swim.
For the last two months, we had lived in a beautiful, stagnant bubble. The elephant had left my house, my dad was finding his footing again, and Fabian had been a permanent fixture at my side.
We had spent the summer as if time didn’t exist, ignoring the calendar that was slowly ticking down to September. But now, the sun was setting on the final evening of our old lives, and the orange glow hitting the surface of our pond felt like a warning.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Fabian whispered.
I felt his arms wrap around my waist from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. I leaned back into him, inhaling the scent of his cologne and that faint, metallic hint of the garage that always seemed to cling to his skin.
“What thing?” I asked, though I knew exactly what he meant.
“Counting the seconds,” he said, his voice vibrating against my neck. “You’re already living in tomorrow, Paris. Stay here with me for a minute.”
I turned in his arms, looping my hands behind his neck. The pond was quiet, the only sound being the soft rustle of the reeds and the distant hum of a car on the main road. This place had seen so much of us—the confusion, the first sparks, the night I finally gave him my all. Now, it was witnessing a goodbye that neither of us wanted to say.
“I’m scared, Fabian,” I admitted, the honesty cutting through the romantic haze of the evening. “In high school, it was easy. I could walk across a car park and find you. I could drive ten minutes and be at your door. What happens when I’m in a lecture hall in York and you’re in a workshop in Manchester? What if we get… busy?”
Fabian’s grip tightened, his expression hardening into that fierce, protective look I loved. “Busy doesn’t mean forgotten. I don’t care if I have to stay up until three in the morning finishing an assignment. I’m not going a single day without hearing your voice.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, setting an alarm. I watched as he typed a label for it: Paris. Always.
“Eleven o’clock,” he said firmly. “No matter what. Whether we’re at a party, in the library, or half-asleep. We call at eleven. That’s our time. The rest of the world can wait.”
“Eleven o’clock,” I repeated, the words feeling like a sacred vow.
He didn’t wait for me to say anything else. He leaned down, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that tasted like desperation and salt. It wasn’t the sweet, playful kisses we shared at the skating rink. This was heavy. It was a plea to stay connected, a physical bridge across the sixty-eight miles that were about to separate us. We stayed like that for a long time, tangled together on the grass, trying to memorize the feel of each other so we could carry it through the weeks ahead.

The next morning arrived far too quickly.
The drive to York was a blur of motorway signs and static on the radio. Fabian held my hand over the center console the entire way, his thumb stroking my knuckles in a rhythmic, soothing motion. We didn’t talk much. We couldn’t. Every time I tried to speak, a lump formed in my throat that felt like a jagged stone.
When we finally pulled up to the red-brick courtyard of my new dormitory, the reality hit me like a physical blow. Other students were scurrying around, lugging blue IKEA bags and mini-fridges, their faces bright with the excitement of a new beginning.
I just felt empty.
Fabian helped me carry my boxes up to the third floor. My room was small, smelling of industrial cleaner and old dust, with a single window that looked out over a courtyard I didn’t recognize. It didn’t feel like home. Home was a motorcycle in a car park. Home was a boy with brooding eyes.
After the last box was dropped onto the thin mattress, a heavy silence fell between us.
“So,” Fabian said, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked out of place in the sterile room, his leather jacket contrasting with the pale, cream walls. “This is it.”
“Don’t say it like that,” I whispered, stepping into his space. “It’s just for now.”
He pulled me in for one last hug, squeezing me so tightly I could hear his heartbeat. It was fast—just as fast as mine. He pulled away just enough to cup my face, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears I couldn’t hold back anymore.
“I love you, Paris. Don’t you dare forget that.”
“I love you too,” I sobbed.
He kissed my forehead, a lingering, soft touch, before turning on his heel. He didn’t look back. I knew why. If he looked back, he wouldn’t be able to walk down those stairs.
I stood at the window, my forehead pressed against the glass, watching as he walked across the courtyard. He climbed into his car and pulled away.
I watched the white paint disappear around the corner until there was nothing left but the grey pavement and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
The “easy” part of us was gone. The high school romance, the local dates, the safety of being five minutes away—it had all vanished with those taillights.
I sank onto my bed, surrounded by unopened boxes of books and clothes, feeling more alone than I ever had in my life. The room was too quiet. I reached for my phone, tempted to call him already, but I forced myself to stop. I had to be strong. We both did.
A knock sounded at the door.
The sound made me jump. I wiped my eyes hurriedly with the back of my hand, trying to look somewhat presentable. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Maybe it was the Resident Assistant, or maybe Fabian had forgotten something and come back. That thought made my heart leap with a tiny, pathetic hope.
I opened the door, but it wasn’t Fabian.
A girl stood there, about my age, with a messy blonde bun and an oversized University of York sweatshirt. She held a bag of pretzels in one hand and a bright pink flyer in the other.
“Hey! You’re Paris, right? From the Literature intake?” she asked, her voice bubbly and loud. “I was at orientation. I’m Maya. I’m in the room right next door. I saw a really hot guy leaving your room looking like he just lost his dog, so I figured you might need a snack and a friend.”
She offered the bag of pretzels with a sympathetic wince.
“Is it that obvious?” I asked, offering a weak, watery smile.
“Honey, we’re all in the same boat,” Maya said, stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation. She plopped down on my only chair and kicked her feet up on a box. “Leaving the boyfriend behind is a classic uni tradition. It sucks, it hurts, and you’ll probably cry for three days straight. But hey, that’s what I’m here for. Now, tell me everything. Is he as broody as he looks, or is he a secret sweetheart?”
I sat back down on my bed, looking at the empty space where Fabian had been standing just minutes ago. Maya was exactly what I needed—a distraction—but as I looked at the clock, all I could think about was that I still had ten hours to go until eleven o’clock.
The distance was already starting to ache.