Chapter 66 Chapter 66

Chapter 66 Chapter 66
Fabian
Leaving Paris behind felt like ripping off a limb and being told to keep walking like nothing happened.
I didn’t look back as I walked across that brick courtyard in York. I knew if I caught one glimpse of her standing in that window, I’d drop my keys, run back up those three flights of stairs, and tell her university could wait. But I kept my head down, my boots hitting the pavement with a finality that made my chest ache. I climbed into the car—the one we’d spent the last few months making memories in—and pulled away.
The silence in the passenger seat was deafening.
I was used to Paris being right there. I was used to her humming along to the radio, or pointing out random clouds, or just resting her hand on my knee. Now, there was nothing but a stray hair tie she’d left in the cup holder and the fading scent of her vanilla perfume. I reached over and touched the hair tie, circling it with my thumb.
Sixty-eight miles. It sounded like a short drive on paper, but as I hit the motorway toward Manchester, every mile felt like a brick being added to a wall between us.
My mind wouldn’t shut up.
I was a the infamous “Bad Boy.” That was the label I’d worn like armor for years. I knew how to fix a motorcycle, how to win a fight, and how to keep people at a distance. But university? That was a different game.
As I drove, I saw posters for the University of Manchester and groups of guys in pristine shirts laughing on the sidewalks. They looked polished. They looked like the kind of guys who read poetry because they actually liked it, not because they were trying to understand a girl.
Paris was going to be surrounded by guys like that. Refined guys. Guys with clean pasts who didn’t carry the weight of a dead girl and a broken family on their shoulders.
What if she realizes I’m not enough?
The thought hit me harder than any punch ever had. In London, I was the exciting choice, the guy who rescued her from her shell. But here, in the world of academia and high-level literature, I felt like a jagged piece of metal trying to fit into a glass box. I wasn’t refined. I was just Fabian Smith, a guy who was better with a wrench than a sonnet.
I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. I had to keep it together. I couldn’t let her know I was spiraling. If I showed her my fear, she’d worry, and Paris had enough to deal with with her parents’ divorce and her own new start. I had to be the anchor, even if I felt like I was sinking.
The scenery changed as I pulled into Manchester. The city was grey, loud, and industrial. It lacked the charm of the little parks Paris and I had frequented. I followed the GPS to the student housing district, eventually pulling up in front of a bleak, concrete dorm building.
I sat in the car for a minute after cutting the engine. I wasn’t ready to get out. As long as I was in this car, I still had a piece of her. The moment I stepped into that building, I was officially a Manchester student, and she was officially a York girl.
“Get a grip, Smith,” I muttered to the empty car.
I grabbed my first box from the back seat and headed inside. The lobby was a chaos of moving trollies and shouting parents. I felt like a ghost moving through the crowd. No one looked at me, and I didn’t care to look at them. I checked in at the front desk, grabbed my key card, and headed for the lifts.
Room 412.
The hallway smelled of floor wax and stale beer. It was a far cry from the warmth of the farmhouse or the comfort of Paris’s living room. When I swiped the card and pushed the door open, I was met with two twin beds, two desks, and a cold linoleum floor. The room was empty. My roommate hadn’t arrived yet, and for that, I was grateful. I wasn’t in the mood to play nice or exchange “get to know you” stories with some stranger.
I dropped the box on the bed nearest the window and walked over to the glass. From the fourth floor, all I could see were more concrete buildings and a crowded street below. There was no pond here. No quiet spots to hide.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. It was only 2:10 PM. Nearly nine hours until our scheduled call. I wanted to text her. I wanted to tell her that I already missed her and that I was coming back to get her. But I didn’t. Instead, I took a picture of the bleak view from my window and sent it to her with a simple message:
Fabian: Just landed in city. Already counting down to 11. Miss you, Skates.
I tossed the phone onto the thin mattress and started unpacking. It didn’t take long. I didn’t have much—just some clothes, my laptop, and a few tools I refused to leave behind. The last thing I pulled out of my bag was the blanket she’d given me for my birthday. I spread it out over the bed, the collage of our faces looking up at me.
Seeing us together like that made the room feel a little less like a cell, but it also made the silence heavier. I sat on the edge of the bed, burying my face in my hands. The stoicism I’d practiced all day was wearing thin. Out there, in the halls and the lecture theaters, I’d be the brooding engineering student who didn’t take any shit. I’d be the guy people were a little afraid of.
But in here, in the quiet of Room 412, I was just a guy who realized that sixty-eight miles might as well be the moon.