Chapter 68 Chapter 68

Chapter 68 Chapter 68
Paris

Maya was the human equivalent of a golden retriever on caffeine.
She didn’t just sit in my room; she occupied it. Within twenty minutes, she had opened my curtains, critiqued the lighting, and started sorting my sweaters by color. I was grateful for the noise. If the room were silent, I’d be forced to listen to the sound of my own heart breaking, and I really wasn’t in the mood for that.
“Okay, so here’s the plan,” Maya said, waving a pretzel stick like a conductor’s baton. “We unpack the books, we hang the fairy lights, and then we go find the communal kitchen to see if anyone has a kettle. A cup of tea fixes forty percent of all life problems. It’s science.”
I laughed, a small, hollow sound. “I think I might need something stronger than tea, Maya.”
“Fair point.” She grabbed a box labeled Keepsakes and set it on the bed. “Go on then. Dive in. The sooner you get the sentimental stuff out, the sooner this place stops looking like a holding cell.”
I reached into the box and pulled out the first thing my fingers touched. It was the silver vase Fabian had used for the sunflower on our first real date. My chest tightened. I could almost feel the humid London air and the way his eyes had looked under the moonlight. I set it on the desk, my fingers lingering on the cold metal.
“Oof. That’s a ‘he’s a keeper’ item if I ever saw one,” Maya noted, popping another pretzel into her mouth.
“He is,” I whispered. “He’s amazing. And he’s sixty-eight miles away.”
Maya’s expression softened, the bubbly energy dimming for a split second. She sat on the edge of my bed and looked at me with an old-soul kind of gaze that caught me off guard.
“Listen, Paris. I’m not going to give you the ‘everything will be fine’ speech. I just moved here to escape a guy I’d been with for three years. We tried the distance thing for a semester when he went to Bristol. It was like trying to keep a fire going in a rainstorm. You spend so much time protecting the flame that you forget to actually enjoy the warmth.”
I swallowed hard. “Are you saying it won’t work?”
“I’m saying it’s hard,” she corrected gently. “The distance doesn’t just change the relationship; it changes you. You start living for the phone calls instead of living your life. Just… be careful, okay? Don’t let your heart stay in Manchester while your body is in York.”
I nodded, though her words felt like cold water. I reached back into the box, pulling out a stack of polaroids. There was one of Fabian at the pond, his hair messy and a rare, genuine smile on his face. There was another of us at the castle in Cardiff, looking like we were the only two people left on earth.
Every object was a landmine. A ticket stub from a movie we saw. A dried petal from a rose. A Hamilton High hoodie that still smelled faintly of his laundry detergent.
“I feel like I’m haunted by a guy who isn’t even dead,” I joked, though my voice trembled.
“That’s the Literature student in you,” Maya teased, trying to lighten the mood. “Everything is a metaphor. Come on, let’s get these books on the shelf. If I see another picture of that jawline, I’m going to start getting jealous of your tragedy.”
We worked through the afternoon, and I tried my best to be “Social Paris.” I asked Maya about her home in Brighton, her love for Sylvia Plath, and why she chose York. I smiled in the right places and laughed at her jokes, but it felt like I was performing a role. The real me was sitting in the corner of the room, staring at the clock.
By 6:00 PM, the shelves were full and the bed was made. Maya had managed to lure me out to the hallway to meet a few other girls from our floor. They were nice—one was a bubbly theater major and another was a quiet girl studying history—but every time they asked me a question, I had to remind myself to focus.
What’s your name? Paris. Where are you from? London. What are you studying? English Lit.
It was like a script. All I could think about was the message Fabian had sent earlier. Counting down to 11.
When I finally got back to my room and closed the door, I leaned against it and exhaled. The room looked like me now, but it didn’t feel like me. I grabbed my phone and saw a notification. My mom had texted, asking how move-in went. I replied with a generic “It was good,” not wanting to get into the details of the ache in my chest. I hadn’t even told her about the 11:00 PM pact. She’d probably think it was “unhealthy,” but she didn’t understand. She didn’t have a Fabian.
I sat at my desk and opened my laptop, trying to look at the reading list for my first seminar, but the words Introduction to Romanticism felt like a cruel joke. I didn’t need a textbook to tell me about longing. I was a living, breathing case study.
8:30 PM.
9:15 PM.
The time moved with agonizing slowness. I tried to do a face mask like Maya suggested, but I just ended up staring at my reflection in the communal bathroom mirror, wondering if I looked different. Did I look like someone who was falling apart? Or did I just look like a girl in a new city?
When I got back to my room, I turned off the main light and switched on the fairy lights Maya had helped me string up. They cast a soft, amber glow over my boxes and books. I climbed into bed, pulling my duvet up to my chin. It felt too big for just one person.
I kept my phone clutched in my hand, the screen bright against the dark room. I watched the numbers flip.
10:50 PM.
10:55 PM.
My heart started to race. My palms were actually sweaty. It felt like I was waiting for a first date, not a phone call from the boy I’d spent every day with for months. I realized then how much I relied on him. He was my oxygen, and I’d been holding my breath since I left York’s city limits.
10:59 PM.
I held my breath, watching the clock. The second it hit 11:00, the screen lit up with his face. Fabian Calling.
I swiped the answer button so fast I nearly dropped the phone.
“Fabian?” I whispered, my voice thick with all the words I’d been holding back all day.
“Hey, Skates,” his voice came through, low and raspy, sounding like home. “You still awake?”
“I’ve been counting the minutes,” I admitted, closing my eyes and letting the sound of his breathing fill the space between us.
Maya’s warning about living for the phone calls echoed in my mind, but as I heard Fabian sigh on the other end, I didn’t care. If this was a rainstorm, I was happy to stand in it as long as he was holding the light.
But I could tell something was off. Fabian sounded tense, even through the static of the line.
“Fabian? Is everything okay?” I asked, sitting up in bed. “You sound… weird.”
There was a long pause on his end, a heavy silence that made my stomach flip. I heard the sound of a door closing in the background and a muffled voice I couldn’t quite place.
“You’re not going to believe this, Paris,” he said, and I could practically hear him grinding his teeth. “You remember how I said my roommate hadn’t shown up yet?”
“Yeah?”
“He came today,” Fabian said, his voice dripping with disbelief and a hint of a growl. “And I think the universe is officially playing a sick joke on us. Paris… I’m living with Colton.”
I froze, the phone slipping slightly in my grip. Then I burst out a bellowing laugh.