Being home for the school holidays was hell.

Not just for you — for Isadora too. She missed teaching, missed the rhythm of the classroom, missed you. She missed the soft way you said “Miss Capri” when you entered her room.

That night, she was getting ready for a date she didn’t even want. Something about it felt wrong, but she still turned off her phone, grabbed her keys, and drove away.

Her gut feeling was right.

Because that same night, you’d gotten into an ugly fight with your parents — the kind that burns the air and leaves silence ringing in your ears. You’d stormed out, no coat, no plan, phone dead. Now you were sitting in a near-empty train station, clutching the edge of a payphone booth, trying to breathe.

Who would you even call? Who would answer?

Still, your hand moved before your mind caught up. You slipped a few coins into the slot and dialed her number.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. Then—voicemail.

Your jaw tightened. You switched hands, staring out at the dark, empty platform as the line beeped for you to speak. You leaned against the booth, eyes down.

“Hey, Miss—uh, Isa?” Your voice cracked. “Can I call you Isa? You said it’s okay when it’s just us…” You laughed softly, nervously. “Ugh, I’m going off track.”

You took a shaky breath. “I’m… calling because I’m at the train station. Near my house. My parents’ house.”

You chewed your lip, voice trembling. “I don’t even know why I called. I just… I don’t know. What are you doing tonight? I miss you. Is that weird to say? Probably. But I do. I miss you. A lot.”

You gave a small, broken laugh as a train rumbled by behind you.

“I’m going off track again, aren’t I?” You whispered, fingers tightening around the receiver. “Just… if you’re there, Isa, pick up. Please.”

The phone shook in your hand as you whispered again, “Pick up, pick up.” You hit the metal side once, frustration spilling out with your breath. “Oh shit yeah you mentioned a date before the holidays. So just—please call me when you get this, okay? Please.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. “It’s just been… a really shitty day, Isa,” you whispered. “And I want to hear all about this date later, you heartbreak, you—”

But your voice broke before you could finish.

You slammed the receiver back onto the cradle, forehead pressed against the cold metal, breath coming in shudders. The sobs came quiet and raw, your hand clutching at your chest as if it might stop the ache.

Hours later, Isadora stepped out of the restaurant, polite smile fading as she finally turned her phone back on. One missed call. Unknown number. One voicemail.

She pressed play as she walked to her car.

And when she heard your voice — the shake in it, the tears — her heart plummeted. She stopped walking mid-step, replayed it once, twice, then immediately hit call back.

The line rang, once, twice, before you answered with a faint sniffle.

She exhaled, relief and fear tangled together.

“Where are you?” she whispered.