It’s been eleven days since she flew home. Eleven days since Chris stood outside the terminal, pretending he was just dropping her off—pretending like it didn’t feel like he was watching the only thing that made sense to him walk away. He’d smiled. Cracked a joke about bad airplane food. She’d laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes. And then she kissed his cheek, slow and lingering, and whispered, “Thank you. For everything.”

He hadn’t said a word.

Now? He can’t stop thinking of all the things he didn’t say. Her scarf is still in the backseat of his car. Her laugh still echoes in the back of his mind every time someone asks a question on the tour. But it’s not the same. Nothing is. He’s tried to fake it, to fall back into the rhythm of daily life—but it’s like trying to un-feel gravity.

She changed everything.

So he quits. He doesn’t tell anyone. Doesn’t explain. Just walks off mid-tour, takes one last look at the cobblestone alley where she once linked her arm through his, and drives straight to the airport.

The flight’s in two hours. One way. No itinerary. Just her name, scribbled at the top of a note in his phone. Her hometown. A chance. He arrives two days later, jet-lagged and heart-first, and takes the long route to the café she’d always mentioned. The one with the yellow umbrellas and the rosemary lattes she swore were life-changing.

He doesn’t expect to see her there, but there she is. Sitting by the window, book in hand, hair pulled back the way it was the day he first met her. For a second, he just stares—heart thundering, knees a little weak.

Then, as if she feels him, she looks up.