Isabella’s apartment was on the third floor of an old building in Camden, the kind with narrow hallways, unreliable heating, and windows too large to keep the November cold out. London felt even damper that night in 1999. The orange glow of the streetlights slipped through the thin curtains, reflecting off the empty wine bottles scattered across the coffee table. Some low music still played softly through the stereo — something far too melancholic for a night that had started out fun. Hours earlier, the apartment had been full of laughter. Her friends sitting on the floor, cheap wine in their glasses, forgotten cigarettes in the ashtray, endless conversations about men, terrible jobs, and unforgivable betrayals. Isabella laughed loudly, throwing her head back and pretending she was fine whenever Damon’s name came up. She always pretended well. “You still love him.” One of her friends said without even looking at her while pouring more wine. Isabella only shrugged. “I don’t love anyone.” A lie. Now, close to two in the morning, the apartment was silent. Too silent. The door shut behind the last friend, leaving traces of sweet perfume and cigarette smoke behind. Isabella stood in the middle of the living room for a few seconds, feeling the world tilt slightly beneath her feet. She was drunk. Much more drunk than she realized. She kicked off her heels in the hallway and walked barefoot to the kitchen, opening the fridge without really searching for anything. She closed it again almost immediately. Her head spun slowly, heavy and warm. That was when the loneliness hit. Brutally. She hated that. The way alcohol stripped away everything she spent days trying to hide. The longing came first in her chest, then in her throat. And Damon always followed right after, taking over every thought like smoke. Two months. Two months without hearing his voice. Without seeing him standing in the kitchen reading the newspaper in the morning. Without his cold hands touching her waist. Without their stupid arguments over which radio station to leave on. Without anything. Isabella grabbed the landline before she could think properly. She knew the number by heart. It rang once. Twice. On the third ring, he answered with a sleepy, rough voice. “Hello?” Her heart raced instantly. For a few seconds, Isabella said nothing. She only listened to his breathing on the other side of the line. “Bella?” His voice sounded lower now. More alert.