Isabella Iero had learned, over the past few weeks, that airports were cruel places. They demanded movement when all she wanted was stillness, demanded decisions when she was tired of making them. She stood at the gate with her arms crossed, a leather jacket hanging loosely over her white shirt, boots planted firmly on the polished floor as if anchoring herself might prevent what was about to happen. A few meters away stood Damon Albarn. He looked almost exactly the same — blonde hair falling into his eyes, leather bag slung over his shoulder, hands restless in that familiar, distracted way. He pretended to study the departure board, but Isabella knew him too well to believe it. Damon had always observed the world indirectly, as if looking straight at things made them too fragile. They had been broken up for a month. Not the kind of breakup that involved shouting or slammed doors, but the slow, devastating kind — conversations that went nowhere, silences that grew heavier, love that remained but no longer fit the shape of their lives. And yet, here they were, bound by a decision made when they still believed in permanence. Paris. The tickets had been bought on a night filled with laughter and cheap wine, Damon sketching plans on a napkin while Isabella imagined herself walking foreign streets with his hand in hers. Canceling them had felt like admitting defeat. Neither of them had been brave enough to do it.