—Ada Cambridge

The flames within the fireplace had just begun to die down when the sun dawned, casting abrasive light through the open windows of Julian's apartment. On any other day, a sunrise over chilly London, before the fog could settle in, would have been an absolutely stunning sight to behold. Excitedly, I would have taken endless pictures and pulled up a chair to write by the window at daybreak.

On that New Year's Day, however, it annoyed me and I wanted nothing more than to close all of the blinds and sit in complete darkness.

Sleep. How eagerly I wished it would come, so that I may have had an escape for any amount of time.

Three hours.

One hour.

Ten minutes, even.

But I wasn't granted this simple pleasure, this basic human need. Instead, I endured every lonely minute of that agonizing night, and I endured it alone.

Julian hadn't made a single sound since he closed his door, and I was beginning to think that I should probably check on him, but I sat there, frozen, much too frightened to do so. If I had walked into his bedroom and something was wrong—no. I couldn't think like that, I scolded myself silently. It was an insane, morbidly irrational fear—I kept telling myself—but I still felt it strongly enough in my stomach to remain dormant on the sofa until noon. For countless hours, I sat there, staring at the blank wall, until I finally stirred to make some coffee.

Maybe if he smelled it, he would come out of the bedroom to see me, and we could have pretended that the day before never happened.

Maybe we could have enjoyed my final day in England together.

Maybe he would have given me some type of hint that he still loved me and wouldn't hold any of this against me.

With a brand new hope, I rummaged through Julian's cabinets and made a strong, dark blend of Colombian coffee. In both of our cups, I added too much sweetener and cream, just how we both liked it, and stirred thoroughly.

After a taste test, I was sure it was perfect—essentially sugar with a side of caffeine.

Julian didn't come out of the bedroom like I had hoped, but then again, I wasn't sure if I ever really believed that he actually would. So, I decided to bring the drink to him instead. The waiting was killing me, and even if he was feeling unsure about everything, I wanted him to know that I was still there for him completely, and always would be.

I left my steaming hot drink on the table by the couch, along with my notebook, and carried Julian's cup to his bedroom door. His mug warmed my cold, shaking hands and I clung to it even though it slightly burned my skin through the porcelain.

After counting to ten in my head, I forced myself to crack the door open.

It squeaked slightly, but wasn't loud enough to be obnoxious. Julian appeared relaxed on the bed, with a thick, black sweater on, and his back toward me. Like the weakling that I was, I stood in the doorway, watching for any movement or hint of his breathing. It was so unlike him to stay in bed that late, and I needed to know that he was okay... physically, at least.

Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long, as he rustled in the comforter and slowly turned to see what I was doing. Wordlessly, I tiptoed to the left side of the bed and placed his coffee on the nightstand. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and his hair was a ruffled, wavy mess. I bent down to kiss the highest part of his forehead, then went back out into the living room, shutting his door behind me, to give him the privacy he clearly needed.

To pass the miserable day away, I did the only thing that I knew how to do with any hint of confidence—I wrote. First, I wrote poems. So many poems. Then, I penned lots of letters to Julian. Actually, they weren't really letters so much as diary entries, addressed to him, that he wouldn't ever be allowed to see.

There was just something so therapeutic about being able to jot every thought down, without fear of offending, hurting, or confusing the intended recipient.

Once the late afternoon found me, I looked through Julian's refrigerator for anything with which to make a simple lunch. There, on the top shelf, were four easy ingredients that I could immediately put to use. On small plates, I piled roasted turkey slices, tomato, and romaine lettuce atop fluffy wheat rolls.

Julian hadn't moved from his spot on the bed, nor had he sipped an ounce of the coffee I made for him, so I replaced the cold mug with the lunch plate and hoped he would at least have a small bite to eat. Once again, I shut the door to leave him alone, even though it was eating me alive inside to see him before me, in the state that he was in.

To take a break from my mind and my notebook, I aimlessly pulled some clean clothes from my bag and found his spare bathroom on the opposite side of the apartment. A single, fresh towel was hanging, ready to be used, so I stepped inside the large shower and took my time rinsing off.

The water, however, did little to calm my reeling mind.

I just kept thinking.

Did he already regret his tattoo? He had etched me onto his skin, embodied as an anchor. But what if, instead of keeping him in place, I had caused him to sink—kept him unbreathing under the surface, when all he really needed to do was cut the rope? I wouldn't exactly have been able to blame him, if he did. No ink lined my skin for him, but his hold on me ran much deeper below the surface, and couldn't be so easily covered up.

Halfway through my shower, when I was absolutely sure that Julian wouldn't hear me or come to find me, I sat on the tile floor to cry and let the heavy beads of water pound my skin. The noise of droplets splattering and shattering all around me was so loud in the echo of the bathroom that I almost got away with not thinking for a while.

The further away I was from the shower head, the more the drops seemed to bite and sting my skin, which I liked. With my arms curled around my huddled knees, I tried to shrink down into nothing, so that I might've slipped away through the opening in the drain.

The water turned from scorching to hot, warm to lukewarm, and then cold to frigid.

Only when the entirety of my body was covered in goosebumps did I finally will my stiff, tender muscles to rise and turn off the faucet.

A small bit of fog on the bathroom mirror remained, and I used one hand to swipe it away, revealing a clear look at my face for the first time in nearly a day.

If not for the tan I received at the Maldivian villa—in a place that felt much further away than a simple twelve hour flight at that point—I would have looked much worse. Still, my weary eyes appeared more red than brown, and were outlined in dark gray, puffy skin. The bags underneath them told the true story of the night before, regardless of how many cups of overly sweetened coffee I downed. Even my damp, cold-water saturated hair was limp and lifeless against my cheeks and neck, exemplifying physically exactly how I felt internally.

I didn't recognize myself at all, but it wasn't the same as when a person stares in the mirror for so long that physical features start to look strangely foreign. I just didn't know who I was any longer.

Absentmindedly, I had grabbed the Ascend the Stars t-shirt that Julian had given to me for Christmas, from the top of my bag. Even so, I put it on, along with pajama bottoms, since I was sure we weren't going anywhere that night. It was already getting dark outside and Julian hadn't spoken a single word to me.

Maybe it would have hurt a little less if I wasn't so blatantly aware that I would be gone within twelve hours.

So soon, I would be aboard the flight back to Tucson, moving further away—both emotionally and literally—from the man that I loved. I just didn't know how to stop it, and Julian wouldn't give me a sign that he even wanted me to. As the minutes ticked away, and my worst fears were realized, I began to wish the morning would come sooner, only so I could get out of his way.

Before I even bothered to make dinner, I peeked into the bedroom to check on Julian, and to see if he had eaten the sandwich I brought to him for lunch. There the plate sat, on the nightstand beside him, completely untouched. I exchanged it with a cold bottle of water instead. I didn't kiss his face that time, or say a single word. He knew where to find me, if and when he wanted to finally talk. I tried to be patient in waiting for that, even though I felt badly bruised in the process of hanging around where I didn't believe I was wanted any longer.

But there was nowhere else I could go.

So, there I stayed—awaiting, and simultaneously dreading, another dawn.

Late night rolled around slowly. I felt sick to my stomach, and Julian clearly didn't want anything to eat either, so instead of making dinner for the two of us, I just went back to the couch and hid away under the wool blanket. The apartment was much colder without the fireplace running, but I wouldn't touch it. I would accept the cold until enough of my body heat could trap under the fabric of the blanket to keep me warm.

It boggled my mind to think of how much could change in a single day.

I passed some time by packing, then repacking, my suitcase. Midnight rolled around. A moment later, it was one o'clock. Then, at two in the morning, I was alarmed by his voice—both by the fact that he had made any noise at all, and by what he said.

"Get away from me!" he yelled, and I dropped my makeup bag to the floor. Seconds passed with my eyes bugging out of my head and my heart strumming in my chest.

"I said get out!" he screamed from behind the closed bedroom door.

"Okay, okay!" I shoved the makeup bag into my suitcase and zipped it shut quickly. "I'll go. I'm sorry. I'll call a cab. Please, just give me a second."

I stood my bulky, heavy suitcase up on the floor, released the handle, and started rolling it towards the door.

"But what have I done?!" he choked out. "No, please don't. No. NO!"

I let the bag fall over as I ran across the floor and dashed into his bedroom. Julian was writhing on his sheets. He had kicked the comforter completely off the bed. Without thinking into it, I quickly jumped onto the mattress with him and wrapped my arms around his sweating, heaving chest.

"Julian." I tried to wake him by softly speaking his name and gently shaking his shoulders.

He whined in his sleep and, at the same time, awakened every instinct in me to protect him. I wanted to bludgeon whoever was hurting him, whether real or just in his dreams.

"Julian!" I repeated louder, startling him into consciousness.

His eyelids fluttered open and he focused on me. The terror in his pupils died down to noticeable relief. At first, I wasn't sure whether the relief was for the fact that I was there, or for the fact that his night terror was over, but I was glad to be the one to abate him in that moment regardless.

I hugged him instinctively, feeling the burn of his skin on my cheek, and listened to his heart slow, from the pace of a hummingbird's wings to that of a slow ticking clock. The amount of comfort I felt from his lack of rejection to my touch was pathetic. Once I was sure he was calmed down enough, I started slipping out from under him, to return to the couch.

"Wait, Brooke." His voice came out pained and feeble, almost as if he were dreading what he was about to say.

I stayed sitting up on the bed, with my feet on the floor, waiting for him to say it.

Whatever he was going to say, I just wanted it to be out in the open.

I could take it.

"Will you sleep in here with me tonight?" he said. "Please?"

It felt as though this was my last chance to overwhelm my senses with everything Julian.

My last chance to feel his hot skin.

To see his furrowed brows.

To hear his honey voice.

To smell his spicy cologne.

I crawled under the covers with the love of my life, not saying a single word, and felt him wrap one strong arm across my tired body as he drifted back to sleep. Even if he were only half conscious when he asked me to stay, I decided, I could still savor these last few moments with him.

Nothing was ever certain with Julian, and this time was no different, so I enjoyed each moment for what it was.

For the second night in a row, I stayed awake to watch the sun rise.

Or rather, to watch it rise on him.

As the light crept in through cracks in the window blinds, I admired his face and willed myself to remember every line and nuance. Julian's features were soft and his breath was heavy as he snored onto my hot shoulder. Even though I didn't want to slip out from under him, I had to get prepared to leave for the airport. First, I used my phone to schedule a taxi ride, while it charged in Julian's kitchen. Sloppily, I stuffed my pajama pants into my suitcase and exchanged them for a clean pair of jeans, not bothering to change my shirt. It would be a long flight, and the slight bagginess of the top that Julian gave to me would be a welcomed comfort for the trip back to Tucson.

In the privacy and slight familiarity of his spare bathroom, I brushed my teeth and tangled black hair, deciding not to bother with makeup at all. After a few minutes, I returned to the living room to find Julian fully dressed and sitting by my suitcase.

"Hey," he said warily.

"Good morning," I replied, even though we both knew it wasn't one.

"What time do we have to leave?" he asked softly, forlornly.

"I called a cab," I explained. "So you don't need to bring me."

"What?" He stood up and walked closer to me. "You aren't taking a cab. I'm going to take you, Brooke."

"But I've already scheduled it." For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why I was fighting it. Deep down, it was obvious to the both of us that I wanted to ride with him instead. Who knew when I would get to see him again?

"It's alright, he'll wait a minute and once you don't come outside, he'll leave," Julian said, carefully inching closer toward me. "So, when do we have to go?"

"Now," I answered regretfully.

He nodded and we made the silent, uncomfortable drive to Heathrow. The ride to it was such a stark contrast to the ride from it.

"The screen on my mobile is broken," he told me with embarrassment, or something close to it, staining his cheeks. "I'll try to get a new one tomorrow if I can, once the shops are open again. I'll text you once I do."

"Okay." Pain built upon itself inside me, hammering up the walls.

We came to a stop in front of the passenger drop-off, and he helped me pull my suitcase from the backseat.

"So." I stood there shuffling my feet and looking at the ground. "Goodnight?"

Although it was early morning, he knew exactly what I meant.

"Goodnight," he said with a nod, and leaned down to kiss my forehead. It wasn't my lips, like I had wanted, but I'd take it.

I forced myself to move through the automatic airport doors without looking back. The unknown of what I was leaving behind may have brought me to my knees. So, I forced my tired feet to keep moving forward, even if everything within me was screaming in volumes to run back to him.

Almost predictably, with my awful luck, the only self-serve kiosk machine that was open was out of service, so I was forced to actually interact with a human being for once. Thankfully, the small line moved quickly, even though I was at the very end, and a young man called me up when it was my turn.

His hair was short, lank, and strawberry blond. He had piercing green eyes, and one of the widest smiles I'd ever seen. Even from feet away, his benevolence was obvious.

"Hello!" he said when I walked up to the counter, handing him my passport so that he could print my boarding pass.

"Hi." I grinned, momentarily feeding off of his exuberant happiness.

"Tucson, Tucson, Tucson," he said as his fingers quickly trailed the keyboard. His nameplate said Oliver. "You know, before I started working here, I thought it was pronounced Tuck-sun."

My lips formed a small smile. "Yeah, we do love our unnecessary, silent letters, I guess."

"Well, I do hope you've had a nice stay in England." He continued tapping away. "Ugh. You have such a long flight back!"

"Yes, sir." I nodded.

"Please, don't call me sir. I'm not old enough to be a 'sir.'" He laughed and I did, too, feeling a short lapse in my depressive state. I supposed he was right; the guy had to have been close to my age, in his early to mid-twenties.

He glanced at my shirt, which I hadn't bothered to change since the night before. I briefly felt self conscious before he spoke again.

"Ascend the Stars?" he commented. "Very nice!"

"Big fan, too?" I asked, keeping it casual.

"Massive, massive fan! One of the members was my mate when we were young." I read his name again.

"Which one?" I already knew.

"Julian, the lead guitarist," he said, while handing over my boarding pass.

Nobody was behind me in line, so I stayed put. Oliver... Ollie. Julian said that Ollie dreamed of being a pilot when he grew up, and this was at least linked to aviation. It had to be him.

"Really? Did you lose contact or something?" I searched his face for more confirmation that he was who I thought he was.

"Yes, something like that," Oliver said with a frown. "Though I couldn't be more chuffed to see how well he's getting on."

I stifled a giggle at his choice of words.

"Have you tried to talk to him or anything?" I asked, seemingly offhandedly.

"I've looked him up, yeah." Oliver nodded. "Haven't been able to get in touch, I'm 'fraid."

"I think I might be able to help you with that." My voice lowered on its own, "Could I maybe get your phone number?"

...

The cabin of the plane was freezing when I stepped on, so I immediately requested a thin airline blanket to drape over myself. My lack of rest from the previous two nights was finally starting to catch up with me, and as such, I was able to sleep for most of the flight home.

Before I dozed off into broken sleep, though—where my head would sometimes lift off the window panel and slam back against it with bouts of turbulence—I did something I never thought I would do willingly. As we were taking off from beautiful London, England, I opened the window screen and watched the ground, and the city, getting further away from me. Julian was somewhere within one of the dots below, and I felt a single tear fall as the distance separating us grew substantially with every passing moment.

That, in itself, was far scarier than being nearly 40,000 feet in the air.

I knew, of course, that Tucson was where my apartment was, where my belongings were, where my job was, and even where my best friend was. Tucson held so many things with which I was familiar.

So why didn't I feel any comfort in going back to it?

If Tucson was really my home—and I was returning to it—I shouldn't have needed to try so hard to suppress the most painful ache of homesickness within my stomach.