Your suitcase stood by the front door like a loyal soldier, packed to the point of rebellion. Two weeks in London. Two weeks of Mattheo. Two weeks of finally meeting the people who existed only as stories and photographs and voices crackling through your phone late at night.

Your mother appeared in the hallway, already crying.

Two minutes left.

Somewhere across the continent, Mattheo was probably pacing his flat, running his hands through his curls, checking his watch like it had personally offended him.

For the first time in six months, the goodbye in your chest didn't hurt.

Because this time, you weren't leaving him.