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With a forced smile, so much so that my mouth hurts, my eyes struggle to follow in suit. I allow myself to look one more time at the man my heart cries for.
“I expect nothing, Will,” I say, until my voice waivers. “London is the right decision.”
As I turn back around, a shuffle occurs behind me, and Will has stopped me in my tracks. His hand caresses my face, the pain rippling through as I beg myself not to cry. Slowly, he lifts my chin, so our eyes meet.
“I wish things were different,” he chokes.
How I wish the same—that we don’t feel compelled to lie to our loved ones, that this relationship almost destroyed our families, and that we had the freedom to express our love without the restraints of age or what society deems appropriate.
If our love has a chance of lasting forever, all these hurdles would come second, not be the priority.
“If they were different,” I whisper, unable to look him in the eye. “There’s still no guarantee.”
He moves forward, placing his lips on mine. There’s no urgent rush, no sexual gratification in our kiss.
This kiss comes from a different place, and despite my willingness to mask the pain, I’m so close to falling apart in front of him.
“Goodbye, Amelia,” he murmurs with an ache. “I just want you to be happy.”
And perhaps that’s the biggest catch of all. My happiness falls dependent on him.
I remove his hands from my face, choke back my words, wishing I can return the sentiment, but I need to walk away now.
Just one step at a time, I tell myself. The room is behind me, the hallway leading to the door appearing impossibly long. I walk past the dining room, the living room, every room carrying its own memories of us.
But the hardest part is seeing the suitcases beside the door.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes tight, my hand resting on the doorknob as I leave the apartment, closing the door behind me.
I have no recollection of walking toward the car, or climbing inside, or even starting the engine. I pull out of the parking lot, and just before I drive on the street, I stop at the top of the driveway and grab my phone to send a text.
Me: You won, as always.
And there is the final nail in the coffin, no more lying to my father. He wants the truth. Well, there it is.
The streets are dead on Sunday morning, and the radio plays lazy tunes without the idle morning chit-chat. I switch to my playlist, but every lyric runs deep, and eventually, I turn everything off to complete silence.
The fog is clouding my vision from the heavy rain which lashed the East Coast last night, and when
I’m only a few blocks away from campus, the red light prompts me to stop.
The traffic lights are buried amongst the fog, and as I count down to the light turning green, my heart rate begins to accelerate. Unwillingly, I clench the steering wheel, trying to ignore my skin flushing. My shoulders bear tight, but they feel like they are quaking, causing me to choke out a gasp.
Everywhere I turn, everywhere I look, all I see is Will—his smile tormenting me, his laughter, and the way he caresses the back of my neck and draws me in for a deep kiss.
I breathe faster, but each breath begins to turn into a sob until my eyes cloud, and warm streams of tears fall down my face.
It all hurts, every piece of me. I don’t want to be here, not without him. I contemplate turning around, driving to the airport to beg him not to leave until my phone beeps beside me, and my focus shifts to the text on the screen.
Dad: It’s for the best.
Anger ripples through me as I open my window and throw the phone outside the car. It smashes against the road, falling into pieces.
Gulping for air, the light turns green, my foot slamming on the gas until the sound of a loud horn catches my attention on my left.
Fuck, what’s that?
I try to control myself, but all I see is the parked car in front of me. I slam my foot on the brake, my white knuckles clutching the steering wheel with panic.
