"Can I ask if there's any chance of 'not long enough' becoming 'long enough' eventually?"
The question is so hopeful, so careful, that it breaks my heart a little.
"I don't know.I wish I could give you a better answer than that."
"Honesty is better than false hope."
"I should probably head on up.Thank you for walking me home though.”I say, pulling out my keys with fingers that tremble slightly.
"Nora?"He waits until I look at him."For what it's worth, whoever he is, he's an idiot for letting you go."
The apartment feels tooquiet after the noise and energy of the evening.Camilla's clearly asleep, so I change into pajamas, wash my face, and try to convince myself I'm tired enough to sleep.But my mind is still racing from this morning’s therapy session, from Camilla's surprise Barcelona trip, from the feel of Liam's lips on mine and the guilt that followed.
Guilt.
Why was that feeling even present right now?
I pull open the drawer of my bedside table and retrieve the Discman Nate gave me last summer, along with the CD he made.The mix is labeled simply"Nora's Mixtape #17 V2"in his careful handwriting.
I've probably listened to it a hundred times.I’m surprised it’s not scratched and still working.
Putting on the headphones, I press play and let the music wash over me through the carefully chosen songs.Each track tells a story—our story—from the tentative hopefulness of the beginning to the raw pain of the end.
When the last song begins—the one he wrote himself—I close my eyes and let myself remember what it felt like to be the center of someone's universe.I can picture him sitting at the piano, shoulders hunched over the keys, his voice rough and unpracticed but the lyrics pure poetry.
“Time moves in circles, never straight lines
And I keep walking back to where you used to be mine..."
Why do we do this to ourselves?
Why do we press play on our pain, replay moments that exist only in memory?
Is it because some experiences are too profound to let go, even when holding onto them hurts?Maybe we revisit the past not to live there, but to remind ourselves that we're capable of feeling that deeply.That once upon a time, we mattered enough to someone that they wrote us into a song.
Or maybe we're just gluttons for punishment, addicted to the particular ache that comes from loving someone we can't have.
The song ends, and I don't press play again.
Instead, I lie in the darkness thinking about tomorrow, about therapy appointments and manuscripts and trips to Barcelona.
About the choice between what feels safe and what feels true.About the difference between the love that makes sense and the love that makes you lose your mind.
Outside my window, London continues its restless existence, full of people making choices between their hearts and their heads, between what they want and what they need.
And somewhere out there, in a village I can't picture, maybe someone else is lying awake listening to old songs and wondering if love is supposed to hurt this much.
The thought should make me feel less alone.
Instead, it just makes me miss him more.
CHAPTER3
BIENVENIDOS A BARCELONA
NORA
“Nora!Get your gorgeous ass out of bed or we’re going to miss our flight!”Camilla's voice cuts through my apartment like a siren, followed by the sound of my door swinging open.I check my phone—4:37 AM.
