London had changed the way Maya moved.
She no longer shrank when she entered a room. She no longer waited for permission before speaking. Tatiana and Adela involved her in everything — from what to cook for dinner to how the sitting room should be rearranged. They asked for her opinion and waited for it as though it mattered. And slowly, astonishingly, she began to believe that it did.
She laughed more. She spoke without rehearsing sentences in her mind first. She felt useful — not because she was trying to earn her place, but because she was naturally part of the rhythm of the house.
Calvin had still not called.
Not once.
Not a message to ask how she was. Not a brief acknowledgment of her absence.
The silence stretched long and thin, almost transparent, but strong enough to hold distance firmly between them.
One evening, after Flynn's predictable goodnight text, Maya stared at her screen longer than usual. Her fingers hovered before she opened Calvin's contact.
She typed, erased, and typed again.
Don't you miss me?
She stared at the words until her vision blurred.
Then she added:
Even if you don't, I miss you.
Her heart pounded as she pressed send.
It was not pride that guided her. It was longing. Pure and unguarded.
The response came hours later.
Busy.
That was all.
No answer to her question. No acknowledgment of her confession.
She swallowed the ache quietly and told herself that maybe he was truly busy. Maybe men didn't articulate missing someone the way women did.
She carried that fragile hope with her the week she prepared to return to New York.
School demanded her presence. Assignments piled up. Responsibilities waited. And beneath all of that, she missed Calvin despite everything. She missed the idea of him. The familiarity of sharing space. The possibility that distance might have softened him.
Tatiana and Adela packed her luggage as though she were embarking on a long expedition. They filled her bags with food, small keepsakes, a sweater Tatiana insisted would comfort her when New York felt too cold.
"He'll be waiting at the airport," Adela said confidently.
Tatiana nodded, eyes warm. "Of course he will."
Maya allowed herself to imagine it — Calvin standing near arrivals, scanning faces, relief washing over him when he saw her.
She held that image carefully.
The flight felt longer than usual. By the time the plane landed, exhaustion tugged at her bones. Her luggage felt heavier than she remembered packing it.
She stepped into the arrival hall and searched.
No familiar figure.
No message.
Her chest tightened slightly.
She called him.
"Hey," she said softly when he answered.
"What?"
"I've landed. I have quite a bit of luggage… would you be able to pick me up?"
A pause.
"I can't. I'm busy."
"Oh." She swallowed. "It's just a lot to handle alone."
"You knew how much you were bringing. You should have planned."
The words landed flatly.
"Okay," she murmured.
She ended the call and stood still for a moment, the noise of the airport buzzing around her. Families reunited. Laughter. Embraces.
She adjusted her grip on the suitcase handle. It cut sharply into her palm as she maneuvered toward the taxi line. The wheels caught on uneven pavement. Her arms trembled slightly as she lifted one bag into the trunk.
The driver watched but did not assist.
By the time she reached the apartment building, her shoulders ached.
She dialed Calvin again.
"Can you come down to help me bring the luggage upstairs?"
Silence crackled through the phone.
"Find someone to help you put it in the elevator."
"Where would I find someone?" she asked quietly.
"That's your problem."
The line went dead.
She stared at the lobby, suddenly aware of how small she felt inside the large, impersonal space. There was no one lingering nearby. No concierge at the desk.
She dragged the first suitcase toward the elevator, breath uneven. The doors nearly closed before she shoved her foot between them. One bag tipped sideways. She pushed it upright, cheeks flushed from effort.
The ride up felt endless.
When the elevator doors opened, she struggled again, inching the luggage down the hallway.
The condo door swung open before she reached it.
Calvin stood there, expression unreadable.
Without greeting her, he grabbed one suitcase and wheeled it inside. She followed with the rest.
He placed them in the living room and walked back toward the couch.
No hug.
No welcome home.
She stood for a moment, gathering herself.
"I thought maybe you'd help me," she said finally. "Knowing my condition."
He looked at her briefly. "You should have thought of that before bringing so much."
The exhaustion pressed harder than hurt.
"I see," she replied quietly.
She had brought food from London. Carefully packed meals Tatiana insisted would taste like comfort. She reheated them and set the table.
They ate facing each other, polite and restrained. The food tasted faintly of nostalgia, but the atmosphere felt fragile — as if one wrong word could crack something already brittle.
"How was London?" he asked after a long silence.
"Good," she said. "They were happy to see me."
He nodded once.
No further questions.
After dinner, she showered quickly. The warm water eased the tightness in her muscles. When she lay down, fatigue swallowed her almost immediately.
She barely registered the shift of the mattress beside her.
His hand brushed her waist.
She stirred, half-asleep.
"Maya," he murmured.
There was no tenderness in his tone, but there was familiarity.
She turned toward him.
She had missed him. Missed the feeling of being held, of being chosen in the quiet dark.
When he pulled her closer, she responded. Partly because she wanted closeness. Partly because she believed this was how distance dissolved. Partly because she did not know how to refuse without creating another fracture.
His touch was urgent, not exploratory.
She tried to focus on the warmth of his body, on the shared breath between them. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe that this — this physical nearness — meant something. That perhaps this was his way of missing her.
She wrapped her arms around him.
She wanted reassurance. Wanted the silent confirmation that she still mattered.
The room was dark except for a sliver of city light slipping through the curtains. The world outside continued without them.
When it was over, he shifted onto his back almost immediately.
"Goodnight," he said.
Her chest felt hollow.
She lay beside him, staring into the darkness.
There had been a brief second — just one — when she felt comforted. When she thought closeness could mend the ache of the airport, the elevator, the words that had stung quietly.
But as his breathing deepened into sleep, that comfort dissolved.
She felt neither devastated nor angry.
Just… tired.
Tired in a way that reached deeper than muscle.
Her body was warm, but her thoughts were cold.
She remembered the mornings in London — Tatiana's gentle knock, Adela's laughter, the way someone asked her opinion and waited for it.
Here, the silence was different.
It was not healing.
It was dismissive.
She shifted slightly under the blanket, careful not to disturb him.
She did not cry.
The exhaustion was too complete.
Her mind floated somewhere between awareness and surrender. She thought of the text she had sent.
Even if you don't, I miss you.
She wondered whether missing someone was enough to sustain something that did not feel returned.
Her eyes closed slowly.
Sleep claimed her before clarity could.
Beside her, Calvin slept soundly, unburdened.
And in the quiet space between their bodies — though they lay inches apart — the weight she had carried from London settled gently into her chest.
Not sharp.
Not loud.
Just present.