Chapter Text
ONE DAY
Prologue
Cambridge, Monday Morning
Four weeks before London
It wasn’t exactly grief. But it wasn’t not grief, either.
The first Monday without them arrived like a soft punch, unexpected only in how expected it was. The sun was out, the air was warm, and Cambridge looked exactly the same. But the city felt quieter. Lighter. Like someone had turned the volume down on the world.
They gathered out of habit more than planning—Alistair, Jonathan, Andy, George, Sam, Dakota, and Jossie—sprawled across the grass outside the college café, half of them nursing coffees, the other half pretending they weren’t checking their phones every five minutes.
“Feels like we’ve been abandoned,” George muttered, squinting at the sky like it had personally offended him.
“Speak for yourself,” Andy said, stretching out like a cat in the sun. “I’m thriving. I’ve got space. I’ve got silence. I’ve got—” He paused. His phone buzzed. He checked it immediately. “…a text from Elektra. She says hi.”
Jonathan snorted. “You’re pathetic.”
“Says the man who’s been sighing into his morning coffee like a Victorian widow,” Andy shot back.
Alistair, ever the diplomat, raised his cup. “To the girls. May they return soon and save us from our own tragic selves.”
They clinked their mugs together like it was a toast at a wake.
Across the circle, Sam sat cross-legged, watching Dakota and Jossie bicker over a shared croissant. It was comforting, in a way, how even in the absence of the others, the chaos found a way to persist.
“You two are like gremlins,” Sam said, deadpan. “Tiny, emotional gremlins.”
Dakota grinned. “You love us.”
“Unfortunately,” Sam replied, but their smile gave them away.
Jossie leaned back on her elbows, eyes closed against the sun. “It’s weird, isn’t it. How fast everything changed. About a month ago, we were strangers.”
“And now we’re a sitcom ensemble,” Jonathan said. “With too many plotlines and not enough screen time.”
They laughed, but there was a truth under it. Something unspoken but shared. The kind of bond that forms when you’ve lived through something together—something messy and beautiful and entirely unrepeatable.
The girls were gone… for now. But the story wasn’t over. Not even close.
The days that followed blurred into a rhythm—slow mornings, long walks, late-night conversations that drifted between philosophy and nonsense. Without the girls, the energy shifted. It wasn’t worse. Just… different.
One afternoon, they ended up walking the long way back from a seminar, cutting through the backs of the colleges where the grass was too green and the air smelled faintly of chalk and old stone. Alistair had a tote bag full of books he hadn’t opened yet. George was eating a croissant he’d stolen from the catering table. Jossie had her headphones around her neck, not playing anything, just there like armor.
Jonathan kicked at the gravel and said, “Right, so if time’s a construct, does that mean we’re all just pretendin’ to be punctual?”
Andy snorted. “You’re not even pretendin’, mate. You were twenty minutes late this mornin’.”
“Exactly!” Jonathan said, triumphant. “I’m rejectin’ the illusion.”
Dakota rolled their eyes. “You’re rejecting responsibility.”
Sam, who’d been walking ahead and spinning slowly like a weather vane, turned and said, “I think time is real, but only in the way soup is real. Like, it exists, but it’s different every time.”
George blinked. “What kind of soup are you eating?”
“Existential soup,” Sam replied. “With croutons of dread.”
Jossie laughed, the sound sharp and sudden. “You lot are exhausting.”
“But entertaining,” Alistair added, adjusting his glasses. “Like a circus with degrees.”
They passed under a canopy of trees where the light dappled the path like spilled gold. Andy paused to take a photo of the sky, muttering something about how it looked like a Turner painting. Jonathan leaned over his shoulder and said, “Bet Turner never had to deal with bloody Moodle.”
“Bet Turner never had to deal with you,” Andy muttered.
They kept walking, the conversation drifting from soup to the ethics of stealing croissants to whether pigeons had regional accents. By the time they reached the courtyard, the sun was low and the shadows long, and the whole world felt like it was holding its breath.
It wasn’t the same without the girls. But it didn’t feel empty. Just… like something else. Something still unfolding.
Alistair became the unofficial planner, organizing study sessions that often turned into debates, and these debates would in turn evolve into storytelling marathons. He missed Veronica in a way that surprised him. He often thought back to the day Veronica visited Cambridge with her new friends for a private tour. She stepped off the bus like sunlight in motion—her light brown hair catching the afternoon glow, that green sundress making his throat go dry. He’d known her for years, had been her boyfriend for nearly eighteen months, but something about seeing her in his world made everything feel sharper, more alive.
He remembered how he couldn’t stop smiling that day, how she asked questions that made him laugh and teased him like she belonged there—because she did. With Veronica around, even the most ordinary moments felt lit from within. She had a way of pulling him out of his head and into the present, into joy.
He loved her in the kind of way that made the world tilt slightly toward wonder. Not just because she was beautiful, though she was—but because she made him feel like he was more. More awake. More himself. And he knew, without needing to say it, that he’d never get tired of watching her light up his life.
Jonathan spent most of his time with a book in one hand and his phone in the other, like he was waiting for something—or someone—to interrupt the quiet. He didn’t talk much about Adriana, but it was obvious. The kind of love he felt didn’t need words; it lingered in the way he paused mid-sentence when her name came up, or how he smiled at nothing when he thought no one was looking.
Without her around, he was more thoughtful than usual. Still loud, still chaotic—but softer at the edges, like he was trying to figure out how to say something that mattered. He wanted her to know how much she’d come to mean to him, how much he wanted this to work. Because deep down, he was sure—she was the one.
When he wasn’t reading, he was writing. No one asked what. They didn’t need to. It was all for her.
Andy tried to play it cool, but he was the worst at pretending. He’d start telling a story, then stop halfway through with a quiet, “Elektra would’ve loved this,” like the thought had ambushed him mid-sentence. He kept a running list of things to tell her when they reunited—three pages long and growing, scribbled in the margins of notebooks and the back of receipts.
To the world, he was still the charming one, the one who always had a joke ready, a plan in motion. But underneath it all, he was building something—carefully, desperately. A version of the truth she could live with. A version of himself she could still love once everything came out. He wasn’t sure how to tell her he’d lied. Only that he had to find a way to make it survivable. For both of them.
Because he didn’t just want her to like him. He wanted her to stay. And that meant giving her something real to hold onto, even if it came wrapped in regret.
George didn’t talk about Vanity much, but it was clear she lived in the quiet spaces between his words. He was more present than usual—listening closely, laughing softly, like he was trying to stay grounded in the moment while his thoughts kept drifting elsewhere. And when he thought no one was watching, he’d stare off like he was trying to solve a puzzle only he could see.
He missed her. Not just in the way people miss someone they love, but in the way that made him question everything. He kept searching for her in empty rooms, in half-finished conversations, in the way the wind moved through the courtyard. He still felt like a gold star idiot for asking her to keep things casual, even though he’d never admit it out loud.
Mostly, he was trying to convince himself she was with him because of him, not because of who he was, or what he had, but because she saw something in him worth staying for. And maybe, just maybe, he could be that person. For her.
And then there was Sam, Dakota, and Jossie—a trio that made no sense and perfect sense all at once.
Sam missed Anubis more than they let on. But instead of spiraling, they anchored themselves in routine—making sure everyone ate, drank water, and didn’t lose themselves in their own chaos. They became the grounding force, the quiet caretaker, the one who remembered who liked tea and who needed space.
They weren’t trying to distract themselves. They were trying to hold things steady until the moment came when they could be with Anubis again. It was their way of coping—of staying useful, present, needed. And maybe, in the process, they could keep the others from unraveling too much.
Sam had a way of saying exactly what needed to be said, even if it was just, “You’re being dramatic. Go take a nap.” It wasn’t cold—it was clarity. And in those last two weeks, that clarity was what held the group together.
Dakota and Jossie were a storm in motion—loud, impulsive, magnetic. They didn’t sit still long enough to let the sadness settle. Instead, they danced barefoot in the hallways, dragged the others out for midnight walks, and invented games with no rules and no winners, just noise and laughter and the kind of chaos that kept the ache at bay.
For Dakota, the worst part of being away from Krystal wasn’t just the distance—it was the absence of touch, of presence. She missed her like a phantom limb, not just because she wanted to care for her, but because Krystal made her feel like something rare. Like something new, but also treasured. That kind of love was terrifying in its beauty, and Dakota didn’t know how to sit with it, so she moved. Constantly. Loudly. Like stillness might break her.
Jossie, on the other hand, carried her longing for Kitty like a secret she was lucky to have. Missing her wasn’t a burden—it was a reminder that she’d found her way back, even if by accident. She knew their time apart would stretch longer than the others’, but she held onto the hope that when they finally reunited, it would be nothing short of epic. So she kept moving too, not to escape the sadness, but to keep the joy alive until she could share it again.
They were a force of nature, the two of them. And beneath the noise and the laughter, they were just trying to outrun the quiet.
Some nights, they all ended up on the roof—blankets, snacks, music playing low. They’d talk about the future, about what came next. About how strange it was to feel so close to people they hadn’t known a month ago.
“It’s like we’re in the middle of something we’ll only understand later,” Jossie said once, her voice soft in the dark.
“Yeah,” Sam replied. “But I think we’ll remember this part the most.”
And they would.
Because these two weeks weren’t just a pause before the next chapter. They were the breath before the leap. The quiet before the noise. The space where everything settled, just enough to make room for what was coming.
It began with a group chat—“Operation London (but make it ✨aesthetic✨)”, someone had jokingly named it. The girls were busy, sure, but they always made time.
======
Alistair: Alright, team. Two weeks. London. Let’s get organized.
Veronica: You’re already making a spreadsheet, aren’t you?
Alistair: …maybe.
Andy: I vote we let Alistair plan everything, and I just show up looking hot.
Elektra: You always show up looking hot.
Andy: 🥰
Jonathan: Can we please not derail this in the first five messages?
Adriana: Babe. It’s us. That is the plan.
George: I, for one, would like to know if we’re staying somewhere with a kitchen.
Vanity: So you can cook?
George: So I can not cook and judge everyone else’s attempts.
Sam: We’re taking the train.
Anubis: The sky is faster. The sky is freedom.
Sam: The sky is overpriced, and you get motion sick.
Anubis: I do not.
Sam: I already bought the train tickets.
Anubis: …
Elektra: I swear to god, every time you two speak, it’s like watching a crow argue with a wind chime.
Dakota: I found a flat with a rooftop and a bathtub with lion feet.
Krystal: Sold.
Jossie: Do we need a budget? Or are we just pretending money isn’t real again?
Kitty: I have 12 pounds and a dream.
Scarlett: I have a cousin in London. She owes me a favor.
Ella: I have a spreadsheet template if Alistair wants it.
Alistair: Send it.
Charity: Can we please coordinate outfits for at least one day? I’m begging.
Victoria: Oh no. She’s entering her Pinterest board era.
Charity: It’s called visual cohesion, Victoria.
River: I support this. Aesthetic unity is a form of respect.
Victoria: Honestly, this trip is starting to feel like Noah’s Ark. I’m Noah. The rest of you are my rare species couples collection.
Andy: I call dibs on being the flamingo.
Jonathan: You’re more like a raccoon in a leather jacket.
Andy: Thank you.
Veronica: Okay, but seriously—arrival times? Who’s flying in when?
Sam: Already covered. Train.
Anubis: grumbling in cryptic metaphors
Krystal: Dakota and I are flying in together.
Dakota: And I’m confiscating her fourth pair of boots.
Krystal: You’re no fun.
Jossie: Kitty and I are coming in hot and under-packed.
Kitty: I’m bringing snacks.
George: I’m bringing sarcasm.
Vanity: I’m bringing drama.
Elektra: I’m bringing glitter.
Andy: I’m bringing questionable decisions.
Alistair: I’m bringing the itinerary.
Everyone: 🙄
======
They weren’t gone. Just… elsewhere.
FaceTime calls became rituals. Not every night, but often enough to matter. Sometimes they talked for hours. Sometimes it was just a quick check-in, a flash of a smile, a “miss you” before sleep.
And it helped.
Alistair still missed Veronica—of course, he did—but it wasn’t the kind of missing that hollowed him out. It was quieter than that. Softer. Like a song stuck in his head that he didn’t mind hearing on repeat.
They had a rhythm.
Every morning, she sent him a photo of her coffee mug and a one-line update: “Today’s chaos level: medium-high.” He’d reply with a quote from whatever book he was reading, or a pun so bad it made her groan out loud. She’d roll her eyes, and he’d see it on FaceTime, and that was enough to make his whole day feel lighter.
They didn’t talk constantly. They didn’t need to. But they had their rituals—little digital rituals that stitched the distance closed.
On Sundays, they watched the same movie at the same time, texting commentary like they were sitting side by side. On Wednesdays, they played a trivia game app together, and Veronica always won. Always. And on Fridays, they had their “no agenda” call—just an hour to talk about anything and nothing, to be together without needing a reason.
Veronica grounded him. She reminded him to eat, to sleep, to stop overthinking. And Alistair, in return, reminded her that she didn’t have to carry everything alone. That she could lean, just a little. They were both the kind of people who took care of others. But with each other, they let themselves be taken care of.
Jonathan didn’t say much about Adriana. He didn’t need to. His silence was full of her. In the two weeks since she’d left Cambridge, he’d been quieter than usual — not withdrawn, just... elsewhere. Writing more. Thinking too much. Mourning her absence in the way only someone who’d never expected to fall in love could: slowly, deliberately, like every moment without her was something to be catalogued.
He didn’t send letters. That wasn’t his style. But he sent her things — little things. A photo of a bookshop she would’ve loved. A voice note with a line from a poem he hadn’t finished. A GIF that made her laugh out loud in the middle of dinner. And once, a bouquet of roses was delivered to her home in Newcastle — deep red, with a note that simply read: Still counting.
She never told him she kept the petals from that bouquet. Or that the roses on the dining table the day he arrived would be from the same florist — a quiet echo of the ones he’d sent.
Adriana, for her part, didn’t always know how to respond. She wasn’t used to being wanted like that — not loudly, but with intention. She was fast, sharp, always moving. Jonathan was still. Thoughtfulness. A slow burn. But somehow, they worked.
They were learning how to love each other — not by changing who they were, but by making space for the other to exist fully. Adriana challenged him to speak up, to take risks. Jonathan reminded her to slow down, to breathe, to feel.
Their conversations were a dance of opposites. She’d send him voice notes full of energy and half-formed ideas. He’d reply with carefully chosen words, sometimes typed, sometimes spoken in a low, steady voice that made her stop whatever she was doing just to listen.
Jonathan wasn’t just in love with Adriana. He was committed to the process of loving her. With every day, every rose, and every word. And Adriana, though she’d never say it out loud, was starting to believe that maybe this was the kind of love that could last.
Andy and Elektra weren’t just flirting anymore. They were planning. Three weeks in London. Two just for the two of them. A full-blown, immersive Brit Rom-Com experience — designed, scheduled, and mutually agreed upon as a test run. Not a joke. Not a fantasy. A deliberate, slightly absurd, completely sincere experiment in love.
They had a shared doc titled: Rom-Com Trials: London Edition – If We Don’t Kill Each Other, We’re Official. It had colour-coded sections, location scouting, outfit coordination, and a running list of tropes they were determined to live through.
- Week 1: Notting Hill and how you’re just a boy in front of a girl asking her to love you. (Elektra’s edit)
- Week 2: Rainy walks, dramatic misunderstandings, and at least one spontaneous dance in a public place.
- Week 3: Full Four Weddings and a Funeral chaos with the rest of the group.
Andy was all in. He treated it like a mission — equal parts ridiculous and romantic. He sent her daily updates like:
‘Found a park bench that screams ‘emotional breakthrough.’ Adding to the map.’
‘Do you own a trench coat? I feel like we need trench coats.’
Elektra, ever the skeptic, rolled her eyes at least once per message. But she still replied. Still edited the doc. Still sent him links to cafés with ‘just enough melancholy lighting for a third-act turning point.’ She didn’t believe in fairy tales. But she believed in trying. And Andy — chaotic, relentless, golden-retriever Andy — was trying harder than anyone ever had.
He answered her texts within minutes. Not because he was desperate, but because he couldn’t help it. He noticed every time she let her guard down, every time her sarcasm softened into something real. Like the rushed call she made the morning she left for Vienna — no reason, no preamble, just: ‘I know it’s early, but I wanted to hear your voice.’
He’d replayed that moment more times than he’d admit. It fuelled him. Gave him something to hold onto while he planned every detail of their time together. Because he wanted it to be perfect, not polished, but meaningful. Something she’d remember.
And still, the weight of the truth pressed against the back of his neck. The thing he hadn’t told her. The thing that could change everything. He’d been thinking about it more than he wanted to. Talking to George late at night, when Alistair and Jonathan were asleep. George didn’t judge. He just listened. Which is why he asked him for a ride to the airport the day they had to go home; he knew George wouldn’t push, but wouldn’t let him skip that last very needed conversation.
They were opposites, yes. But they were building something together. Not just a fantasy. Not just a joke. A blueprint. A test. A maybe.
And if it worked — if they made it through the awkward silences, the clashing habits, the inevitable moment where the truth finally came out and one of them had to decide whether love was stronger than fear — then by the end of the summer, they wouldn’t be a maybe anymore. They’d be real.
George and Vanity had a running chess game over text. It started as a joke — a move here, a flirt there — but quickly became something else. A language. A rhythm.
George would send a move with a note like, “Queen to D4. Just like you — bold and inconvenient.”
Vanity would reply hours later with a GIF of a smirking villain and, “Knight to F6. Unlike you, I know how to commit.”
But the game wasn’t really about chess. Not anymore. It was about the space between them — the tension, the teasing, the way their conversations danced around the truth. Sometimes it was a photo of a book spine, a quote underlined in red. Sometimes, a screenshot of a headline with a sarcastic caption. Sometimes just silence, filled with meaning.
Vanity once sent him a playlist titled: For When You’re Pretending Not to Miss Me.
He didn’t reply. He just added a song called You Know I Do.
She was trying not to fall. He was trying not to show he already had.
In the beginning, she’d agreed to keep things casual — because that’s what he’d asked for. But somewhere between the late-night texts and the way he remembered the smallest things she said, she started to care more than she meant to. And George, for all his charm and detachment, had stopped pretending he didn’t care at all.
He missed her. More than he expected. Less than he feared he could.
He wanted to send her flowers — something simple, something beautiful. But he didn’t know where to send them. He’d never asked. She’d never offered. And somehow, that felt like the most honest part of whatever this was: wanting to give something, and not knowing how to reach her.
So instead, he stayed up too late rereading her messages. Memorised the way she phrased things. Saved the playlist she made him and played it on a loop like it might teach him something about her he hadn’t already noticed.
He wanted her to know him, not the version people saw in magazines, but the one who was quietly, hopelessly trying to be someone she might choose. And in that quiet ache, he started to understand Andy better. The guilt that drove him. The way he was trying to earn forgiveness before the truth even came out. Andy was acting out of guilt. George was acting out of fear. But both of them were trying desperately to be worthy of the girls who made them want to be known.
They weren’t just playing chess anymore. They were playing for keeps.
Sam and Anubis didn’t plan their trip to Edinburgh. They divined it. It began with a dream Anubis had about crows circling a map. It continued with Sam finding a train ticket stub in a secondhand book titled The Art of Vanishing. From there, it was inevitable.
======
Anubis: The crows have spoken. We must go north.
Sam: Then I’ll start listening to the wind. Give me a moment to prepare accordingly.
======
They didn’t talk about what they’d do in Edinburgh. They talked about what they’d become.
Sam said they’d walk the Royal Mile like ghosts from a forgotten novel. Anubis said they’d haunt a tea shop until someone wrote a poem about them.
Their shared doc was titled: “Edinburgh: A Soft Descent into Beautiful Madness.”
It had no bullet points. Just a list of signs.
“Fog that knows your secrets.”
“A bookstore that smells like regret and cinnamon.”
“Matching scarves, but not on purpose.”
“A bench where we sit in silence and still say everything.”
They didn’t need a plan. They needed alignment.
Sam booked the train tickets before Anubis could suggest hitching a ride with a migrating constellation.
======
Anubis: The sky is freedom.
Sam: The sky is turbulence and overpriced snacks. Sit down.
======
They knew they’d wander through museums and magic shops, through graveyards and galleries, through pubs that smelled like stories, and markets that sold art like spells. They knew they’d go north, to castles, to gardens, and hidden places, dragging the quiet ache of missing each other even when they were side by side.
They wouldn’t say it out loud. They wouldn’t need to. It would be in the way Sam always looked back to make sure Anubis was still there. In the way, Anubis always walked, just a little slower, like she was trying to stretch time.
While the others planned rooftops and rom-coms, Sam and Anubis would vanish into the mist, not to escape, but to dissolve into something softer. They wouldn’t follow a schedule. They’d follow the pull of old stones and stranger streets. They’d get lost on purpose. In the city. In each other.
They were strange. They were soft. And they belonged to each other.
Krystal and Dakota were in that golden hour of a relationship — the part where every moment felt like a secret, every touch like a question waiting to be answered. Their messages weren’t just words. They were invitations.
A photo of Krystal’s bare shoulder, sunlight spilling across her skin like honey.
A voice note from Dakota, low and unhurried, describing a dream she had — half real, half suggestion.
A mirror selfie with a caption that read, “This is what you’re missing.”
A reply that said, “Not for long.”
They didn’t talk constantly. But when they did, it was close. Intimate. Late-night calls with voices just above a whisper. Shared playlists that pulsed with slow beats and velvet lyrics. A running list of “things we’ll do when we’re alone again,” tucked away in a locked note, half-teasing, half-promise.
Krystal liked to be touched like a secret.
Dakota liked to be looked at like a dare.
They sent each other photos of hands — some intertwined, some reaching, some resting on skin.
They sent each other silence, too — the kind that buzzed with everything unsaid.
But behind the flirtation, there was weight. Krystal was unraveling at home, and Dakota knew it. She could hear it in her voice, in the pauses between words, in the way she said “I’m fine” like it was a line she’d memorised. And Dakota — stuck in Cambridge, still in the thick of onboarding — couldn’t do anything but listen. Ground her. Try to seduce her into smiling.
She hated it. Hated feeling helpless. Hated that the only thing she could offer was her voice and a promise that she’d be there soon.
The frustration bled out in other ways. She snapped at Jossie more than she meant to. Picked fights over nothing. Ate too much, too late, just to feel full of something other than worry. And Jossie — patient, loyal, maddeningly perceptive Jossie — took it. She always had. But Dakota didn’t know how long that string would hold before it snapped.
So she tried to make it up to her. Little things. Coffee runs. Apologies wrapped in sarcasm. A playlist titled “Sorry I’m a Cow, Please Don’t Leave Me.”
Jossie rolled her eyes, but she stayed. Because she knew what Dakota couldn’t say out loud: she was scared. For Krystal. For herself. For what it meant to care this much.
Because this — whatever it was — was becoming something real. And when they finally met again, there would be no need for words. Just a look. Just a breath. Just yes.
Jossie and Kitty weren’t supposed to mean anything. It was just a party, just a kiss. Just a moment that burned too bright to forget.
But then Kitty left. And Jossie stayed. And neither of them could stop thinking about it.
They didn’t talk much at first. A few messages. A few emojis. A voice note from Jossie that was more laughter than words. A reply from Kitty that was clipped, efficient, and somehow still made Jossie’s heart race.
Jossie moved fast—heart first, questions later. Kitty moved with purpose—practical, precise, but always a little offbeat, like a song with a strange rhythm that still made them want to dance. Their conversations were a mix of flirtation and friction.
======
Jossie: So… when do I get to kiss you again?
Kitty: When you learn how to slow down.
Jossie: I can’t. But I can wait.
======
There was something in that space between them—something fragile and fierce. Jossie sent voice notes at 2 a.m., full of half-formed thoughts and too much feeling. Kitty replied with photos of her day, annotated with dry commentary and the occasional “this reminded me of you.”
They didn’t know what they were yet. But they were trying to find out.
Jossie wanted to dive in. Kitty wanted to build a bridge.
And somewhere in the middle, they were learning how to meet—tentatively, imperfectly, but with open hands. Because sometimes love doesn’t arrive fully formed. Sometimes it’s a question.
Sometimes it’s a maybe. Sometimes it’s a second chance waiting to happen.
It wasn’t the same as being together. But it was enough to keep the ache from turning into something heavier.
Then came the last night of onboarding.
They all knew it was coming—the shift from this strange, suspended reality into whatever came next. The mood was quieter and more reflective. No one said it, but they all felt it: this was the end of the beginning.
The group chat buzzed with plans and jokes and half-formed logistics, but underneath it all was something softer. A shared understanding that this moment—this weird, beautiful, in-between space—was about to end.
They gathered on the roof one last time. No music. Just the hum of the city below and the occasional buzz of a phone lighting up with a message from someone who mattered.
“It’s weird,” Dakota said, lying back on the blanket. “I thought this part would feel like waiting. But it didn’t.”
“No,” Alistair agreed, his voice soft. “It felt like… becoming.”
There was a beat of silence, the kind that settles when something true has been said.
Then Andy ruined it. “Okay, Gandalf,” he said, tossing a popcorn kernel at Alistair. “Next, you’ll be telling us we’re all stardust and destiny.”
“We are,” Sam said, deadpan. “But go off.”
Jonathan snorted. “You’re all insufferable.”
“Big words from the man who cried at a TikTok Adriana sent him,” Jossie chimed in, not even opening her eyes.
“I didn’t cry,” Jonathan said, too quickly.
“You sniffled,” Dakota added helpfully.
“It was allergies.” Jonathan deadpanned.
“Sure,” Andy said. “Allergies. From your soul.”
George chuckled from his spot near the edge of the blanket. “I, for one, am going to miss this chaos.”
“You say that now,” Sam said, “but give it three days and you’ll be texting us like, ‘Please, someone insult me. I’m too emotionally stable.”
“I’ll take that over Dakota and Jossie trying to start a cult again,” George replied.
“It wasn’t a cult,” Jossie said, sitting up indignantly. “It was a community of shared vibes.”
“With matching robes,” Alistair pointed out.
“And a chant,” Jonathan added.
“And a suspicious amount of glitter,” Sam finished.
Dakota grinned. “You’re just mad you weren’t invited.”
“I was invited,” Sam said. “I just have standards.”
They all laughed, the kind of laugh that comes from knowing this moment won’t last but wanting to stretch it out anyway.
Phones buzzed occasionally—messages from the girls, little digital threads tying them back to the people they missed. No one made a big deal of it. They just smiled, replied, and kept the conversation going.
Eventually, the laughter faded into a comfortable quiet. The city lights blinked below. The stars blinked above.
“I’m gonna miss this,” Andy said, softer now.
“We’ll be back together in two weeks,” Alistair reminded him.
“Yeah,” Jossie said. “But it won’t be this.”
And she was right. Because this weird, wonderful, in-between moment was something they’d never get back.
The morning after felt quieter. Not heavy, just… still. Like the world was holding its breath.
They moved slowly, almost reverently, as they packed up their things. The rooftop was empty now, the blankets folded, the last crumbs of midnight snacks swept away. The laughter still echoed faintly, like a memory that hadn’t quite faded.
In the parking lot, the group gathered one last time.
Alistair loaded his sleek black car with practiced ease—everything folded, zipped, and aligned like a puzzle. He wore sunglasses even though the sky was overcast, and his goodbye hug lingered just a second longer with each of them.
Jonathan’s car was just as elegant, but painted in a bold, clashing shade of burnt orange that made it look like a fashion statement gone rogue. He tossed his bag in the trunk with a sigh and muttered something about regretting his color choice every time he parked next to Alistair.
George’s van was a beast—matte black, lifted, and loud. It looked like it could survive a zombie apocalypse and still have room for snacks. He threw Andy’s suitcase in the back like it weighed nothing.
“You sure you don’t want to drive this thing?” George asked, smirking.
Andy raised an eyebrow. “I’m not licensed to operate a tank.”
George laughed and clapped him on the back. “Airport, it is.”
Sam’s electric blue Ford Puma purred quietly in the corner, already packed with geometric precision. They leaned against the hood, sipping coffee from a thermos, watching the others with a soft smile. Dakota had seen them off with a care package that could’ve fueled a small expedition—snacks in every crevice and enough coffee to keep a lighthouse keeper awake for a week.
Jossie wrestled with the trunk of her small, battle-worn car, still dented on the left side like it had opinions about being helpful. Dakota, already set to ride with Sam, had wandered over to lend a hand.
“Try kicking it,” she offered.
“I did,” Jossie muttered, exasperated.
“Kicked it with feeling?” Dakota asked, then gave it a swift, purposeful thump herself. The trunk popped open with a groan of reluctant surrender.
“See?” she said, grinning. “It just needed a little emotional clarity.”
They all stood together for a moment, not quite ready to leave. The air was cool, the sky pale, and the silence between them was full of everything they didn’t need to say.
“Two weeks,” Alistair said, his voice steady. “London.”
“Don’t be late,” Sam added. “I’m bringing snacks and judgment.”
“Save me a seat at the chaos table,” Andy grinned.
Jonathan gave a small nod. “We’ll pick up right where we left off.”
“Or crash into something new,” Jossie said, smiling.
One by one, engines started. Doors closed. Waves were exchanged through windows. And just like that, they were gone—scattered across cities and skies, carrying with them the weight of what had been and the hope of what was coming.
The in-between moment had ended. And the new adventure was awaiting.