It was clear that she hadn’t noticed his absence or if she did, that it didn’t matter much to her. She was laser-focused on finishing up her thesis, defending the shit out of it and then going off into the world to battle misinformation like the fucking plague on society that it is.
He wanted to resent her for it, wanted her to feel the loss of him the same way that he did her, but he couldn’t. The last thing he ever wanted to do is hurt her and he’s glad he didn’t.
But he’s not afraid of her getting hurt right now, because more and more it feels like he’s the one in danger.
They’re close. Too close. And getting closer by the second. Even closer than they were before.
He’s moving in, for fuck’s sake.
And he was so close to getting out of this with his dignity intact, escaping to the other side of the world.
Now though?
He’s barreling toward the heartbreak he’d been trying to avoid. He’s doing it happily, enthusiastically even, despite it all, in ways that he thought impossible. Because being allowed near her, even for just a little while, even if it’s just pretend, is worth it.
Ugh.
He has to stop.
She’s not even around and she’s completely derailed him.
It’s actually worse when she’s not there. Her presence tends to focus him.
But enough is enough.
This is pathetic.
Truly sad.
He grabs a couple of boxes, balancing them precariously on top of each other, and shoves them into the trunk of his old Jeep before coming back for a couple more.
Three trips back and forth – including one with his futon tied extremely haphazardly into the trunk of his Jeep with his hazard lights flashing – has all of his belongings stored and the apartment bare, as if he’d never been there. He doesn’t have any particular sentimental attachment to the place, despite his five-year residence, just walls to keep out the – admittedly rare – elements and a spot to lay his head, really, but a small wave of nostalgia hits him as he flicks the light and locks the door behind him, dropping the keys into the mailbox for his landlord to pick up later.
It’s not the place, it’s the leaving that tugs at him.
He’s done that over and over again in his life – picked up, gathered his shit and moved on.
And in a couple of months he’ll do it again, even if he’ll be leaving his heart behind.
Then a year from now, he’ll move on again from Greece to wherever his career path takes him.
Hopefully, by then, time and distance will have done their thing.
They’ll have to.
He doesn’t want to think about what’ll happen to him if they don’t.
“You good?” he mutters to Amelia, whose attention is trained solely and intently on the piece of folded cardboard in front of her. The way his should be on his own work.
He’s finally found something that keeps her from demanding a spot on his keyboard typing gibberish across his screen – aminiature version of a laptop that seems to make her feel like she’s working alongside him.
It’s a solution he found scrolling through his phone, where the algorithm, through absolutely no fault of his own, has been feeding him cat videos pretty much nonstop.
Amelia gives a soft purr of contentment and Xavier hums in agreement.
He glances across the living room, past his papers and books and more drafts of his presentation than he actually wants to think about, toward Bianca’s bedroom. Every few seconds he watches another shirt fly from one side of the open door onto the bed at the other side while she digs through her closet.
She was still here when he got home – apparently in his distracted haste to get out of her way, he’d gotten the time wrong. Her interview is this afternoon, still a couple of hours away, and she’d given him the lowdown this morning while she was frantically flipping through the notes she’d prepared for it.
