That summer unfolded softly, as if the world itself had learned how to breathe again.
Beth and Jefrey were inseparable — not in some feverish, performative way, but in the quiet certainty of two people who had chosen each other after the storm. They walked hand in hand through markets, studied together in shaded corners of cafés, and sat on the riverbank beneath long twilight skies, legs tangled, heads resting against one another.
There was no rush. No needing to be seen. No drama. Just them.
In late July came Chris and Amanda's wedding.
It was a modest affair, exactly as Amanda had wanted it — no celebrity flourishes, no towering cakes or gold-drenched ballrooms. Just a small garden behind Grandma Sophie's house in Norway, wildflowers blooming thick in the grass, folding chairs set out beneath the open sky.
Amanda wore a simple white dress that Helena would have adored, her hair loose and glowing. Chris looked both reverent and giddy, visibly restraining himself from quoting anything about Legolas — though his cufflinks, if one looked closely, did feature tiny bows and arrows.
Beth stood with Jefrey, her hand in his, the warmth of it steady through the cool northern breeze.
The vows were spoken without trembling.
When Amanda said "I do," she glanced up at the sky for a moment — a small, private gesture that only Beth caught. A hello to Helena. A thank you.
Afterward, there was music from a battered old record player, and dancing beneath lanterns strung between birches. Beth laughed until her stomach hurt when Chris spun Amanda too fast and they nearly toppled into the cake table.
Later, when the night deepened and the guests thinned, Beth and Jefrey slipped away toward the edge of the fjord.
They sat together beneath a sky streaked faintly with stars, her head on his shoulder.
"I never thought I could be happy here again," Beth whispered.
"You can be," Jefrey said quietly. "With me."
She smiled. Not because she was trying to — but because it was impossible not to.
And for the first time since that long-ago summer in Reine, Beth felt the future begin to unfold — not as something terrifying, or tragic, or borrowed from someone else's life.
But as her own.
Autumn came fast.
By September, Beth stood beneath the honeyed stone towers of Oxford, suitcase in hand, heart thudding — not with fear this time, but with a strange, full anticipation. The city was old and alive, as if it breathed beneath every cobbled street and college quad.
She moved into her college room — narrow bed, worn desk, windows that opened to ivy and sky. Amanda and Jefrey had helped her unpack, Amanda fussing over pillowcases, Jefrey grinning, teasing her about needing four different kinds of notebooks.
As they hugged goodbye, Jefrey had whispered, "I'll be here. Weekends. Or whenever you need me."
Beth kissed him, softly. "I know."
And then — she was alone.
Not lonely. Just alone. In a new place. In a new life.
The first weeks were a blur of introductions, welcome lectures, library cards, and late-night tea in common rooms where strangers slowly became friends. The city seemed made for walking — through narrow lanes where sunlight pooled, across bridges where morning mist rose like something from a dream.
Everywhere, there were traces of the person she'd been. The girl who would have looked at posters of Leon Troy in shop windows and flushed. Now, she walked past them without a second glance. The music of Aglaya and Sanlu played in cafés, and it no longer twisted in her chest. It was just noise now — background.
Because this — these mornings in the Bodleian Library, these twilight strolls past the Radcliffe Camera, these small, golden moments of independence — this was her life. Not anyone else's.
She called Amanda often. Texted Jefrey daily. They'd meet in Oxford some weekends, sharing coffee by the river, sitting so close their knees touched beneath the table. The love was quieter now — deeper. No performance. No pedestal. Just two people, side by side.
And one crisp October evening, as Beth walked alone beneath the turning leaves, scarf wrapped high, notebook clutched to her chest, she realized something simple and beautiful:
She wasn't missing anyone.
Not anymore.
She was here.
She was whole.
She was herself.
And the world — the real world — was finally hers to walk through, unshadowed.
It came on a cold October evening.
Beth had just returned from a late tutorial, her fingers chilled from the walk, her mind full of medieval poetry and deadlines. The sky outside her window was the deep indigo of true autumn, the kind that seemed to swallow sound.
She tossed her scarf onto the bed, pulled her phone from her pocket without thinking — half-expecting only a message from Jefrey, or Amanda reminding her to take care of herself.
And then she saw it.
Leon Troy
1 message
i miss u
Just that.
No punctuation. No explanation. No context.
Beth sat down slowly on the edge of her bed, phone cold in her hands.
For a moment, the old instinct sparked — the rush of her heart, the echo of his voice, the memory of fjords and fireworks, of whispered promises that had once felt endless.
But then — just as quickly — something else.
Steadiness.
She looked around her room. Books stacked neatly on the desk. A mug of tea growing cold. A paper due in the morning. A new life. A new self that hadn't been built around someone else's shadow.
And Jefrey — waiting to call her later, steady and real and here.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
She didn't reply.
She didn't delete it.
She just placed the phone face down on her nightstand.
And breathed.
An hour later, the phone buzzed again — one sharp vibration on the wooden nightstand that made Beth's heart skip despite herself.
She turned it over.
Leon Troy
i am coming to oxford
No greeting. No question. No warning. Just that.
Beth stared at the message, pulse quickening.
For a moment, the room felt smaller. The steady, carefully built world she had been crafting around herself seemed to waver — as if one message could undo months of healing.
But she had changed.
She was no longer the girl waiting by a dock in Reine. No longer seventeen with stars in her eyes and a heart too open for someone who loved the idea of love more than its truth.
Beth sat back, breathing slowly, letting the words settle in her.
Then she typed a single line — not cruel, not dramatic, just clear:
Don't. Please don't. I'm not yours anymore.
She hit send before she could hesitate.
The message marked Delivered. She put the phone down.
And this time, her hands didn't shake.
Beth didn't expect him to answer it. She knew Leon by now. He was the kind of person who would either disappear completely, or linger in a half-formed ghost of communication, never fully showing up.
The silence from him stretched, and as the hours passed, Beth felt a strange peace settle over her. It was over. She had said what she needed to say, and there was no more space for him in her world.
Maybe he understood now. Maybe he was pissed. Either way, it didn't matter. She was here, in Oxford, surrounded by new beginnings. She wasn't going to let his shadow reclaim the space she had fought so hard to fill with herself.
The next day, she went to class, buried herself in reading, and met up with Jefrey for lunch. The hours bled into each other, filled with laughter, assignments, and easy conversation.
Still, part of her checked her phone one last time before bed, a habit she hadn't yet fully shaken.
No message.
Beth put it down with a smile, then turned off the light.
She wasn't waiting anymore.
Beth woke up the next morning feeling lighter, the remnants of the previous night's tension slipping away with the soft morning light. It was just another day—filled with books, lectures, and quiet moments of contentment. She didn't think about the message from Leon again. After all, she had already said what she needed to say. It was done. She was done.
She went through her usual routine—coffee, classes, a brief catch-up with Amanda, and a walk along the river, where the golden light from the late morning sun painted the city in shades of honey. Everything felt right. Normal. For the first time in a long while, it was just her life unfolding in front of her.
But when she returned to her room that afternoon, and checked her phone while dropping her bag on the floor, she saw it.
Leon Troy
too late, i am already in oxford
Beth's pulse skipped. Her eyes lingered on the screen, her thumb stilling for a second as she processed the words.
She had assumed his silence meant closure. She hadn't expected this—hadn't expected him to show up, physically, in the very place she was starting to rebuild her life.
Her first instinct was to ignore it, to let it sit unanswered. He had already left her speechless with his lack of response, hadn't he? But something tightened in her chest.
She swallowed.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. Too late. Already in Oxford. He was here.
The irony of it hit her almost immediately—Leon, the boy who could never stay in one place, was now in the city where she had decided to finally put down roots.
And then it came to her—Beth hadn't actually thought through what she wanted from this message, or him, anymore. She had just let the emotions build and assumed that his absence would give her the clarity she needed.
But what did she really want now?
She closed the message. There was no reply to send—not yet, at least. She placed the phone on the desk and stood by the window, watching the evening light turn the sky a shade of lilac.
The city stretched out before her—her city, now.
Beth's heart beat faster than she wanted to admit as she walked through the cobbled streets of Oxford that day, her eyes scanning every corner, every group of students. She didn't want to, but the thought of seeing him—actually seeing him—lingered like a shadow.
She told herself it didn't matter. That she was stronger than this. But still, she kept looking—around the courtyard, by the café, in the library windows. Every time the door opened or a voice called her name, she felt a small lurch in her chest.
But he didn't appear. Not that day. Not the next.
As time passed, a subtle shift began. The gnawing expectation she hadn't realized she still had started to fade. The belief that he might show up—whether with flowers or an apology or a cryptic message—faded quietly into the background, replaced by a creeping sense of relief.
Maybe he had left.
Maybe he had seen her message, maybe he'd realized what he already knew: that it was too complicated, too much, too late.
Maybe, Beth thought, that was for the best.
A part of her had expected this—Leon, with his impossibly complicated life and his refusal to let anyone in. She had wanted him to stay, to fight, to break through the walls of his own apathy and give her something real. But now, it felt like he had made the decision for both of them. He wasn't here. He wasn't in Oxford.
And so, she exhaled.
The weight that had been on her chest for days, weeks even, seemed to lift a little. She felt... safe. Not because she had won or because the past had suddenly erased itself, but because she had finally started to realize that she was the one who got to decide what happened next.
The idea of Leon being in Oxford still tingled in her chest, but the thought of facing him—seeing him again after everything—felt distant. She could almost imagine him already gone, heading back to New York, his life continuing as it always had.
Beth sat by the window that evening, a cup of tea warming her hands, watching the sun dip behind the city's spires. She could feel the gentle hum of normal life around her—the buzz of students returning from class, the sound of distant conversations—everything she had wanted for so long, that she had fought for.
And then, without thinking, she smiled.
Maybe she was finally free.