Page 64 of Break Me Apart
On the third evening — or fourth; time has become unreliable — we wander around without a map until the streets thin and the canals widen. Lights shimmer across the water and are fractured by slow ripples.
A narrow bridge arches ahead of us, and we stop halfway across without discussion, leaning against the railing. Boats move below us, their engines low and steady. Caiden talks about something, but I find myself only half listening. My attention drifts instead to the way his hands move when he speaks, the ease in his body, the complete absence of caution in how close he stands to me.
No one here knows us.
No one cares.
People passing behind us are having conversations in languages I don’t recognise. Not a single person is paying attention to us. Standing here on this little bridge, I realise the danger exists elsewhere. It always has.
Before I fully understand it myself, I reach for him. My hand closes around the front of his jacket, pulling him closer. He looks at me in surprise, his words stoppingmid-sentence.
I hesitate only for a second, then I kiss him.
His breath catches in surprise first, then he leans into it, his hands settling at my waist as though this is the most natural thing in the world. The city continues around us. No one stops, and no one reacts. When I pull back, Caiden is staring at me like he is trying to understand something enormous.
“You—” he starts, then stops.
“Yes,” I say quietly.
A slow smile spreads across his face. It’s softer than anything I have seen from him before, and it melts me on the spot.
“You’re getting brave,” he murmurs.
“Perhaps,” I answer. But the truth is simpler. For one moment, I wanted the world to see him with me.
And for that single minute, the world didn’t care.
The final morning comes too quickly. Packing feels wrong, and Caiden moves more slowly than usual, watching me more than helping. Neither of us talks about what is approaching.
The airport is loud and impersonal. People move with purpose again, queues form, announcements echo overhead, and reality returns.
“This part’s stupid,” he mutters.
“I know, detka.” He shifts his weight, clearly fighting the urge to say something else. Eventually, instead, hesettles for pulling me into a hug, and I allow it for longer than I normally would.
“Email me when you land,” he says.
“I will.” He pulls back and studies my face, searching for reassurance. I squeeze his shoulder, then turn and walk toward the gate before the hesitation becomes visible.
The plane lifts through low cloud, and Amsterdam shrinks beneath the wing — the canals becoming thin silver lines, and buildings dissolve into geometry.
I sit back with my hands folded loosely, listening to the steady roar of engines. Leaving Caiden feels different this time. We proved something here. That a life exists beyond secrecy and that proximity can feel ordinary instead of dangerous.
We proved happiness is not theoretical.
We have a future.
I close my eyes briefly, replaying the bridge — the absence of consequence, the ease of standing beside him openly.
This is no longer a fantasy, and it’s a problem I can solve.
Below, clouds stretch endlessly toward the horizon. For the first time, the idea of leaving everything behind doesn’t feel like a loss. It feels like direction. And when the aircraft turns east, carrying me back toward duty and expectation, I begin quietly planning how to make sure the next goodbye is the last.
NINETEEN
CAIDEN
You’d think that after almost a week away that recalibrates your entire sense of direction, something here might have shifted in sympathy. The sky, the paint, the way the corridors breathe. Concrete, fluorescent light, and institutional beige, but no, it’s still the same. I sling my bag higher on my shoulder and step inside the main building, still half caught in memory.
