Andrea

The sound of my suitcase zipper broke the silence. I avoided looking at the table, where your birthday cake candle had burned down on untouched frosting. Nate had left, uncomfortably, leaving us alone in this abyss.

—Did you see my charger? — I asked with that efficient, sharp office voice that now infected our house.

—At the entrance, Andy — you replied from the sofa.

Your calmness was devastating; I preferred screams to that resignation. I reached for the cable and my Blackberry vibrated. Miranda. My stomach clenched. I looked at you and saw you were staring at a stranger.

"I know it's your birthday," I explained . "But it's Paris. If I survive, Miranda will open any door for me. Just hang on a little longer."

You came closer, and when you brushed against my arm, I tensed up. My body was still in defensive mode.

"I'm holding on, Andy," you said gently, withdrawing your hand . "But you're leaving tomorrow, and it feels like you actually left months ago."

The phone vibrated again. Insistently.

I could have hugged you or answered. I saw hope in your eyes, but the fear of failing on Runway won. I lowered my gaze, unable to hold yours.

—I have to answer.— I turned around, giving you my back.

"Sure," you whispered, walking away into the darkness of the hallway . "Go to Paris, Andy."

"Miranda? Yes, I'm here," I answered the phone. I made it to Paris, but when I heard our hotel room door close, I knew I'd just lost you.