By April, the city had thawed completely. Sidewalk cafés were overflowing again, people wore sunglasses like optimism, and the air smelled faintly of new beginnings—or maybe just hot pretzels.
Emily’s bar had switched to summer cocktails. She’d been promoted to assistant manager, which mostly meant she had to deal with people’s bad decisions *before* they reached the counter. Ryan, meanwhile, was buried in spreadsheets and late-night calls.
They were both doing well—individually. Together felt trickier.
It started with another email.
Ryan didn’t mention it at first. He told himself it was nothing, just another opportunity. But that’s how it always started—with a line of text that made everything tilt.
Emily noticed the change before he said anything.
He laughed less, stared at his phone longer.
She didn’t push. She’d learned that asking too soon only made him retreat.
One night, as they brushed their teeth side by side, she caught his reflection in the mirror—jaw tight, eyes far away.
“Whatever it is,” she said quietly, “you don’t have to protect me from it.”
He met her gaze in the mirror.
“I know.”
But he didn’t tell her. Not yet.
The offer came from San Francisco this time—
a leadership role, a team he’d dreamed of building.
It wasn’t just a job. It was *the* job.
And it scared him, because it asked the question he’d been avoiding:
Was love supposed to hold you still, or help you move?
He stared at the email for an hour before closing the laptop.
When he looked up, Disco was sitting on it, judging him.
“Not helpful,” he muttered.
The cat blinked, unimpressed.
He sighed. “You’d stay, wouldn’t you?”
The cat yawned.
“Yeah. Thought so.”
When he finally told Emily, it was a Tuesday.
She’d had a long day, two broken glasses, one fight with a customer, and zero patience left.
“I got an offer,” he said as she kicked off her shoes.
Her body stilled. “Where?”
“San Francisco.”
“How long?”
“Permanent.”
She didn’t speak for a long time.
Finally, she said, “Congratulations.”
He frowned. “That’s not—”
“It’s fine,” she interrupted, forcing a smile. “It’s good, right? You deserve it.”
“Emily—”
“I’m happy for you.”
Her voice cracked at *happy.*
He reached for her, but she stepped back.
“Just—let me process, okay?”
The next few days were careful.
Too polite, too quiet, like living in a house made of glass.
They still did everything together—coffee, movies, grocery shopping—but everything had an invisible edge.
At night, she’d lie awake, pretending not to hear his restless breathing.
She wasn’t angry. Just tired.
Tired of loving people who always had somewhere else to be.
One evening, Jess showed up unannounced.
“Emergency wine delivery,” she declared, waving a bottle.
Emily raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”
Jess poured them both a glass. “You’ve been MIA and your texts sound like tax forms. Spill.”
Emily sighed. “He got another job offer.”
Jess’s face softened. “Far?”
“Far enough.”
“And?”
“I told him I was fine.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
Jess nodded. “You don’t have to be the cool girlfriend all the time, you know.”
“I don’t want to be *that* girlfriend either—the one who says ‘don’t go.’”
Jess shrugged. “Maybe it’s not about asking him to stay. Maybe it’s about asking what staying *means*.”
Emily stared into her glass. The reflection of the city lights wobbled. “I just wish love didn’t always come with a flight number.”
When Ryan came home that night, she was still awake, sitting by the window.
He stopped in the doorway. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
He hesitated. “You’ve been quiet.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
She half-smiled. “Maybe. But I think you should take it.”
He froze. “What?”
“The job. You should take it.”
“Emily—”
“You’ve worked too hard to turn it down.”
He crossed the room, kneeling in front of her.
“And us?”
She met his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll figure it out again. We always do.”
He reached for her hand, but she pulled away gently. “I just need to know that when you go, it’s because you want to, not because you’re scared to stay.”
That landed.
He exhaled, eyes wet but steady. “Okay.”
They didn’t talk much after that.
The decision hung between them like fog.
Some nights they laughed, some nights they didn’t.
Some mornings they kissed like nothing was changing.
The morning he left for interviews, she didn’t go to the airport.
He didn’t ask her to.
But that night, when she came home, there was a note taped to the fridge.
*Didn’t know what to pack first, so I took your playlist. Be back soon.*
She smiled. Then cried. Then made pasta for one and played the playlist anyway.
Weeks passed.
They texted sometimes—short, simple things.
Photos of sunsets, burnt coffee, the cat’s growing attitude.
It wasn’t constant, but it was enough to remind her he was still somewhere, thinking of her.
One night, her phone buzzed:
*Offer’s in. I said yes.*
Her heart stuttered.
She typed, erased, typed again.
Finally, she sent: *Proud of you.*
And she meant it.
Even if it hurt like hell.
Days later, she got a package in the mail—
no note, just a small glass snow globe.
Inside was a miniature skyline, a tiny heart carved into one of the buildings.
When she shook it, the glitter fell slow and bright,
like time itself could pause long enough for two people to find each other again someday.
She placed it on her nightstand beside a photo of the three of them—
her, Ryan, and the cat who still refused to love anyone equally.
And for once, Emily didn’t feel left behind.
She just felt *in motion.*
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