I raised my head, managing to pull my lips into a believable smile. My body was trembling, but I curled my hands into tight fists under the table, steadying myself. “Yeah,” I said, with a calmness that felt foreign. “I just need to use the restroom.”
He tilted his head slightly, a faint furrow between his brows. “Do you want me to come—?”
“No.” I cut him off, voice firm but soft. “I’ve got it.”
With careful, steady steps, I stood. I didn’t let myself falter. I didn’t let them see the wreckage behind my calm exterior.
And then I walked away. Past the chandeliers that cast fake elegance over the crowd, past the laughing guests and waiters clinking glasses, past the music and chatter that filled the air. No one noticed that a girl had just lost everything.
But I didn’t turn toward the bathroom.
I left.
The cold air outside bit into my skin as I made my way home, but I welcomed it. I needed it to stay upright, to keep moving. By the time I reached my apartment, I could barely fit the key into the lock. My entire body shook.
As soon as I was inside, I dropped everything. I collapsed onto the floor as the storm broke.
I cried.
I cried until my lungs burned, until my voice was hoarse, until every ounce of hope I had left was poured out in sobs. The boy I thought had saved me—the boy I had trusted with every piece of my broken self—had been the one to shatter me to begin with.
He hadn’t loved me.
He had used me.
I pressed my hand over my mouth, trying to silence the sobs, but they kept coming. I couldn’t stay here. I needed to leave. To start over.
Wiping my face, I grabbed my phone. My thumb hovered over my contacts before pressing a name I hadn’t touched in months—Professor Valenti.
She answered quickly, her voice gentle. “Annette? Is something wrong?”
I steadied myself, voice barely a whisper. “I’ve decided. I want to accept the research project.”
A pause stretched between us before she responded, “I’m glad to hear that. We’ll begin arrangements for your departure in the next few days. But I must remind you—during the three-year project, you’re not allowed to maintain any contact with people from your current life.”
“I understand, Professor,” I replied quietly, “and I’m ready.”
Before she could say more, I ended the call.
This time, I wasn’t running away from my past.
I was walking away from it—finally, for good.