**PROLOGUE;**

The day Nathan died, so did I.

The world kept spinning—people still breathed, cars still moved, sirens still screamed across the sky—but I stayed still.

One second. That’s all it took.

One second too late.

One stupid mistake—a hesitation, a choice I can’t undo—and he was gone. The screech of tires still rings in my ears, sharp and metallic, like it carved itself into my memory. My heart had stopped for just a beat, but that beat was enough.

Just gone.

Now, I was leaving London behind. Running. Pretending it wasn’t chasing me.

Maplewood is supposed to be my fresh start—the place where nobody knows me, where nobody looks at me like I’m the girl who fucked everything up.

A place I can disappear—not just from people, but from who I used to be. To fade into the background, where no one asks questions, and maybe, just maybe, I can forget too.

But the noise isn’t just out there. It’s in my head—a relentless hum of regret, stitched together with Nathan’s laugh, the sharp sting of unsaid words, and the echo of what-ifs I can’t outrun, punctuated by the sharp, startled ‘Look out!’ And then—

Nothing.

Just silence.

Maybe I can disappear.

Or maybe I’m just fooling myself.

Either way, this is it. My last chance. The last one I have left—to find something that feels like peace, or at least a place where the guilt doesn’t echo so loudly.

And I’m not sure I deserve it. But that’s the thing about guilt—it doesn’t care.

**CHAPTER ONE; Where No One Knows Me**

I zipped up my suitcase, the echo of the zipper slicing through the silence of my apartment. The walls were bare, faded outlines where pictures used to hang, and the floorboards creaked under the absence of rugs that once softened them. A single mug sat abandoned on the counter, the remnants of coffee dried at the bottom like it, too, had been forgotten. Dust floated lazily in the slivers of morning light sneaking through the half-open blinds, illuminating a space that felt more like a shell than a home. Empty now. Hollow. Once, this place was alive—music, laughter, chaos.

Now, it was just four walls and ghosts.

“So many memories,” I muttered, my voice too quiet to fill the space. I reached into my handbag, fingers brushing past gum wrappers and stray receipts. Where the hell is my passport?

“You’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on.” Adriana’s voice rang in my ears, clear as if she were standing beside me. I froze.

I sighed—loud enough to drown out the feeling curling in my chest. There was so much I could lose here.

So much I already had.

My gaze drifted to the wall, where a single photo still hung. It was from a summer long gone, sunlight caught mid-laugh on our faces, the background blurred like the universe had only focused on us. The edges had curled slightly, worn thin from years of being handled, looked at, maybe even loved. It shouldn’t be here—I was sure I’d packed it away.

But there it was, staring back at me.

I stepped closer, my chest tightening, the air in the room feeling too thick. Those familiar eyes met mine, freezing me in place.

The eyes of the person who made leaving so damn easy.

Demon eyes. That’s what I call them now.

My jaw clenched as I reached for the photo, fingers brushing over the edges. I hesitated, my thumb tracing the faint crease running down the middle. A memory flashed—laughter spilling out in this very room, Adriana snapping the picture, saying, “You two are insufferable.” The warmth, the connection, the illusion.

Gone.

I ripped the photo from the wall, the paper bending, crumpling in my grip.

I shoved it face-down into the nearest box like that might actually make a fucking difference.

My fingers trembled as I sealed it shut.

“This is the right thing,” I murmured.

The words felt more like a lie than an answer.

The taxi rolled up to the curb, its deep blue paint catching the faint glow of London’s street lights. It was a black cab, really—just painted over to stand out.

Personally? Didn’t see the fascination.

The driver leaned out the window, expression blank with the usual London-brand politeness. “Airport, yeah?”

I nodded, pulling my suitcase up with a jerk. The weight of it dragged against my arm, like it knew I wasn’t ready to go.

The driver got out, grumbling under his breath as he lifted my case into the boot. “You ready to go?”

I looked at my apartment—smaller than it had ever seemed before. The lights were off. The memories were already fading.

I took a deep breath. This is the right thing.

“Yeah,” I said finally.

The driver rolled his eyes, mumbling something under his breath, too low to catch. Probably some half-hearted grumble about early fares or lost sleep, like it was my fault he hated his job.

“Oh, fuck off,” I shot back under my breath, but he was already climbing into the driver’s seat.

I slid into the back, and immediately regretted it.

The stench hit me like a fucking truck—stale tobacco and something sickly sweet.

My eyes flicked to the source—a god-awful cherry-scented air freshener swinging from the rear-view mirror.

Brilliant.

I sighed. Long flight ahead.

The driver slammed the door shut behind me and climbed into the front seat.

“Heathrow, yeah?”

“That’s the one.” I forced a small smile, but he wasn’t looking.

“Off we go, then.” His voice came out in a groan, like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

Same, mate.

But I wasn’t in the mood for small talk or morning grumbles, so I let it go.

As the engine rumbled to life, I leaned my forehead against the cold window, the chill grounding me.

My apartment building stood there, staring back, like it was watching me leave for the last time. Like it knew this was goodbye.

I told myself not to look.

But my eyes lingered anyway, taking in every detail—the peeling paint, the narrow windows, the life I was leaving behind.

A faint reflection caught my eye—me, in the glass. Tired. Hollow. A stranger.

As hard as this was, it was time to go.

The driver glanced at me in the rear-view mirror, his eyes sharp, assessing.

“Long trip?”

“Yeah.” My voice came out quieter than usual, like the weight of the morning had pressed it down. “Something like that.”

The cab jolted forward, tires splashing through shallow puddles, the street lights reflecting off the slick pavement.

London was too quiet.

It was the kind of silence that felt unnatural, like the city had hit pause on its usual rhythm. No blaring horns, no distant chatter spilling from pubs, no late-night buses rumbling by. Just empty streets slick with rain and the faint hum of nothingness. Normally, London was a symphony of chaos—alive, pulsing, relentless. But today, it felt like the city itself had taken a step back, disinterested in my departure.

The kind of eerie calm that only settled in long after midnight—when the city wasn’t dead, just waiting.

London was never truly still—not really. But this morning?

It felt like it was holding its breath.

Like it knew I was leaving—but didn’t give a shit.

I watched as the familiar landmarks faded into the morning, one by one. We passed the old corner café where I spent late nights cramming for exams, the neon sign flickering like it always did. A billboard advertising the West End show I’d meant to see but never did loomed in the distance, its bright colours dulled by the gray sky. Little pieces of my life, disappearing in the rear-view.

Normally, London’s buzz was everywhere—the hum of traffic, the distant rumble of the Underground, the chaotic symphony of a city that never shut up.

But today?

Nothing.

London was done with me—and I was done pretending I cared.

The cab pulled into Heathrow’s drop-off lane, the driver rolling down his window just enough for the cold air to slap me in the face.

“That’ll be £38,” he said, barely looking back.

I reached for my card. “Do you take contactless?”

He sighed, muttering under his breath. “Kids these days.”

“Yes, I do,” he added, reaching down for the machine.

I tapped my card against the reader, the screen flashing APPROVED.

The driver nodded, like this was some monumental achievement.

Climbing out of the cab, I noticed how shiny the pavement was—like the rain had done its best to wash the city clean overnight.

The driver hauled himself out, walking toward the boot. With a one-handed yank, he pulled my case out and slammed it onto the pavement like it owed him money.

I rolled my eyes.

“Thanks,” I muttered, voice flat. If he’d broken anything, I was filing a complaint with the head of the department.

Whoever the hell that was.

I turned toward the automatic doors and stepped into chaos.

Body after body after body.

Now this felt like London again.

A sea of people, all coming and going without a second glance at each other. Perfect. I was invisible here—just another face in the crowd, another passenger trying to get the hell out.

The sounds crashed over me—announcements blaring, the screech of suitcase wheels, babies crying, the hum of rushed conversations in every language. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting everything in an artificial glow.

I moved like a machine, following the signs, checking in, sliding through security without thought. The faint scent of overpriced coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the sterile tang of disinfectant. The shuffle of footsteps echoed around me, punctuated by the occasional sharp call over the intercom. A child tugged at their mother’s coat nearby, their laughter piercing through the haze of my thoughts for just a second before fading into the background noise.

It wasn’t until I reached the terminal that it hit me.

The fluorescent lights felt too bright here, like they were exposing every crack I’d tried to seal.

This was it.

I was actually leaving.

The reality settled in my stomach like a fucking stone.

A voice crackled over the speakers, jolting me back to the present.

“Flight 297 to Maplewood, now boarding at Gate 12.”

I exhaled sharply and joined the line, gripping my passport like it might slip through my fingers. Maplewood. I kept telling myself it was a fresh start, but deep down, I knew better. Fresh starts didn’t exist—not really. Just the same baggage in a different place.

Stepping onto the plane, the narrow aisle stretched ahead of me, too tight, too confining. No turning back now.

I found my seat by the window and dropped into it, my bag sliding from my shoulder and landing in a heap on the floor.

The plane rumbled forward, the engines humming beneath my feet as we picked up speed. I gripped the armrest—not because I was scared of flying, but because this was it.

No turning back. No second chances.

The moment the wheels left the ground, my stomach dipped. London shrank beneath me, dissolving into a blur of lights and endless gray.

I reached for the book in my bag, fingers brushing against the worn pages of _The Great Gatsby_. I didn’t bring it because I loved it. I brought it because Gatsby never got what he wanted—and deep down, I knew I wouldn’t either.

Maybe because I knew exactly what that felt like.

I turned the page, pretending I could lose myself in the words. But no matter how far I ran, no matter how high I flew—some things always followed you.

And right now, they were packed away in a box, sealed tight, pretending to be forgotten. But memories don’t stay packed forever. They find ways to seep through the cracks—especially when you think you’ve left them behind.