The airport in Toronto smelled the same as I remembered—strong coffee, wet asphalt, and the faint tang of jet fuel. I dragged my suitcase toward the exit, careful not to trip over the cracks in the polished tiles. Outside, the drizzle had begun, thin and cold, blurring the lights of the city. I pulled my coat tighter around me and swallowed hard. Five years. Five years since the text that had ended everything and five years since I'd seen my mum. She has come to Stockholm a couple of times to visit, but I've never been back home. Not until now. And I hate myself for that. I was so absorbed in my own pain that I completely neglected my mother.
I shook my head, trying to focus on the present. My mother had just had surgery, and this trip wasn't about revisiting old memories or wondering what might have been. It was about family. Duty. Love. Something that mattered more than heartbreak and lingering what-ifs.
I'd made my life in Sweden. My beautiful apartment, Kai, my cat, my consulting job, and my few friends. It was a stable, predictable life and I liked it that way. But predictability had a way of feeling hollow sometimes. Even now, as the taxi weaved through the slick streets, I felt the old tension in my chest—the one that flared every time a memory of Noah crept in, uninvited.
The thought of him made me clench my fists around the strap of my bag. Where was he? What had he become in these five years? Somewhere living the life he wanted, pursuing the ambitions he'd sacrificed for us, or perhaps discarded entirely. He probably has a lecturing job now. He had always been focused, deliberate. But focused on himself. Always.
I tried to push the thought away. I'd come here to be strong for my mother and nothing else
"June!"
I froze. A familiar voice, impossibly warm and confident at the same time. That baritone.
David. Of course it was David. I half screamed in delight and I was smiling ear to ear. I hadn't expected him to be here, and yet, somehow, he always appeared in the moments I least expected. He stood near the baggage claim, hands in his pockets, smiling in that way that made you feel like he saw every bit of you.
"You scared me," I said, a small laugh escaping, despite the tension in my chest.
"I wouldn't miss this for the world," he replied, stepping forward and giving me a brief hug. "How's your mom?"
I exhaled, a mix of relief and exhaustion. "She's… recovering. Slow, steady, but she'll be fine."
David nodded. "Good. I'm glad you're here to help her. You're stronger than you think, you know."
I smiled, but it didn't reach my eyes. Strength was a tricky word. It was one thing to hold yourself together because you weren't sure you had what it took to pick up the pieces if you crumbled, and it was another thing to let yourself just go because you remembered too well. I chose the former because I wasn't ready to be vulnerable and crumble. I'm not ready to let myself crumble and then look for pieces of to put back together. I may not be whole again. I don't know I still am.
"I'll take coffee," I muttered, more to myself than to him.
"I know," he said, already moving toward the small café near the terminal. "You always take it black, no sugar."
I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. It was these little things. His attentiveness and his steadiness that made him… dependable. Grounded. The kind of person who doesn't leave you guessing.
But he wasn't Noah. And no one was. Meanwhile, I haven't been here for an hour and I'm already Thinking about him. Get a grip, girl!
The taxi ride to my mother's apartment was quiet, a soft hum of rain against the windows. I kept my eyes on the streetlights, the shops, the cafés I'd always meant to try but never had. My thoughts kept circling back, though. Back to him. To Noah. The memory of that morning, the abruptness, the coldness, the anger I still feel, and the heartbreak.
It was ridiculous, I told myself. Five years, and I still felt like a fool whenever I thought of him. And yet… the ache was undeniable.
I stepped out, dragging my bag over the wet pavement. The front door opened, and my mother appeared, leaning slightly on the frame for support, but smiling anyway.
"June," she whispered, her voice cracking just a little. "You're here."
I dropped my bag and hugged her as tightly as I could, pressing my cheek to hers. "I'm here, Mom. I'm here."
Her frail frame trembled slightly, and I could feel the strength she always projected melting into something human and vulnerable. "I'm glad," she said. "I've missed you."
"I've missed you too," I said, almost choking on the words. It was true, more than I cared to admit.
The first evening passed slowly, a mixture of unpacking, catching up, and helping her settle into a comfortable chair with a blanket over her legs. David stayed with me, quietly supportive, making sure I had a moment to breathe and eat. I barely touched the food. My mind kept drifting, circling back to memories I didn't want to revisit—memories of Noah, of laughter and arguments, of promises and silent betrayals.
Later, when Mom fell asleep with a book in her lap, I sat in the living room, staring out at the rain-dark streets. I could feel exhaustion weighing me down, but sleep wouldn't come easily. My chest tightened again, a familiar ache, and I could feel the shadow of the past lingering.
I thought about that Sunday morning, five years ago, when everything had ended with a few lines on a screen. The words were simple, almost clinical:
"This relationship is no longer working for me. We've been fighting a lot for four months now and it has taken a toll on this relationship and our bond. I've sort of mentally checked out of this."
I stared at the phone for what felt like hours, frozen. And yet, the pain had only come later—the quiet, slow-cracking kind that eats at your chest when the adrenaline fades.
I rubbed my temples, feeling the tension. The anger had never fully left me. The shock lingered, even now. I hated him. I hated him for leaving. For making me feel like I wasn't enough.
I think David had noticed me zoning out and sat down across from me, a mug in his hands. "You okay?" he asked gently.
I forced a small smile. "Yeah… I just… a lot to process."
I took the mug and sipped the tea. Warmth spread through me, and I realized I'd forgotten how comforting a quiet presence could be.
By the time I went to bed, I was utterly exhausted, I just showered, changed into the pajamas I had packed, and crawled into my old bed. It felt both familiar and foreign. I stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep, listening to the quiet hum of the city outside.
I remembered Noah. Not just his face, or the sound of his voice, but the way we had felt when we were together. Close. Safe. At peace. And the way it had all ended so abruptly, so carelessly.
Sleep finally came in fits and starts. Dreams came too. Cut short and bittersweet. There was laughter in cafes, stolen kisses on rainy afternoons, and in his office, arguments that never resolved, movie nights and dates. I woke several times, heart pounding, trying to steady my breathing. By the early morning, the rain had stopped. The streets glistened with a fresh layer of wet, and sunlight broke through the clouds.
I dressed quickly, packed a small bag for the hospital, went to get my mum ready too and grabbed my umbrella. David was waiting downstairs, leaning against the car. "Good morning," he said with a teasing smile.
"Morning," I muttered, trying to mask the nerves coiling in my stomach.
As we drove through the quiet streets toward the hospital, I kept my gaze on the passing buildings, the trees still dripping with rain, anything but the empty space inside me that still whispered Noah's name.