I Packed Her Suitcase While She Cried and Said Monaco Only Felt Like Home With Me...

Morning hit the apartment before either of us was ready for it. Thin light cut across the hardwood from the balcony doors and landed straight on Amber's suitcase where we'd left it by the door. The patterned case I'd watched all night on the terrace was suddenly in my living room, wheels pressed against the baseboard, handle half-extended where she'd dropped it when we came in.

She was already awake. She sat on the edge of my bed in my black shirt from the night before, hair still pulled back, knees pulled up. Her pink top was folded over the chair. She hadn't moved the suitcase.

I didn't say anything at first. I got up and pulled the blinds a little more open and the marina wasn't there anymore, just the street below and a delivery truck double-parked, and that made it feel more real.

"You slept," she said.

"Barely," I said. I sat next to her. The mattress dipped. I could smell coffee from the apartment downstairs and her shampoo on the pillow.

We'd told ourselves around three in the morning that we'd figure it out in the morning. That had felt like a decision at the time.

Her phone lit up on the nightstand. She glanced at it, and her whole posture changed.

"I have to take this," she said. "It's work. Just two minutes."

She answered before I could nod. "Hey. Yes, I'm here. I'm still in Monaco."

I watched her listen. She tucked her hair behind her ear — the silver hoop caught the morning light — and picked at a loose thread on the shirt.

"No, I didn't miss the window. I can still make the afternoon check-in if I leave today," she said. Her voice went flatter, more professional. "I know. I know it's the first review. I just — I needed the extra night."

I stared at the suitcase while she talked. The wheels had picked up a little grit from the terrace.

Then she said, "Lyon. Yeah, the campus office. It's a full-week intensive to start, then remote after that. But they want me there in person for the orientation."

Lyon. Not Nice. Not a few days.

She kept talking. "I told them I'd be there. I want to be there. It's — it's the lead track. If I push it I lose the spot."

When she hung up she didn't look at me right away. She set the phone face-down and smoothed the blanket with both hands.

I waited a beat. My breathing sounded loud in the quiet room.

"Lyon?" I said.

She nodded. "It's a program. Through work. They offered it last month and I didn't know if I'd get it and then I did."

"How long is it really?" I asked.

She gave a small shrug, the way she did when she was trying to make something smaller than it was. "The intensive is eight days. Then I'm back, but I have to go back and forth. It's not — it's not a big deal. It's just training."

Eight days. Not a few. I felt the words from the terrace come back — I didn't think saying goodbye for a few days would hurt this much — and realized we hadn't been saying goodbye for a few days at all.

"You said a few days," I said. I kept my voice even.

"I know. I thought if I said a few it would be easier. For last night." She finally looked at me. Her eyes were tired, not teary yet. "It's not that I'm leaving leaving. It's career stuff. It's good. You should be happy I got it."

I picked up her phone and turned it over in my hand, then put it back down. My neck felt tight under the chain.

"I am happy you got it," I said. "Are you happy you got it?"

She laughed a little, but it wasn't real. "Of course."

"Then why'd you make it sound like nothing?" I asked.

She pulled her knees tighter. "Because every time I make it sound important you get that look. Like you're already missing me. And I didn't want last night to be about Lyon and schedules and trains."

I looked at the suitcase again. Morning light made every scuff on it visible.

"Amber," I said. "Is eight days the whole thing or is that just the start?"

She was quiet for a long time. The truck downstairs beeped in reverse.

"It's the start," she said, quiet. "If it goes well they want me to lead the next cohort. That would mean more travel. But that's not decided yet. Right now I just have to go. I have to be on the train today."

I nodded. I wanted to tell her to stay, and I knew I wouldn't. That wasn't the deal we'd made without saying it.

"Okay," I said. "So you have to go."

"I have to go," she said. She reached for my hand. Her fingers were cold. "I don't want you to think I picked this over you. I picked it because I need it. For me."

"I know," I said. And I did know. It didn't make the suitcase by the door look any smaller.

She leaned her head on my shoulder. I could feel her breathing, slow, trying to stay steady. We sat there with the light moving a little higher up the wall, both looking at the bag that was actually going to leave.

"You'll call me when you get there?" I asked.

"Every night," she said.