Chapter 4 DESTINATION REPEAT

He told me on a Wednesday.

Casually.

Like he was asking me to forward an email.

“Althea,” Mr. Pierce said, standing at the foot of my desk with that composed, unreadable face. “We’ll be going on a business trip.”

I looked up from my screen. “We?”

“Yes,” he replied. “My personal assistant is under the weather.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay.”

A pause.

“We’ll be traveling to Australia.”

The word hit me like a glass of ice water to the face.

Australia.

Of all the countries. Of all the continents. Of all the places in the world that existed and didn’t exist and should never have existed for me again.

Australia.

My throat closed.

For a split second, the office disappeared. The hum of keyboards faded. I was back in my kitchen, holding my phone, staring at snow in someone else’s hand. I heard his voice again. Some years. I heard his mother’s voice too, neat and poisonous.

We got him away from a girl like you.

I swallowed hard.

“When?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral through sheer force of will.

“Tomorrow night,” he said. “It’s a long flight. We’ll arrive Friday morning their time.”

Tomorrow.

I nodded once. “I’ll prepare.”

“Good,” he said. Then, softer, “Are you alright?”

There it was again.

That question.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

He studied me for a second, eyes sharp, but said nothing else. Just nodded and walked away.

Theo appeared beside me immediately.

“Say sike,” he whispered. “Please say sike.”

“Australia,” I murmured.

Theo’s face fell. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want me to fake an illness for you? I can cough convincingly. I can collapse if necessary.”

I gave a hollow smile. “I’ll survive.”

But the truth was, my body didn’t believe me.

That night, I didn’t pack properly. I threw things into my suitcase like I was running late for something I didn’t want to attend. Clothes. Chargers. Toiletries. No order. No intention. Just motion.

Sleep didn’t come.

When it did, it brought dreams I didn’t ask for.

Airports. Screens. Departures. Names I refused to say out loud.

By the time we reached the terminal the next evening, I felt hollowed out. Like something essential had been removed and replaced with noise-canceling headphones and denial.

Mr. Pierce met me at the gate.

He looked… normal. Calm. Collected. Like this was just another trip, another city, another set of meetings.

I hated him a little for that.

“Passport?” he asked.

I handed it over without speaking.

“Window or aisle?” he continued.

“Whatever’s quiet.”

He nodded. “Window.”

We boarded without small talk.

The plane was massive. Too massive. The kind of plane designed to make long distances feel inevitable. I took my seat by the window and immediately pulled out my headphones, shoving them into my ears before the seatbelt sign even turned off.

Music flooded my head.

Loud. Familiar. Safe.

I didn’t look at him.

I didn’t want to see his expression. Didn’t want to analyze silence, or politeness, or the way he might glance at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

So I pressed play again.

And again.

Hours passed.

At least, I think they did.

Time on long flights bends in strange ways. Minutes stretch. Hours collapse. The cabin lights dimmed and brightened like a slow, artificial sunrise. People slept. Woke. Slept again.

I didn’t sleep.

I stared out the window at nothing, listening to music that barely registered. Every few songs, I adjusted my headphones just to give my hands something to do.

I felt him shift beside me once.

Then again.

But he didn’t speak.

Not once.

At some point, boredom crept in. Not gentle boredom. The aggressive kind that gnaws at you when distraction fails. I scrolled through my phone. Closed it. Opened it again. Watched half a movie. Turned it off.

I wondered what he was thinking.

I wondered if he was always this quiet, or if silence was his way of respecting mine.

I hated that thought.

I hated that my brain was capable of wandering toward him when it had sworn loyalty to survival only.

The flight attendants moved through the aisles. Food trays. Plastic cups. Polite smiles. Everything felt surreal, like I was watching my life happen to someone else.

I caught my reflection in the dark window.

I looked tired. Pale. Distant.

I looked like someone traveling toward a place that had already taken something from her.

At some point, Mr. Pierce leaned slightly toward me.

“Althea.”

I stiffened.

I pulled one earcup off. “Yes?”

“Do you want anything?” he asked quietly. “Water? Coffee?”

I shook my head. “I’m okay.”

He nodded and leaned back.

That was it.

No conversation. No forced politeness. No awkward attempts to fill the silence.

Just distance.

The hours dragged on.

My legs ached. My back protested. My thoughts circled the same sharp edges over and over. Australia. Australia. Australia.

I imagined landing. Imagined the air. Imagined hearing the accent again. Imagined running into him somewhere ridiculous and cinematic, like the universe had a sense of humor.

I hated myself for imagining it.

When turbulence hit, I gripped the armrest without thinking.

I felt his arm tense beside me.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” I lied.

The turbulence passed. My heart took longer to settle.

Eventually, exhaustion won.

Not sleep. Just numbness.

I closed my eyes and let the music play without listening.

When I opened them again, the cabin lights were bright. The captain’s voice crackled over the speakers, announcing our descent.

My stomach flipped.

Australia.

The plane began its slow, inevitable descent.

I stared out the window as land came into view. Red-brown earth. Winding roads. A country that had never asked permission before entering my life and wrecking something delicate.

My chest tightened.

I pressed my headphones harder against my ears, even though nothing was playing now.

Beside me, Mr. Pierce sat upright, focused, unreadable.

As the plane touched down, the impact was gentle. Controlled.

Unlike everything else.

People clapped. Someone laughed. A child cheered softly.

I stayed still.

The seatbelt sign turned off.

Mr. Pierce stood, retrieving his bag. He glanced down at me.

“We’ve arrived,” he said.

I looked up at him, finally meeting his eyes.

“I know,” I replied.

Sharp.

Clean.

True.

I stood and stepped into the aisle, moving forward with the crowd, toward baggage claim, toward meetings, toward a country I hadn’t chosen.

Toward something waiting.

And as my feet touched Australian ground for the second time in my life, one thought rang clear and sharp in my mind—

I didn’t come here for closure.

But something was about to open anyway.