Chapter Nine :
The rain in São Paulo had been relentless for days. It wasn't the gentle kind that brings nostalgia or the soft drizzle lovers walk under. No-this was harsh, pounding, and cold, mirroring the weight in Joyce's chest.
She sat on her narrow bed inside her modest apartment provided by the institution, staring at her phone screen, watching the "Last seen 3 hours ago" status under James's name on WhatsApp. Her message still read "Delivered." Not read. Not replied. Again.
It was now the third day since James had gone quiet. No calls. No "I miss you." No silly voice notes singing badly in French. Nothing. And it wasn't like him.
This was the same James who used to wake her up with video calls even before the sun reached Brazil. The man who once mailed her a handwritten letter scented with his cologne because he said "texts are too dry to carry my love."
They had made a promise. One year. Just one year. Then back to the UK, to build the life they dreamed of - him on stage, her on the other side of the stage confirming, the words and realty of his songs through her dance . And married. That was the core of it all. Joyce had already pictured the stage and the performance.
But now... her fingers hovered over the screen, hesitating to call again.
What if he doesn't pick again?
What if he's...with someone?
The thought stabbed deep. Joyce sat back, pulling her knees to her chest, fighting the creeping chill of doubt.
Across the world, somewhere in Lyon, James was living a life she could no longer see.
Some months ago, things were different. James would call her from his favorite bench outside the Conservatoire. They would talk about their days, their future, the awkward food in France. He once spent two hours walking around Lyon just to show her his favorite spots over a video call.
But now... it was silence. He had said, "Things are just busy, babe. Rehearsals, late nights, networking... you know how this is."
Yes, she knew. She was just as busy. Her own days were full of constant dance rehearsal, choreography, listening to music to make dance steps out of it etc, meetings, and Portuguese classes. But she never let that stop her from making time for him.
So why was James now so... cold?
A stranger's kindness
Joyce's thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Oi, Joyce!" called out Rafael, her mentor and instructor. The same one who had helped her adjust to Brazil, who offered rides from late classes, who always seemed a little too interested.
She opened the door with a polite smile.
"Hey, Rafael."
"I brought coffee. You looked stressed yesterday," he said with a gentle smile, handing her a steaming cup.
Joyce hesitated before taking it. "Thanks... that's kind."
Rafael leaned against the wall, watching her with soft eyes. "You know, I've never met someone so focused and passionate like you. You remind me why I love teaching."
She laughed awkwardly. "Well, I'm just trying to stay grounded... One more month, and I'll be back in the UK. James will be too."
Rafael's smile dimmed a little. "Right... your fiancé. Must be hard, the distance."
"It is," she whispered. "Really hard."
He nodded, and after a pause, said, "If he were me, he'd never let you feel alone like this."
That hit harder than she expected.
Joyce looked away. "He used to call me every day," she said quietly, surprising herself. "Now I don't even know if he still loves me."
France Has Its Secrets
Meanwhile, in Lyon, James was at rehearsal, his phone buzzing with a missed call.
"Joyce," read the screen.
He glanced at it, thumb hovering over the red button.
"James, we're ready for your solo!" the director yelled.
He sighed, put the phone in his pocket, and walked back on stage.
Later, in his room, the guilt hit him like a wave. He wasn't cheating. Not physically. But emotionally? He was drifting. His new friend Camille - soft-eyed, playful, and musically gifted - had started becoming his person. They walked home together, laughed in cafes, shared dreams...
He hadn't planned it. But Joyce was far. And his world was now here.
Yet when he looked at the photo of her beside his bed - Joyce in a yellow sundress, laughing in Hyde Park - his heart clenched.
She was still his. Wasn't she?
Joyce sat in bed that night, holding Rafael's coffee untouched. Her phone buzzed.
James. A message.
"Hey. Sorry. Things have just been crazy. Miss you tho. Hope ur well."
Three short lines. No warmth. No love. No heart emoji.
She stared at the screen for a long time, tears brimming. How did they go from "I'll never breathe without you" to "Hope ur well"?
She wanted to scream. But she typed instead:
> "I don't know what's happening with us. But I still love you. And I'm still waiting. But this is breaking me."
She hit send, wiped a tear, and whispered to herself, "You promised me".
Joyce didn't sleep that night. Her body lay still, but her mind wouldn't rest.
The message stayed on the screen like a ghost. No reply. Just silence.
Morning light filtered through her blinds, casting long shadows across the floor. She sat up, weary-eyed, her body exhausted but her heart more so. This kind of love - long-distance, tethered to promises and fading texts - demanded more than what she felt she had left to give.
What if James was falling out of love?
What if Camille - whoever she was - had already taken her place?
But no. That wasn't James. Not the James she loved. Not the man who once knelt in the pouring rain outside Heathrow, holding a handwritten poem and telling her, "Distance is just geography. My heart knows where home is."
And yet... even soul-ties fray.
She closed her eyes, whispered a quiet prayer, unsure who she was praying to anymore.
"God... if he's not mine anymore, please... give me the strength to let go."
The silence in the room answered nothing.
In Lyon, James sat at the cafe near the opera house, his notebook open, his coffee cold.
He'd been trying to write back to Joyce for over an hour.
Not a text. A real letter. Like the one he once mailed from London with sprigs of lavender.
But every time he started, the words fell apart.
> Dear Joyce,
> I'm sorry for the silence. Things have been... changing. Not just around me, but inside me. And I don't know how to explain it without hurting you...
He scratched the page out.
He hated himself in that moment - for his cowardice, for the growing affection toward Camille, for not knowing if what he had with Joyce could survive the distance anymore.
Camille wasn't Joyce. She didn't know his childhood stories or the way he panicked in deep water. She didn't challenge him like Joyce did, didn't make his pulse race when she walked into a room.
But Camille was here.
Sometimes, presence outweighed history.
He folded the blank paper and shoved it into his bag.
Maybe tomorrow.
Three days. No reply.
Joyce woke up each day hoping to see a message, anything. But James remained a ghost, floating through her thoughts but never landing.
Rafael noticed the change.
"You're not yourself," he said after class one afternoon.
"I'm fine," Joyce said too quickly.
"You can talk to me. I mean it."
She almost did.
But saying it aloud - that the man who promised her forever might be letting her go - felt like defeat. Like opening a wound she wasn't ready to bleed from yet.
Rafael took a breath and handed her a slip of paper.
"My friend's organizing a music night at this bossa nova café. You should come. Get out of your head for a bit."
Joyce started to decline, but stopped.
Maybe distraction was medicine.
"Okay," she said, folding the paper into her journal.
Melody and Memory
The café was lit with warm golden lights, its ceiling strung with vintage records and hanging plants. A local band strummed soft chords onstage. The singer's voice dripped with saudade - that Portuguese word for a love you long for, but may never touch again.
Joyce closed her eyes and let the music fill her.
It reminded her of London. Of late-night drives with James, of how he sang off-key and made her laugh until her cheeks hurt.
And in that moment, a tear slipped down her cheek.
Not out of sadness - but from the brutal clarity of knowing she was starting to grieve something that hadn't even officially ended.
Camille knew.
She didn't have to ask James about Joyce. She could see it in the way his phone always lay face-down, or how his eyes grew distant when love songs played.
They sat in the park one day, sharing an ice cream, watching children run through fountains.
"James," she said softly. "Am I your escape... or your future?"
He looked at her. Honest. Kind. Torn.
"I don't know."
And that answer told her everything.
Joyce finally broke.
She called. No more texts. No more waiting.
After five rings, James picked up.
Silence.
Then, "Joyce."
Her name sounded unfamiliar on his tongue.
"Hi," she whispered.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice thick with something she couldn't name.
"For the silence?"
"For... all of it."
She blinked back tears. "Are you in love with someone else?"
A long pause.
"I... don't know."
That was worse than yes.
"Then I'll help you know. By leaving."
"Wait-Joyce, please-"
But she hung up.
Love was not supposed to feel like a battlefield of may be , that was her conclusion.
Two weeks passed.
Joyce stopped checking her phone.
She poured herself into her final projects, kept her prayers short and bitter, and turned down Rafael's invitations with a tired smile.
But one night, walking home from rehearsals, she looked up at the sky - a storm rolling in - and she felt something shift.
She'd spent weeks holding onto James like he was oxygen.
But what if love was also letting go?
She whispered into the wind, "If you were never mine, I release you."
And for the first time in weeks, she felt free.
Still in pain. But free.