Ch 1

The city didn't feel like home at first.

Brisbane had always been bright to me — its skyline glinting like a promise of the future — but the morning I flew back, it just looked cold. I remember stepping out of the airport into that dry city air, watching cabs streak past as if the world had decided to move on without me.

I told myself I'd do the same.

My flat sat near Queen Street Mall, wedged between a coffee shop and a Korean mart that never seemed to close. From my balcony, I could see the Brisbane River curve beneath the Victoria Bridge, the ferries gliding slow and certain — everything here was moving with purpose. Everyone had somewhere to go.

I did too.Just not back to her.

The first week, I tried to fill my days with noise — classes, shifts at the hospital, the constant hum of the city. But even in all that sound, there were pockets of quiet where her name lived. When I'd walk down George Street and pass the buskers singing love songs, I'd hear her voice in between the chords. When I'd pour my morning coffee, I'd remember how she used to hum before sunrise.

Lea had left a kind of echo in me that no amount of city noise could drown out.

Still, I got up every day. I went to class. I took notes. I practiced my sutures. I smiled at patients who didn't know that my heart still ached for someone oceans away. I kept moving because that was the only thing that kept me from falling apart.

At night, I'd walk along South Bank — the air smelling faintly of jacarandas — and watch the lights shimmer across the water. Sometimes I'd sit on one of the benches facing the Wheel of Brisbane, just letting the hum of the city fill the space where her laughter used to be.

There were moments when I almost called her. Almost.

But I remembered why I said no.

Because love wasn't enough when weighed against responsibility — against the oath I was building my life around. Lea was a dream I got to live, but dreams, by nature, aren't meant to be permanent.

It was fun. It was love. It was real. And it was over.

I kept telling myself that. Over and over. Like a prescription for the soul.

When people asked if I was seeing anyone, I'd smile and say, "Not right now. Maybe in the future."

And when they asked if I ever wanted kids, I'd smile the same way and say, "Perhaps someday."

But the truth was, I couldn't picture anyone else. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Some nights, I'd come home from a twelve-hour shift, throw my bag on the couch, and collapse beside the window. The lights of Brisbane City stretched endlessly below — taxis crawling like fireflies, skyscrapers glowing in sterile blues and golds.

It was beautiful. And it was lonely.

I missed her. Every day.

But I also missed myself — the version that had existed before her. The one who had dreams not tied to another person's orbit.

So I started piecing that girl back together.

One lecture.One patient.One quiet morning at a time.

And slowly, the ache became a part of me — not heavy anymore, just... honest. A reminder that I once loved deeply enough to walk away.

When I finally finished my nursing degree, I stood on that graduation stage and looked out at the crowd. I thought of her — of how she would've teased me for crying in my toga, of how proud she would've been.

I whispered her name in my head like a prayer, and then I let it go.

Because love like ours doesn't need to be rekindled to stay alive.

It just lingers — quiet, eternal, like the hum of the city below my window — reminding me that even the ones who leave can still shape the person you become.