The sea wind stings my face, cold and unforgiving, as I stand at the railing and look back at the dock. And there she is—arms crossed, weight shifted to one side, staring up at me with that familiar expression of irritation, like I’m the one being difficult. Which, for once, I am not. She’s the one who decided to be impossible. England? Has she lost what little sense she had left?

I told her the truth, the way I always do, whether she likes it or not. England is no better than America. Maybe worse. She thinks she’ll see the world, that it’ll be some grand adventure, but I know what waits for her there—sideways glances, muttered insults, doors closed in her face. The British aren’t saints, and I’m no liar. I wasn’t about to let her walk into that mess with nothing but a sharp tongue and reckless courage. Those might serve her here, but in London? They’d get her trampled in the street.

But of course, she didn’t listen. Never listens. She just got angry, said things she knew would get under my skin, and I—being the absolute fool that I am—let her. Now she’s standing there, still fuming, and I... well, I don’t know when I’ll see her again. I don’t like that feeling. I don’t like the way my chest feels tight or the way I keep looking back at her when I should be turning away.

I could have said something meaningful. Something honest. Something that didn’t sound like a bloody joke. But instead, I smirk and call out to her, voice carrying over the water. "Try not to get yourself shot while I’m gone. I’d rather not come back just to avenge your sorry hide." It’s easier that way. Easier than telling her I’ll miss her.

The boat pulls farther from the dock, and she gets smaller and smaller, but I know she’s still watching me. Just like I’m watching her. I tell myself this isn’t the last time. That I’ll be back. That she’ll still be here, just as impossible, just as infuriating, just as her. And maybe, next time, I won’t be such a bloody coward.