Chapter 4: Homesick

Natalie’s POV

The apartment felt louder after he left.

Not in sound, but in absence.

The echo of his laugh still sat in the hallway. His cologne clung to the blanket I refused to wash. There were two cups in the sink—one black coffee, one half-drunk caramel macchiato—and I couldn’t bring myself to rinse either.

I hated this part. The aftermath.

When Luciono was here, London felt like a layover. Temporary. Tolerable.

But now?

Now the quiet felt like concrete, and the air pressed against my chest like homesickness had taken physical form.

I sat curled up on the edge of my bed, wearing his hoodie—which he absolutely knew I’d stolen—and stared out at the grey London skyline. It was beautiful, yes. But it wasn’t home.

It didn’t smell like Brooklyn after rain. It didn’t hum with the sound of my mother humming along to Spanish ballads. It didn’t feel like Luciono’s ridiculous laughter at 2 a.m. after watching terrible movies.

It didn’t feel like me anymore.

I grabbed my phone before I could talk myself out of it and dialed the number I knew better than my own.

It rang once.

Then again.

“Mija!” my mom’s voice burst through the speaker like sunlight.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. “Hi, Mami.”

“You sound tired. You sick? Did you eat? You better not be skipping meals again like when you tried that ridiculous juice cleanse—”

“I’m not sick,” I cut in softly. “I’m just… homesick.”

Silence on the other end.

Then, quieter, “Ay, mi amor. Talk to me.”

I blinked up at the ceiling. “It hit me when he left.”

“Luciono?”

“Yeah. He didn’t even do anything big. Just… existed. Laughed. Made dinner with me. Argued over music. God, Mami, he made the apartment feel like me again.”

There was a pause. The kind only mothers know how to leave open wide enough to let you spill your whole heart in it.

“And now?” she asked gently.

“I feel like I don’t belong here anymore.”

“Because of him?”

“Not just him,” I said. “Because of you. Because of… everything. I miss Sunday mornings and the way the sun hits our old front porch. I miss bagels from Tony’s and the bodega cat on 4th that always tried to climb in my bag. I miss hearing Spanish without it being exoticized. I miss feeling normal.”

“And what are you thinking?”

I inhaled.

And for the first time in months, the air didn’t feel heavy. It felt clear.

“I think I’m coming home,” I said. “Not forever, maybe. But for a while. I want to open a second branch of the studio in New York. I’ve been running numbers, and I think I can actually do it. Midtown would be perfect.”

My mom didn’t answer right away.

Then I heard it—her crying.

“Mami, don’t—”

“I’m just so happy,” she whispered. “Your room is exactly how you left it. I dust it every week. Dios mío, you’re coming back.”

“I’m not moving back in with you,” I laughed through my own tears. “You snore and hoard ceramic roosters.”

“They are vintage collectibles.”

“They are haunted.”

She laughed. God, I missed that laugh.

“One more thing,” I added quickly, straightening up.

“Anything.”

“Don’t tell Luciono.”

Another pause.

“Not even a hint?”

“Not even a smirk. I want to surprise him.”

“You know he still loves you, right?”

My stomach twisted.

I froze.

Then I laughed—too quickly, too loudly. “Mami. Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying what’s obvious.”

“We’re friends,” I said firmly. “That’s all we’ve ever been. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Maybe to you.”

I sighed. “Mami, please. I’m already making a massive life decision. Don’t pile on fairy tales.”

She hummed thoughtfully, and I could practically hear her shaking her head on the other end. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, mija. I just know what I see. And I’ve seen how he looks at you—like you hung the moon.”

I let the silence settle again.

Then gently, “I miss you. That’s why I’m coming home. Not because of some maybe-feelings. Just… because it’s time.”

“I understand,” she said softly. “And I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mami.”

“Call me as soon as you land. I’ll stock the fridge with everything you like. Even those overpriced granola bars you pretend are healthy.”

“They are healthy.”

“They taste like cardboard.”

I smiled. “Love you.”

“Love you more.”

We hung up, and for a second, I just sat there, phone resting against my chest, staring out the window.

The sky had darkened, and the city lights below sparkled like a glittering promise I didn’t believe in anymore.

I got up, padded to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water—and opened my laptop.

If I was going to do this, I needed a plan. A space. A home base for my designs, somewhere I could build something real.

New York wasn’t going to wait.

I opened a real estate search engine, fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment.

Then, slowly, I typed:

“Retail studio space. Manhattan. Boutique. Large windows.”

And just like that, the first pieces of my return began to fall into place.

Not for him. Not for anyone else.

Just… for me.

And maybe, someday, something more.