Chapter 8

Sebastian drove back to the harbor like a man being chased.

The photographers were gone. The assistants were gone. Only Camila remained near the dock, still in her formal outfit, the hem of her dress streaked with dust from the wooden planks.

She turned when she heard the car brake too hard at the curb.

“Sebastian?”

He got out and walked straight toward her.

“Where is Clara?”

“I don’t know.”

Sebastian turned away at once.

Camila caught his arm.

“You’re going after her?”

He pulled free.

“At the arena?” Camila let out a short laugh that sounded more hurt than amused. “Did you forget? Yesterday was her last shift. She finished the handover. She doesn’t work there anymore.”

Sebastian froze.

For the first time, the words truly landed.

Last shift. Handover. Gone.

Camila stepped closer, her voice breaking through the jealousy she had been trying to hide.

“You asked me to stand beside you and pretend I was your future. I did it. I played the part. But I’m not going to keep doing this while you run after her.”

Sebastian looked at her.

Whatever answer she wanted, he did not have it.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He only turned and walked back to the car.

Sebastian drove away, calling Clara’s old number again and again. Each time, the same automated voice answered.

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

Across the city, I was already at the airport.

The terminal lights were bright enough to make every corner look exposed. Aunt Theresa walked me to security and stopped behind the barrier.

“Call me when you land,” she said.

“I will.”

I passed through security and entered the waiting area alone. Boarding had not started yet, so I found a seat beside the window. Outside, runway lights blinked steadily through the dark.

My phone rested in my hand. The number was gone now, disconnected, and Sebastian had no way to call me.

Still, I made the mistake of opening an old social media account I had not touched in years. Notifications flooded the screen, but I ignored all of them until I saw the newest message request.

The profile picture showed an empty hockey rink beneath white lights. The username read BlueLine.

My heart lurched.

The preview only showed part of the message.

It’s me. Blue line. You...

My thumb hovered above the screen. One tap and I could read the rest. One tap and I could answer him. I wanted to ask how he had survived these years. I wanted to tell him I had never left willingly. Most of all, I wanted to tell him I still remembered the promise about the blue line.

But then I thought about Camila, about the wedding photos by the harbor, and about the future that already seemed to be waiting for him.

I turned the phone facedown in my lap without opening the message.

A moment later, the airport speakers crackled overhead.

“Passengers traveling to Auckland, please proceed to boarding.”

I stood, adjusted the strap of my bag, and stepped into line.

Sebastian was still driving when Nico called.

He answered through the car speakers.

“Where are you?” Nico asked.

“Looking for Clara.”

The line went silent for one terrible second.

Then Nico said, “Turn on the news.”

Sebastian’s grip tightened around the wheel.

“What?”

“Sebastian, turn on the news.”

There was no usual smile in Nico’s voice, no awkward joke, no attempt to soften the words.

Sebastian pulled over so sharply that the tires scraped against the curb. He switched on the dashboard screen.

A female anchor’s voice cut through the car.

“We interrupt regular programming with breaking news. Flight NZ-417, scheduled from this city to Auckland, disappeared from radar over the South Pacific shortly after takeoff. Search and rescue teams have been deployed. Authorities have not confirmed any survivors at this time.”