Baby It's You

Chapter 1.

What little light crept in through your window was fading quickly as you looked up from your pile of papers, the ones you never thought you'd be able to get through. It was in the moments like these, and god only knew there were enough of them, that you really did not know why you were doing this. 

A phD in astrophysics, the last thing your 5-year-old self could have seen coming. Granted, your 5-year-old self had been dead set on being a princess, but it was the thought that mattered here. It had been your seventh birthday that had got you into this mess, that and the observatory just down the road that seemed like such a great place to hide out with girls in your teenage years until you realised that it was the space you really cared about, not the girls at all. A startling discovery, but one that had set you on the long and winding path all the same. 

And now you had to wish that you had stuck with the girls - still at school at thirty-two, you were well past ready to be back home when all of this was over. Four more months here in New York loomed ahead of you, ominous as the workload on your desk, and then another year at Cambridge before you could be free. And then what? A job, a house, a life you had been putting off for so many years because, truth be told, you had no clue how you were meant to do it all. Thirty-two, time to get married, half a decade since all your friends had settled down and had children, decided on the life they were meant to lead. You still had no idea what you were meant to do. 

You got up to close the curtains, try to keep some of the warmth in now that the heating was broken and the nights surprisingly cold. You missed the cold of Southern England, the way the winter seemed to sweep you off your feet and land you in the sitting-room by the fire every evening, never quite snowing but frosty and white on a morning. Now that you thought about it, you missed everything about that other life you had put on hold to be here. Your apartment in London and the way you could almost see over to Trafalgar Square if you looked hard enough out of your bedroom window, your tiny black-and-white television which just about still worked when you sat down to watch the news each night, most of all your cats, Lennon and McCartney, who should be waiting up for you at the window at around this time. They always seemed to know when you were getting home in the evenings, and they sat around watching the door the way that no one did here. Your roommates were nice enough, sure, but they had nothing on those two cats of yours. 

Outside the window the evening post was passing by from door to door, emptying the mailboxes of the last of the day's letters and packages. There was something oddly nice about watching them - there were lives in those letters, people you had never met and things you would never know, despite your goddamn phD. There was a meaning in each letter, and in each it meant something entirely different. Sometimes when you were lying awake at night you tried to imagine the faces of the people who would read them. A grandmother or a son or a sister or a friend. You hadn't written to your family in such a long time. 

You hadn't written to your boyfriend either. These long nights were getting shorter, the sun staying up as you worked and worked into the night, the work-days getting longer too. When at last you found yourself looking up from your desk after midnight every night, there was no time to write or call, and anyways the nearest phone was down the street at the corner of the pavement. A long way to walk, and you could barely think straight by the time you finished working. Sleeping was easier than fixing your life. Sleeping was easier than most things, come to think of it. 

Sitting back down again you took a shaky breath, set a clean sheet of writing paper out in front of you. You realised you had no idea what you were meant to say. 

Dear Ben, 

Sorry I haven't written in so very long - you must forgive me, I've been working hard. I think they must have changed the syllabus just to keep me on my toes (it certainly feels like it!). New York is... nice? I wish that you could be here with me, if only to call me a perpetual grump for all this pessimism I'm falling into. Again, you really must forgive me. For someone who is dreaming of space every night, I do seem to complain about travelling a lot. You're not allowed to tell me that yourself, by the way, or else I really will cry. I have very little patience and absolutely no self-confidence left after this god-awful phD "journey". As apostrophed because I had thought I would be going somewhere with this course or even this letter, and in both cases I find myself now chasing my tail, a lot more frustrated and emotionally lost than I was before. 

I do miss you dearly, but I'm also very much convinced that you would be laughing at me if you were here right now. If you only knew the awful life choices I've made since I haven't had you here to be my impulse control. I've been quite the nightmare, all these late nights and staying up on only coffee. You'd be quite frantic if you only knew the half of it, my love! 

New York is awful and I hate it. There's so much... people. It's so damn loud I can't hear myself think, and I swear to god I heard someone getting shot the other night. The pigeons outside my bedroom window, at least, are having a very exciting time, what with their unbelievable sex life. I can't believe a pair of pigeons (I'm fairly certain it's a different female every night, too, so there's even more drama in that) are getting some more than I am! Yet another reason why you really should be here right now. 

Do you know we have no radio nor television in our apartment? It's ghastly - I have no idea what's going on in the world and I feel quite as though I am living in a cave. The other week a girl in my lecture was talking about a band on tour near here, but I had no idea what she was talking about, and it was ever so frustrating. Queen, I think they were called. Such a nice name... I broke my old cassette player a week or so ago and I'm quite distraught because they are so very expensive and I really did love it a lot. You gave it to me as a present, two Christmases ago. God, it feels like ages. I don't know how I shall last these last four months without you. I shall feel so terribly lonely. Are you alone right now? You never used to be. But now that I am away... Save your love for me, my dear. Wait for me; please. 

I hope you haven't forgotten me yet, over there. I know I've been a way ever so long but you really must tell them all how I am. Do Lennon and McCartney miss me awfully? As soon as I am home in November we really must have another night in, just us and them. Watch Princess Bride, like old times. I miss it all disastrously; we haven't been ourselves since forever. Do tell my brother I miss him too. I think I might be back in time for the wedding - I'm not entirely sure. I shall try to be. Then you and I can go together, like we planned. Really surprise them when they see me there too! 

I love you and I miss you and I'm counting down the days until I can be back with you again. 

In the meantime, I will think of you 'as you wish', 

(Y/N) xx

You signed off at the end of the letter, folded it up and put it in an envelope. Tomorrow morning as you left for class you would post it, and that would be that. He would at least know that you were alive. Addressing the envelope was a little more difficult. He had moved just before you left, to somewhere in Surrey. Some way from your London apartment, and you had still been figuring out the street names and directions when you had left. You had the building so clearly in your mind, memorised just in case, but the apartment was all a blur. It might have been number 16 maybe? Or was it number 17? 17. It had to be. Racking your brains for some kind of memory you came up with the blurry image of a number 17 on a neat black door. You wrote it quickly, pushed the envelope away to the corner of your desk. 

With a deep sigh and a silent curse, you took up the pages of notes from their pile, pulled them over to you. More to do, and so little time. You took a long breath in and made a start. 

________________________________________________________________________________

The next morning was bright and warm, the sun painting the tops of the buildings a soft gold as you stepped outside your apartment building, satchel and letter in hand. Dropping off the letter as you stepped out onto the street, you thought no more of it. You set off down the street, picking up a coffee from the little vendor on the corner, and made your way to class.