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liliovertherainbow

Jul 15

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What the Border Wouldn’t Let You Carry | Alexia Putellas

Summary: You can't give up everything, even if it's for the one person who means everything.

Word Count: 6.9k

Warnings: no use of Y/N

Masterlist

The lawyers never spoke cruelly.

That might have made it easier.

They were always careful with you, sitting across polished conference tables or appearing inside neat rectangles on Alexia’s laptop. They used patient voices and precise language. They explained each requirement, exception, and unlikely possibility as if they were guiding you through a difficult tactical problem.

No one ever said your work didn’t matter.

They didn’t have to.

The first lawyer came to your apartment in Barcelona on a Tuesday afternoon in March. Alexia had arranged the consultation through her representation before she’d even formally accepted London City’s offer. The woman arrived carrying a leather folder, declined coffee, and spent nearly two hours asking about your education, employment history, income, nationality, professional qualifications, and relationship.

You answered everything.

You’d worked in museum education for almost nine years, the last five at a cultural center in Barcelona. You managed accessibility programs, coordinated school visits, developed exhibitions with local artists, and ran community workshops for children who didn’t always have the money or opportunity to experience art outside their classrooms.

You loved it.

You loved the quiet hour before the doors opened, when the building seemed to hold its breath. You loved watching children approach a painting with suspicion before finding some small detail that belonged only to them. You loved the elderly visitors who came every Thursday and treated the café like their own dining room. You loved the years of relationships you’d built with teachers, artists, families, and community groups.

It was work that had taken time to become good at.

It was work you were proud to do.

The lawyer listened, made notes, and asked if you held any additional qualifications.

You told her about your master’s degree.

She asked if you’d ever worked in university-level research.

You hadn’t.

She asked if your current employer operated in the United Kingdom.

It didn’t.

She asked whether any British organization had offered to sponsor you.

Not yet.

Her pen stopped moving.

Alexia sat beside you on the sofa, one knee pressed against yours. She’d barely spoken during the consultation. Every few minutes, her thumb moved across the inside of your wrist as though she could soothe you without interrupting.

The lawyer closed one document and opened another.

“Your occupation may fall under several classifications depending on the exact responsibilities of a prospective role,” she said. “That gives us some room to explore. The difficulty will be finding an employer licensed and willing to sponsor the position at the required level and salary.”

“But it’s possible,” Alexia said.

The woman looked at her.

There was no recognition on her face, or at least none she allowed to show. Alexia was simply another client sitting in a sunlit apartment, asking for certainty where none existed.

“Possible isn’t the same as probable.”

Alexia’s hand tightened around yours.

“What does probable look like?”

“For you?” The lawyer glanced down at the section of her notes dedicated to Alexia. “Your club will handle your immigration status. Your professional record makes your case relatively straightforward.”

“And for her?”

The woman hesitated for only a second.

“That will be considerably more difficult.”

The late-afternoon light streamed through the balcony doors and stretched across the floor. Outside, Barcelona carried on without you. A motorbike passed below. Someone laughed from another balcony. A dog barked twice before being shushed.

You looked at the mug in your hands.

The coffee had gone cold.

“What if money isn’t an issue?” Alexia asked. “For applications, legal fees, anything necessary.”

“Money can give you excellent representation. It can make the process smoother. It can allow us to investigate every legitimate route.” The lawyer folded her hands over the folder. “It cannot create an eligible route where the requirements aren’t met.”

The answer seemed to offend something fundamental in Alexia.

You felt it in the way her leg became rigid against yours.

Alexia understood the rules. She’d spent her life inside them. Ninety minutes. Eleven players. A rectangular pitch with fixed boundaries. Contracts with clauses that could be negotiated if the right people sat at the right table.

She understood obstacles too. Injury. Rehabilitation. Coaches who underestimated her. Institutions that treated women’s football as a favor rather than a profession.

She had learned that if a door didn’t open, you pushed harder.

This wasn’t a door.

It was a wall built by people who would never know either of you existed.

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“We begin contacting employers. We look carefully at the nature of the roles rather than simply their titles. We explore whether your partner’s experience qualifies as an eligible occupation. We prepare for the possibility that it may take time.”

“How much time?”

“I can’t responsibly promise that.”

Alexia looked toward you.

You gave her the smallest smile you could manage.

It was meant to reassure her.

It didn’t.

By the end of March, you had three lawyers.

One specialized in employment sponsorship. Another handled complex immigration cases for high-net-worth clients and public figures. The third had been recommended by London City’s ownership group.

They worked from offices in Barcelona and London. They spoke with your employer, reviewed your contracts, translated your qualifications, and produced lists of organizations that might be able to hire someone with your experience.

No expense was spared.

It still didn’t change the answer.

The second lawyer was the first to mention marriage.

He did it carefully after nearly an hour spent reviewing the same qualifications, job classifications, and sponsorship requirements you already knew by heart.

“There is another potential route,” he said.

Alexia leaned forward immediately.

“What route?”

The lawyer glanced between you.

“If you were married, or if you could otherwise establish eligibility as long-term partners, she may be able to apply as your dependent.”

For one suspended second, the room changed.

Alexia’s fingers tightened around yours.

You had discussed marriage before. Not seriously enough to choose a date, but enough that it existed somewhere in the future you’d built together. It belonged to a quiet morning, a family dinner, a ring Alexia would overthink for months before pretending she hadn’t.

It had never belonged to a conference room.

It had never been meant to arrive as an immigration strategy.

Alexia looked at you, and you saw the hope before either of you understood the full answer.

“So she could come?” she asked.

“She could potentially live in the United Kingdom with you.”

“And work?”

His pause was brief.

It still answered the question.

“That would depend on the specific terms attached to the immigration arrangement secured through the club. We would need the final documentation before giving you a definitive answer. However, you should prepare for the possibility of restrictions that would prevent her from continuing paid employment.”

The hope disappeared from Alexia’s face.

You stared at the legal pad in front of you.

“So I could move,” you said slowly, “but I might not be allowed to work.”

“That is a possibility.”

“In any job?”

“Potentially.”

“And volunteering?”

“That may be permitted, provided it doesn’t amount to unpaid employment that would ordinarily be compensated.”

You nodded as though the distinction made sense.

It didn’t.

Alexia turned toward you.

“We could do that.”

Her voice was soft. Careful.

You knew what she meant.

You had enough money. More than enough. Alexia could support both of you without noticing the difference in her bank account. You could live in the house she’d chosen, travel when her schedule allowed, fill your days with dinners, charity appearances, language classes, and carefully approved volunteer work.

You could be with her.

You would simply have to stop being the version of yourself you’d spent nearly a decade becoming.

“I can’t,” you said.

Alexia went still.

The lawyer looked down at his papers, offering you the illusion of privacy.

“I don’t mean I won’t marry you,” you added quickly.

“I know.”

But the hurt was already there.

You reached for her hand.

“I love you. I want to marry you one day.”

“Then why can’t we do this?”

“Because I’d have to leave my work.”

“Only until we find another route.”

“And if we don’t?”

“We will.”

You looked at her.

She stopped.

For weeks, Alexia had spoken in certainties because anything else frightened her. There would be another lawyer. Another application. Another exception. Another route.

You couldn’t build your life around another promise that neither of you controlled.

“I’d wake up every morning in your house,” you said. “You’d leave for training, and I’d have nowhere I needed to be.”

“You could do anything you wanted.”

“Except work.”

“You could study. You could volunteer.”

“I don’t want to study for the sake of filling time. I don’t want to volunteer beside people doing the same work as me while knowing I’m not legally allowed to build a career from it.”

Her expression tightened.

“I’m not asking you to give up who you are.”

“You wouldn’t have to ask.”

You lowered your voice.

“That’s what the visa would require.”

Alexia pulled her hand away and stood. She crossed to the window, staring down at the street.

The lawyer remained silent.

You hated that the conversation had an audience. You hated that something as private as marriage had become another file on his desk.

“I can support you,” Alexia said.

“I know.”

“You’d never have to worry about money.”

“I know.”

“You could have anything.”

“Not anything.”

She turned.

You could see the frustration rising in her, sharpened by helplessness.

“You’d have me.”

“I already have you.”

“Not in London.”

The words struck hard enough that you had to look away.

Alexia’s face changed immediately.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you meant it.”

She came back to the table and crouched beside your chair.

“I meant that I want you there. I don’t mean that your work doesn’t matter.”

“I know you don’t.”

You took her face in your hands.

“That’s why I can’t do it.”

Her eyes filled.

You continued before you lost the nerve.

“If I leave everything and become dependent on you in every legal and financial sense, I’m afraid I’ll start resenting the life we built there.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might.”

“I wouldn’t let you.”

“You can’t control that.”

She closed her eyes.

“I love my work, Ale. I love having something that belongs to me. I love being good at something that has nothing to do with football or your name or the opportunities your career can give us.”

“You think people would see you as my wife.”

“I think immigration would.”

The word wife sat between you.

Under any other circumstances, it might have made Alexia smile.

Now she looked devastated.

“They’d call me your dependent,” you said. “That would be my legal status. Dependent on your contract. Dependent on your income. Dependent on whether London City renewed you.”

“You wouldn’t be dependent on me.”

“On paper, I would be.”

“You know that isn’t how I see you.”

“I do.”

You brushed your thumb beneath her eye.

“But I have to live inside my own life too.”

Alexia lowered her forehead to your knee.

The lawyer quietly excused himself to make coffee, leaving the two of you alone in the conference room.

“I hate that there’s a way,” she whispered, “and we still can’t take it.”

You rested your hand against the back of her head.

“There’s a way for me to exist beside you.”

“That’s not enough.”

“No.”

She looked up.

“I want you to have your own life there.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you waiting for me to come home every day.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to marry me because the government has made it the least impossible option.”

Your throat tightened.

“Neither do I.”

Marriage had always felt like something you would choose when the time was right.

Now it had been placed before you as a transaction.

Sign here.

Prove the relationship.

Give up your work.

Receive permission to remain beside the person you loved.

Alexia stood and pulled you into her arms.

“I would marry you tomorrow,” she said against your hair.

You held her tighter.

“I’d marry you tomorrow too.”

“Just not like this.”

“Not if it means disappearing.”

She pressed her lips to your temple.

“I couldn’t bear that.”

“Neither could I.”

That was the cruelty of it.

You had enough money to survive without your salary.

You had enough money for lawyers, applications, appeals, and every legitimate legal route worth pursuing.

What you didn’t have was a way to bring your whole life with you.

The United Kingdom might allow Alexia to carry you across the border as her dependent.

It simply wouldn’t promise to let you remain yourself once you arrived.

You sent applications to museums, galleries, charities, heritage organizations, and educational foundations throughout London.

You applied for positions beneath your level of experience because the titles sounded promising. You applied for jobs you didn’t really want because they came with a small line at the bottom of the advertisement about sponsorship being considered in exceptional circumstances.

You were exceptional, Alexia told you.

The employers disagreed.

Some rejected you within hours.

Others invited you to interviews, praised your experience, and apologized when the subject of immigration arose.

One director called personally. She told you that your community access programs were exactly the kind of work their organization wanted to develop. She asked intelligent questions about sensory-friendly exhibitions and multilingual family programming. For forty minutes, you felt like yourself again.

Then she asked whether you already had the right to work in the United Kingdom.

When you said no, her expression changed.

Not because she thought less of you.

Because she already knew what came next.

Their organization had a sponsorship license, she explained, but the position hadn’t been approved for international recruitment. The salary band was fixed. They couldn’t restructure the role. They couldn’t justify the administrative burden when qualified applicants were already permitted to work in the country.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Professionally, you’d be an excellent fit.”

You thanked her.

After the call ended, you remained at the dining table with your laptop open in front of you.

Alexia was at training. The apartment was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator and faint traffic from the street.

Professionally, you’d be an excellent fit.

Legally, you were an inconvenience.

The message from the lawyer sat unread beside the rejection email. It contained further information about the dependent route, documentation requirements, and the risks of committing to a status that could leave you unable to work.

You closed both windows.

Then you went to work.

That evening, you guided a group of teenagers through a new exhibition by a Catalan photographer. You helped one girl find the words to describe why a portrait of an empty kitchen made her feel lonely. You adjusted the route when another student became overwhelmed by the crowd. You stayed late to speak with their teacher about returning for a quieter session.

You were good at your job.

You knew you were good at it.

For the first time, knowing that hurt.

Alexia didn’t announce her decision immediately.

The club knew.

Her agent knew.

You knew.

The rest of the world continued to speculate.

Every training session produced another article. Every photograph of Alexia became evidence for a different theory. She was staying because she’d smiled during warmups. She was leaving because she hadn’t celebrated a goal intensely enough. She was retiring. She was moving to the United States. She was accepting an executive role at Barcelona. She was joining London City.

That last rumor was accurate, but it still felt unreal when you saw it written by strangers.

You watched people debate the decision as if they understood what it cost.

They discussed salary, ambition, legacy, playing time, and the appeal of joining an independent women’s club with plans to challenge England’s established powers.

No one mentioned your visa.

No one knew that Alexia had sat on the bathroom floor with you after the third lawyer confirmed that the dependent route would likely cost you the career you loved.

No one knew she’d asked whether she should refuse the offer.

You’d been brushing your teeth when she said it.

Her voice had been so quiet you initially thought you’d misheard her.

You turned off the tap.

“What?”

Alexia stood in the bathroom doorway wearing a faded Barcelona shirt and sleep shorts. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and there were shadows beneath her eyes from another night spent staring at the ceiling.

“I can say no.”

“To London?”

She nodded.

You set your toothbrush beside the sink.

“Alexia.”

“I haven’t signed.”

“You’ve agreed.”

“Verbally. It isn’t finished.”

“You want to go.”

“I want you with me.”

The words made your chest ache.

You dried your hands slowly, buying time to arrange your thoughts.

“We knew there was a possibility I wouldn’t be able to come.”

“We knew it would be complicated.”

“We knew it might be impossible.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You said that. The lawyers said that. I didn’t believe it.”

You almost smiled because it was such an Alexia answer.

She moved closer.

“I thought we’d find someone better. Another lawyer. A different job classification. Some exception no one had considered.”

“We did find better lawyers.”

“Then better than them.”

“There are only so many lawyers in Europe, amor.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.”

Her eyes filled with a frustration that had followed her for weeks. It had become part of the apartment, moving with her from room to room. She carried it into bed, into breakfast, into phone calls with her agent. It lived in the tense line of her shoulders and the way she checked your email more anxiously than you did.

“I can stay,” she said again.

“You could.”

Her face shifted.

She hadn’t expected you to agree.

You stepped closer and rested your hands against her waist.

“You could stay, and we’d still have this apartment. I’d still go to work every morning. You’d still know all the roads without using your phone. Your family would still be close. We’d have dinner with Alba on Sundays, and we wouldn’t need to calculate how many days a visitor is allowed to spend in another country.”

“Then I stay.”

“But every time London City played, part of you would wonder.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You would.”

She looked away.

You touched her cheek, guiding her attention back to you.

“You’ve given everything to Barcelona.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve finished.”

“That isn’t what I mean. You’ve given this club your childhood, your knee, your best years, every version of yourself you knew how to give. Wanting to discover who you are somewhere else doesn’t mean you love it less.”

Her mouth tightened.

“You sound like my agent.”

“Your agent is very wise.”

“My agent doesn’t sleep beside me.”

“Thank God.”

She almost laughed.

It didn’t last.

“What happens to us?” she asked.

There it was.

Not the contract.

Not London.

Not whether she could adjust to England’s weather or a new league or teammates who had grown up watching her on television.

Us.

You lowered your hands from her waist.

“I don’t know.”

Her expression crumpled before she controlled it.

You hated yourself for giving her the truth, but you’d made too many promises to each other to begin lying now.

“I know what I want,” you continued. “I want to go with you. I want to complain about the rain and pretend I don’t like the house you chose. I want to find a job there and build a life with you. I’ve done everything they’ve asked, and I’ll keep trying.”

“But?”

“But loving you doesn’t give me the legal right to live in the same country as you without giving up something I can’t bear to lose.”

Alexia turned away sharply.

She lowered herself onto the closed toilet lid, elbows resting on her knees. You watched her press both hands against her face.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate that they can decide this.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I can sign one piece of paper and move, and you need strangers to decide whether the work you’ve spent your life building is valuable enough.”

The last words broke in her throat.

You sat on the tiled floor in front of her.

Alexia immediately reached down, pulling you closer until you were kneeling between her legs. She cradled your face with both hands.

“Your work matters.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

You swallowed.

“I did before all of this.”

Her eyes closed.

You hadn’t meant the admission as an accusation. It still wounded her.

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do it.”

“I’m still sorry.”

She bent until her forehead rested against yours.

You stayed on the bathroom floor for a long time. The overhead light was too bright. Your knees began to hurt against the tile. Neither of you moved.

Eventually, Alexia whispered, “I don’t want to leave you.”

“You aren’t leaving me.”

“It feels exactly like that.”

The official announcement came two days after Barcelona’s final match.

By then, most of Alexia’s belongings had already been divided into three categories.

London.

Storage.

Yours.

The categories didn’t work particularly well.

Half the clothes marked for London migrated back into the wardrobe because you weren’t ready to watch her pack them. She kept placing things in your pile that clearly belonged to her, claiming she wanted you to have them. You accused her of trying to avoid exceeding the airline’s baggage limit.

She bought a house in England rather than renting.

You learned about it through a video tour conducted by an estate agent who called you both “ladies” with relentless cheerfulness. The property was in a quiet area with enough privacy for Alexia, a garden neither of you knew how to maintain, and a spare room that she immediately referred to as your office.

You didn’t correct her.

The announcement video was filmed with the club’s owner. Alexia wore the new colors and spoke about ambition, identity, and the future of women’s football. She looked composed and certain.

You watched from your office at the cultural center.

Your coworkers had gathered around your computer, whispering excitedly as the video began. Most of them knew Alexia. They’d met her at exhibition openings or staff dinners. They knew she sent coffee to the entire building when a program you’d designed won a national award. They knew she sometimes appeared thirty minutes before closing, leaning against the reception desk until you finished work.

They knew you were trying to move.

They didn’t know you’d received another rejection that morning.

When Alexia appeared wearing the London City shirt, the room erupted.

Your closest colleague grabbed your shoulders.

“She looks incredible.”

“She does.”

“You must be so proud.”

“I am.”

“When do you leave?”

The question came from somewhere behind you.

You kept your eyes on the screen.

Alexia was talking about challenging herself.

“I’m not.”

The excitement faded so quickly that you could feel it leave the room.

Your colleague’s hands loosened on your shoulders.

“What do you mean?”

“The visa isn’t happening.”

“But with Alexia’s club…”

“They’ve tried.”

“And the lawyers?”

“They’ve tried too.”

Someone muttered a curse under their breath.

Your colleague lowered her voice.

“Couldn’t you marry her?”

The question was gentle.

That made it worse.

You stared at the screen.

“We could.”

Her confusion deepened.

“But I wouldn’t be able to keep working.”

The room became quiet.

You didn’t explain further.

You didn’t tell them that Alexia had offered to support you before you could even calculate the cost. You didn’t tell them that you could live comfortably for the rest of your life without earning another salary.

That had never been the point.

Money paid for the apartment you shared and the food on your table. Your work gave shape to your days. It gave you relationships, responsibility, confidence, and an identity that belonged entirely to you.

You didn’t know who you’d become if you surrendered it to follow Alexia.

You were afraid that one day you’d look at the woman you loved and blame her for a sacrifice she had begged you not to make.

“It’s okay,” you said.

It wasn’t.

You’d begun saying it anyway.

The farewell at Camp Nou belonged to Alexia.

You made sure of that.

You stood with her family and watched the stadium honor fourteen years of her life. You watched highlights of the girl she’d been and the woman she’d become. The screens showed goals, trophies, celebrations, and the long walk back from injury.

The supporters sang her name.

Alexia cried without hiding it.

You cried too.

For Barcelona.

For her.

For yourself.

When she thanked the club, her teammates, her family, and everyone who had carried her through the years, her eyes found you.

She didn’t name you.

She didn’t need to.

You knew the look she gave you. You’d seen it across crowded rooms, airport terminals, hospital corridors, and football pitches. It was the look that had always meant home.

For the first time, home was becoming two places.

Afterward, the celebrations continued in a private suite. Former teammates embraced her. Staff members told stories. Her mother held her face between both hands and kissed her forehead as though Alexia were still a child returning from her first training session.

You slipped out into a quiet corridor.

The stadium sounded different from there. The singing became a distant vibration through the concrete. You leaned against the wall and tried to breathe through the pressure building in your chest.

The door opened a minute later.

You didn’t have to look to know who had followed you.

Alexia stopped beside you.

“You disappeared.”

“I needed a minute.”

She studied your face.

“You said that seventeen minutes ago before disappearing from the party.”

“You’re counting?”

“I always know where you are.”

The words hurt more than she intended.

Her expression changed immediately.

“Amor.”

“I know.”

She reached for you, but you folded your arms across your chest.

Not to reject her.

To keep yourself together.

“This is your night.”

“It’s ours.”

“No. It isn’t.”

Her forehead creased.

You looked toward the closed door.

“Everything in there belongs to you. The memories. The people. The years. I don’t want my sadness to take up space tonight.”

“You’re part of those years.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t stand in a corridor pretending you aren’t.”

You looked at her.

She was still wearing the suit she’d chosen for the ceremony, though the jacket was open now. Her eyes were red from crying. A strand of hair had fallen loose near her face.

“You’re leaving in twelve days.”

Her lips parted.

You’d both known the date for weeks.

Saying it in the stadium made it real.

“I know.”

“I thought I was handling it.”

“You don’t have to handle it.”

“I do. Everyone keeps looking at me like I’m the tragic partner being abandoned for football.”

“I’m not abandoning you.”

“I know that.”

The answer came too quickly and too loudly. You lowered your voice.

“I know you’re not. That’s what makes this so hard. I can’t even be angry with you.”

“You can.”

“For what? Taking an opportunity you earned? Wanting something after giving your entire life to one club? Believing me when I said we’d find a way?”

Alexia stared at you.

You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek, trying to stop the tears.

“I applied for another job last week.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want you waiting for another answer.”

“What happened?”

“They offered it to someone who didn’t need sponsorship.”

Her eyes closed briefly.

“They said I was the strongest candidate.”

“Of course you were.”

“But not strong enough to make the paperwork worthwhile.”

“That isn’t what it means.”

“It’s exactly what it means.”

“No.” Alexia moved in front of you. “It means their system is broken.”

“A system can be broken and still decide what happens to my life.”

She took your hands despite the way you’d folded them against yourself.

“You have a life here.”

“I know.”

“You have work you love.”

“I know.”

“You have friends, people who depend on you, an entire community you built.”

“I know, Alexia.”

“You aren’t being left with nothing.”

“I don’t want to be grateful that I’m only losing you.”

The words silenced both of you.

You tried to pull your hands away.

She held on.

Not forcefully.

Desperately.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” Her voice trembled. “Don’t apologize for that.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“You did.”

Tears slipped down her face.

“You meant it because it’s true.”

You let her pull you closer.

The first contact was awkward; both of you were still too tense to soften. Then Alexia wrapped her arms fully around you, and whatever remained of your composure disappeared.

You pressed your face into her shoulder.

“I want to go with you.”

“I know.”

“I want to see the house.”

“It’s yours too.”

“I want to hate London until it becomes home.”

Her arms tightened around you.

“I want that.”

“I don’t want to visit you. I don’t want to count days or keep clothes in a suitcase or ask border officers how long I’m allowed to stay with the woman I love.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want our life to become evidence in a legal application.”

Alexia made a broken sound against your hair.

For months, lawyers had requested proof.

Joint bills.

Travel records.

Photographs.

Messages.

Evidence that your relationship was genuine and continuing.

Years of love had been reduced to documents organized inside electronic folders.

You had photographs of birthdays, holidays, hospital visits, ordinary dinners, and sleepy mornings. You had lease agreements and shared accounts. You had thousands of messages.

None of it had produced the outcome you needed.

Alexia drew back enough to look at you.

“I’ll come back whenever I can.”

“You’ll be playing.”

“There are breaks.”

“You’ll have Spain.”

“I’ll make time.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can.”

“Alexia.”

“I can promise that I’ll try.”

You touched the dampness beneath her eye with your thumb.

“That’s different.”

“Then I promise I’ll try.”

You nodded.

It was the only honest promise either of you had left.

The last night in the apartment wasn’t romantic.

The bed had been stripped because Alexia had accidentally packed the sheets. You ate takeaway on the living room floor surrounded by boxes she’d sworn she didn’t need.

At eleven, she realized she’d packed her phone charger.

At midnight, you found it inside a box labeled kitchen.

At one, neither of you were asleep.

You lay on the bare mattress beneath a blanket that had escaped the movers. Alexia rested with her head against your chest, one arm across your stomach.

The apartment echoed around you.

“I can hear the refrigerator,” she murmured.

“You’ve always been able to hear it.”

“No. You usually talk too much.”

You threaded your fingers through her hair.

“I’m glad you’re leaving.”

She lifted her head.

“That isn’t funny.”

“I’m serious. I’ve spent months thinking about what this is taking from us. I don’t want you to get on the plane believing I resent the part of you that needs to go.”

“You can resent it.”

“I don’t.”

She watched you carefully.

“I resent the border. I resent every employer who told me I was perfect before deciding I was too complicated. I resent that before Brexit, we could’ve packed our lives into boxes and figured the rest out after we arrived.”

Alexia’s fingers curled into the blanket.

“I resent that we could get married and go together tomorrow, but only if I agreed to stop working.”

“I hate that most.”

You looked down at her.

“Why?”

“Because it would put you beside me and still take you away.”

Your throat tightened.

Alexia shifted until she was sitting beside you.

“I’ve imagined you in that house,” she said. “I’ve imagined waking up beside you. I’ve imagined you making coffee and complaining that the kitchen is too small. But every time I picture leaving for training while you stay behind with nothing that’s yours, I can’t breathe.”

“I’d find things to do.”

“That isn’t the same as having a life.”

“No.”

“You’d tell me you were fine.”

“Probably.”

“You’d try to make it easy for me.”

“Probably.”

“And one day I’d come home and realize you’d made yourself smaller so I wouldn’t feel guilty.”

You reached for her hand.

“I wouldn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

She laced her fingers with yours.

“That’s why I can’t ask.”

“You never did.”

“I thought about it.”

You appreciated the honesty even though it hurt.

“How many times?”

“Every day.”

You lowered your head to her shoulder.

“I thought about saying yes every day.”

Her cheek rested against your hair.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

There was comfort in admitting it.

You had both wanted the easier answer.

You had both understood it would create a different kind of damage.

“I don’t know how to do this without you,” Alexia eventually whispered.

“You’re not doing it without me.”

“You won’t be there.”

“I won’t be in London.”

“That’s what I mean.”

You cupped the back of her neck.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“You’re going to wake up there. You’re going to train. You’re going to learn everyone’s names and forget where you left your keys. You’re going to call me to complain about the weather.”

“I already hate the weather.”

“You haven’t moved yet.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“You’re going to play football. I’m going to go to work here. We’re going to miss calls and become irritated and say things badly sometimes.”

“This isn’t helping.”

“We’ll visit. We’ll keep speaking to lawyers. I’ll keep applying. Maybe something changes. Maybe a museum realizes I’m worth the trouble. Maybe the law changes. Maybe your contract ends before any of that happens.”

“And if none of it does?”

You looked at the ceiling.

“Then eventually, we make another decision.”

Fear moved across her face.

“About us?”

“About what we’re willing to keep sacrificing.”

She sat up straighter.

“I’m not sacrificing us.”

“Neither am I.”

“Then don’t talk like this has an ending.”

“Everything has an ending, Alexia. A contract. A season. A life. That doesn’t mean we stop choosing it while it’s here.”

Her jaw tightened.

You knew she wanted certainty.

You wished you could give it to her.

Instead, you sat up and took her face between your hands.

“I love you.”

“That sounds like a goodbye.”

“It’s not.”

“It feels like one.”

“Then listen to the rest.”

She became very still.

“I love you, and I want you to go. I want you to find out who you are when everyone around you doesn’t already know your history. I want you to build something there. I want to hear every detail, even when it hurts.”

Tears gathered in her eyes.

“I want you beside me.”

“I want that too.”

“I could still stay.”

You shook your head.

“No.”

“You don’t get to decide for me.”

“And you don’t get to turn down London because a government made me feel small.”

“You aren’t small.”

“Then don’t make your life smaller to prove it.”

Alexia’s breath caught.

You moved closer until your knees touched hers.

“My work matters. My life here matters. I matter. I need to believe all of that even if the United Kingdom doesn’t recognize it on a list.”

“It should.”

“Yes.”

“It should recognize everything you’ve done.”

“Yes.”

“It should let you come with me without asking you to surrender it.”

“Yes.”

Her face crumpled.

You pulled her into your arms.

She cried against you with a rawness she’d held back for months. You kept one hand at the base of her neck and the other around her waist.

There was no solution hidden inside the moment.

There was only grief.

You let yourselves feel it.

At the airport, Alexia’s luggage was overweight.

It was such an ordinary problem that both of you laughed when the attendant told her.

Alexia opened one suitcase on the floor and began moving clothing between bags with the same concentration she used to study match footage.

“You don’t need six jackets,” you said.

“I do.”

“You’re moving to London, not the Arctic.”

“It’s cold.”

“It’s July.”

“It will become cold.”

“You could buy a jacket there.”

“I like these.”

You crouched beside her and lifted a Barcelona sweatshirt.

“This is mine.”

“You gave it to me.”

“You stole it.”

“You didn’t ask for it back.”

“I’m asking now.”

She held the sweatshirt against her chest.

“No.”

You laughed again.

For a few minutes, you were simply yourselves.

Then the suitcase closed.

The attendant accepted it.

There was nothing left to delay.

Alexia stood in front of the security entrance, one hand wrapped around the strap of her carry-on. People moved around you with practiced impatience, dragging bags and checking phones.

“I don’t want to go through,” she said.

“You have to.”

“I could miss the flight.”

“There’s another one tonight.”

“I could miss that too.”

“They’ll keep scheduling flights, Ale.”

Her mouth trembled.

You reached into your bag and handed her a small wrapped package.

“What’s this?”

“Open it when you get there.”

“I’ll open it now.”

“You won’t.”

She looked at the package, then back at you.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“No matter what happens.”

“Don’t.”

She frowned.

“Don’t make it sound like we’re already preparing for the end.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Alexia set her carry-on down and took your face between her hands.

“Then let me say it properly.”

You waited.

“I’m going to England. You’re staying in Barcelona. I hate both of those sentences.”

“So do I.”

“But I am still your partner.”

“Yes.”

“And you are still the person I’m coming home to.”

Your eyes burned.

“Even if home is here?”

“Home isn’t a country.”

She kissed you before you could answer.

It wasn’t delicate. Her hand slid behind your neck as you clutched the front of her shirt, holding her close despite knowing you couldn’t keep her there.

When she pulled back, both of you were crying.

“I’ll call when I land.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“I’ll call from the car.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’ll call from the house.”

“Alexia.”

“I’m going to call too much.”

“I know.”

She kissed your forehead.

Then she picked up her bag and walked toward security.

She looked back four times.

You counted.

You remained in the terminal long after she disappeared.

The package contained a key.

Alexia called you from the floor of the empty bedroom, holding it in her palm.

“What does it open?”

“The apartment.”

“Our apartment?”

“My apartment.”

“Our apartment.”

You smiled despite the ache in your chest.

“You left yours in the bowl beside the door twice last month. I thought you should have a spare.”

She ran her thumb across the metal.

“Why give it to me now?”

“Because I need you to know you can come back.”

Her face blurred briefly as the video call adjusted.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I think leaving makes people feel like they need permission to return.”

Alexia looked away from the screen.

Behind her, the new bedroom was empty except for her suitcases and a mattress still wrapped in plastic.

“I put a key to this house aside for you.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be allowed to use it.”

“You’ll use it when you visit.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“No.”

You appreciated that she didn’t pretend.

She held your key in her closed fist.

“One day, I’m going to put this on the ring beside the London key.”

“One day.”

“And we won’t need lawyers.”

“I’d like never to speak to another lawyer again.”

She laughed softly.

The sound traveled from England to Barcelona with a slight digital delay.

It wasn’t enough.

It was something.

Outside your window, the city had begun to darken. The apartment around you still held evidence of Alexia everywhere. Her mug is beside the sink. Her spare boots near the door. The indentation her body had made on her side of the sofa.

In London, she sat in a new house that had been purchased with you in mind, though you had no legal right to build your life there without surrendering the work that helped make you whole.

The unfairness remained.

It would still be there tomorrow.

You would wake alone. She would begin training. You would return to the cultural center and guide another group through rooms filled with art people had created because ordinary language wasn’t enough.

Perhaps that was what the two of you were doing now.

Building something from absence.

Giving shape to a hurt too large to explain cleanly.

Alexia lifted the key toward the camera.

“I’m coming home.”

“You just arrived.”

“I mean Barcelona.”

“I know.”

“And you’re coming here.”

“I’m going to keep trying.”

Her eyes softened.

It wasn’t certainty.

It was the promise you could honestly make.

For now, it had to be enough.

The border had decided where you could work. It had decided how many days you could spend in Alexia’s new home and what documents you would need to show before being permitted to enter.

It had measured your education, your salary, and your profession.

It had offered you a route through marriage, but only if you agreed to become dependent on the woman you loved and leave behind the work that made your life your own.

It had found your career useful, admirable, and insufficient.

It could determine where your body was allowed to remain.

It couldn’t decide where you belonged.

liliovertherainbow

🥹 I’m so glad I stumbled upon this. This was so heartbreaking and beautiful at the same time. I’ve not read anything like this, and I really love that you didn’t make it cliche. I like that they each did what was best for them, and even though it was difficult, it was right.

This entire story is fantastic, but I think this line is my favourite:

“Because it would put you beside me and still take you away.”

That broke me. They knew going together could end up tearing them apart.

I applaud you, such lovely writing ❤️

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