“Are you sure, babe?” Camille is teasing me again. “Are you sure that interview with Steph didn’t go to your head and you’re not overly confident about all of this?”

According to Camille, said interview has gotten a lot of air and press time in France, and I might be able to create some work opportunities off the back of it.

“Are you saying you don’t want me to click this button and buy the ticket?” I click away from the airline website and look straight into the camera. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“Zoya, please, click the button now.” Her voice is earnest. “Please, do it now.”

I pause for a second to get another good look at her face, before I click away from the Skype window and go back to the booking page. I’ve gone through all the steps. On 5 July next year, in exactly eight months and ten days, I will be embarking on my new life. When Camille comes over here for Christmas and I drop her off at the airport after her visit, our goodbye will still be bittersweet because of the long months we won’t see each other, but it will also be full of hope and dreams for our shared future, which will begin later that year.

I take a deep breath. I’m a thousand percent certain I want to do this, but this simple button click is still momentous. Then I press my finger onto the mouse button. I’m asked to confirm. My ticket is booked. I’m moving to Paris. I’m going to live with Camille.

I click back to the Skype window, painting a worried look on my face.

“I couldn’t do it,” I say. “It’s too much. I’m having second thoughts.”

“Zoya, please,” Camille says matter-of-factly. “I just heard you utter the biggest sigh of relief. Not to mention that I could still see you. I do sincerely hope your future career prospects don’t include acting, because you’re not very good at it.” She smiles widely at me, and then, out of nowhere—not anywhere I can see on the screen, anyway—she produces a glass of champagne. “À notre futur.” She raises the glass.

“It’s nine in the morning, sweetheart.” Empty-handed, I stare at her drinking champagne.

“That doesn’t matter one bit. And from the looks of it I’ll have to drink for both of us since you didn’t bother to prepare the celebration of this big step in our lives.”

“I’m still detoxing from all that wine you made me drink when I was there in October.”

“All the more reason to prepare yourself properly for your big move to wine and cheese country.”

I shake my head at her. “You are incorrigible.”