Even though we only spent six days in each other’s physical presence, there’s no doubt in my mind I want to be with her. But the sacrifice would be real and great. If I move to France, I would need to start from scratch. The career I’ve built in Sydney wouldn’t mean a thing. I’d be jobless. I haven’t been without a job since I left university. What would I possibly do with myself all day? Let love fill my hours? I’m not as naive to think that romance can take the place of professional satisfaction. And with these thoughts, I am alone. It would feel too ridiculous to talk about this with Caitlin, although her and Josephine’s relationship seems to have progressed rather quickly as well. But it’s not the same. Because they live in the same city and the same country. Camille and I do not.

I also don’t dare breach the subject with Camille. And, in a way, it’s funny that the only person I’ve talked to about this briefly is my ex. Because she knows me and she knows the way I think.

But ever since Camille left, even though her visit to Australia was short, I feel like something big—the biggest thing possible—is missing. I don’t have children to distract me with tales of their life and grandchildren to care for. My family is in Perth and even though we talk regularly, I don’t see them very often and we don’t have the kind of close relationship where I feel I need to show up every other month for a weekend with them.

Most nights, when I lie in bed pining for Camille, it feels like I don’t have much to stay for at all. But I know that if I keep mulling this over in my head, without taking the pressure off by saying the words out loud to someone, I will drive myself crazy sooner rather than later. So when I meet Caitlin for coffee at the Pink Bean after leaving work early one day, I’m glad neither Micky nor Josephine are present, and I can spill my heart to her without snarky interruptions.

“How many more days, my friend?” Caitlin asks after she has given me a lingering hug. She has taken to asking me this question after she overheard me and Camille signing off on a phone call. “You look like you can’t go on much longer without a healthy dose of your French lover.”

“Twenty-one,” I say on a sigh. “It feels more like twenty-one years.”

“You will come back, won’t you?” She narrows her eyes then flashes a smile.

“I have to. I present a show that is named after me.” I sigh again.