The hardest part wasn't the packing.
It wasn't even the goodbye dinners or the emotional talk with Dr. Lim, who offered Talia a polite smile that didn't quite hide the disappointment of losing one of her most promising interns.
The hardest part was the quiet between the decisions—the long moments when neither of them knew exactly what the future would look like, but both had decided to leap anyway.
The apartment emptied faster than expected.
The bookshelf they once argued over was dismantled and given to a neighbor. Their battered coffee maker—the one that had survived two all-nighters and one accidental fire—was left behind, with a note that read: "Keep her warm, she's temperamental."
When the final box was sealed, Ezra stood by the door with their passports in one hand and Talia's favorite travel mug in the other.
"You ready?"
Talia looked around at the now-bare apartment. "No. But let's go anyway."
Their first week in Geneva was chaos.
Everything was unfamiliar—signs, stores, streets. Ezra's French was charmingly rusty; Talia's was nonexistent. They got lost twice, accidentally insulted a baker, and bought what they thought was toothpaste but turned out to be a strong-smelling hair cream.
But the nights?
Those were theirs.
The apartment they rented was small—one bedroom, creaky floors, a view of the Rhône River just beyond the windows. It smelled like citrus and old wood, and every morning the sun pooled in the corner of the kitchen like a quiet blessing.
It was during one of those sunlit mornings that Talia decided she would write again.
Not just notes. Not just cases.
Stories.
The kinds of stories that lived in between the silence and the science. Human stories. Soft ones. The ones she'd always thought she'd "get to eventually."
"Do you think that's silly?" she asked Ezra one afternoon, sitting at the tiny café two blocks from the hospital, her notebook open, untouched espresso cooling beside her.
Ezra, still in scrubs from his shift, looked up and shook his head. "I think it's the opposite of silly. I think it's necessary."
She smiled, cheeks pink from the compliment—or the spring chill, she wasn't sure.
He leaned across the table and whispered, "Write about us."
Talia smirked. "Too predictable."
Ezra grinned. "Fine. Just make me the hot love interest. I need the ego boost."
They carved out a rhythm in Geneva.
Ezra thrived in the fellowship, lost in hours of cardio rounds and global research. Talia found a local clinic that welcomed English-speaking students and started assisting once a week while auditing a course on narrative medicine at the university.
They studied in cafés. Fought over who got the last croissant. Kissed in elevators, on street corners, in the rain.
And every Tuesday, without fail, Ezra tutored Talia in French.
"Repeat after me," he said one evening, gently correcting her pronunciation. "J'ai besoin de toi."
Talia narrowed her eyes. "What does that even mean?"
Ezra's mouth twitched into a smile. "Say it first."
She rolled her eyes but obeyed. "J'ai besoin de toi."
"It means," he said, his voice low, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, "I need you."
The air between them stilled.
And in that quiet moment, Geneva didn't feel foreign anymore.
Late one night, months later, as they lay in bed wrapped around each other, Ezra asked, "Do you think we'll ever come back?"
Talia traced slow circles on his chest. "I don't know. Maybe."
"Would you be okay with that?"
"I don't need a map, remember?" she whispered. "Just the person holding my hand."
Ezra kissed her shoulder. "Then we're already home."