news from Europe

The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across Maya's delighted face. Connor watched her, a warmth blossoming in his chest that had nothing to do with the cozy Italian trattoria they were in, and everything to do with the woman across the table. Her laughter, a melodic chime, echoed softly over the murmur of other diners. It was Sunday evening, their usual weekend date night, and tonight felt particularly special.

They had just shared a plate of creamy burrata, the lingering taste of basil and olive oil still sweet on their tongues. Maya was recounting a funny anecdote from her week at the art gallery she managed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. Connor leaned forward, captivated. He loved these moments, the comfortable intimacy they had built over the past year, a foundation of shared jokes, whispered secrets, and unspoken understandings.

"And then," Maya giggled, "Mrs. Henderson, bless her cotton socks, mistook a Jackson Pollock for a child's finger painting!"

Connor chuckled, shaking his head. "Only Mrs. Henderson."

They finished their pasta, a rich tagliatelle ragu, and moved onto dessert, a shared tiramisu that they devoured with playful rivalry over who got the last mascarpone-soaked biscuit. It was perfect. Utterly, wonderfully perfect. As the waiter cleared their plates, Connor reached across the table and took Maya's hand. Her skin was soft, warm in his.

"Thank you," he said softly, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. "For tonight. For everything."

Maya's smile softened, her eyes meeting his with a depth of affection that made his heart skip a beat. "Anytime, Connor. Every Sunday dinner with you is my favourite."

He squeezed her hand, unspoken promises hanging in the air between them. They lingered over the last sips of their wine, basking in the afterglow of a beautiful evening, the outside world fading away.

As they stepped out onto the cool London street, arm in arm, the night air was crisp and star-dusted. They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the rhythmic sound of their footsteps on the pavement the only sound besides the distant city hum.

Just as they reached Maya's doorstep, Connor's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the notification. A message from his mother. He frowned slightly, something in the urgency of the notification prickling at his unease.

"Everything okay?" Maya asked, her voice laced with gentle concern.

Connor unlocked his phone and read the message. His breath hitched. His mother's words swam before his eyes: "Connor, call me urgently. Papà is unwell. Hospitalised in Florence. It's serious."

The laughter and warmth of the evening evaporated, replaced by a cold, stark dread. He read the message again, as if to rewrite the words, to make them say something else, something less terrifying. But they remained the same.

He looked up at Maya, his face pale in the soft glow of the streetlamp. "It's… it's my father," he stammered, his voice tight. "He's… he's in hospital. In Italy. It's serious."

Maya's eyes widened with concern. "Connor, what happened? What did your mother say?"

He relayed the message, his voice trembling slightly. As he spoke, the reality of it began to sink in, a heavy weight settling in his chest. His father, always so vibrant, so full of life, sick in a hospital bed in Florence.

"Oh, Connor," Maya breathed, her hand reaching out to cup his cheek. "I'm so sorry. That's… that's terrible news."

He leaned into her touch, finding a small measure of comfort in her presence. "I need to call my mother. And my sister, Elena." He pulled away slightly, his mind racing. "I need to get to Italy. Tomorrow. First flight."

Maya nodded, her expression a mixture of sympathy and unwavering support. "Of course, you do. Let's go inside, you need to call them now."

He followed her into her small, уютная apartment, the cheerful atmosphere a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing inside him. Maya busied herself making tea, her movements quiet and efficient, while Connor retreated to the living room and dialled his mother's number, his hands shaking slightly.

The phone rang twice before his mother's anxious voice answered. The conversation was fractured, punctuated by his mother's choked sobs and hurried explanations. His father had collapsed suddenly, and was rushed to the hospital. The doctors were still running tests, but it was serious, they kept saying it was serious. His mother was distraught, alone in Florence, her Italian hesitant, her panic palpable even through the phone line.

Connor spoke as calmly as he could, promising to be there as soon as possible, reassuring her that she wasn't alone, that he and Elena would come. He felt a surge of helpless frustration, miles away when he needed to be there, holding his mother's hand, seeing his father.

After ending the call with his mother promising to keep him updated, Connor slumped onto the sofa, the weight of the news pressing down on him. Maya sat beside him, placing a mug of steaming tea in his hands.

"How is he?" she asked softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Connor shook his head, unable to speak for a moment. "It's… they don't know exactly yet. Something with his heart, maybe. Mum's terrified. She sounds… lost."

Maya took his hand again, her grip firm and steady. "You'll be there for her, Connor. And for him. And Elena will too, won't she?"

He nodded, remembering his sister. Elena, always the pragmatic one, the rock of their family in moments of crisis. He needed to call her now. He picked up his phone again, scrolling through his contacts until he found Elena's name. His heart ached at the thought of disrupting her life too, of bringing this sudden, awful news into her Sunday evening.

Elena answered on the third ring, her voice bright and cheerful. "Hey Con, what's up? Everything okay?"

Connor took a deep breath, bracing himself. "El, it's about Papa." He paused, the words catching in his throat. "He's… he's in hospital. In Florence."

The cheerful tone in Elena's voice vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. "What? What happened? What's wrong?"

He recounted the fragmented information from his mother's call, the seriousness of the situation, the need to get to Florence as soon as possible. Silence stretched between them for a moment, broken only by the soft hum of Maya's kettle in the kitchen.

Then, Elena's voice, though shaken, was firm and decisive. "Right. Okay. Flights. We need to look at flights. I'll check now. We need to go together, Connor. We need to be there for Mum."

"I know," Connor said, relief washing over him that he wouldn't be facing this alone. "I was just about to look. Earliest flight tomorrow morning, do you think?"

"Definitely. Let's find something now. We can talk more later, Connor. Just… just focus on getting there." Her voice broke slightly on the last word.

"Okay," Connor said, his voice tight with emotion. "Okay, El. Call me when you find something."

"Will do. Love you, Connor."

"Love you too, El." He hung up, feeling a profound sense of gratitude for his sister, for her strength and her unwavering support.

Maya returned, placing a fresh mug of tea on the table. She sat beside him again, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm raging inside him. He turned to her, his eyes filled with a mixture of worry and gratitude.

"Elena's going to check for flights," he said, his voice hoarse. "We'll go together. First thing tomorrow."

Maya nodded, squeezing his hand again. "Good. That's good, Connor. You need to be there. And your mother needs you both."

They sat in silence for a while, the weight of the unknown hanging heavy in the air. Connor could feel the evening he had so cherished just hours ago slipping further and further away, replaced by the stark reality of his father's illness, the urgent need to travel, the fear of what he might find in Florence.

"I need to pack," he said finally, the mundane task a small anchor in the swirling chaos of his thoughts. "And book a flight, if Elena doesn't find one."

Maya stood up with him, her hand still intertwined with his. "Let me help you. Let's get organised."

Together, they started making arrangements. Maya helped him pack a bag, her quiet efficiency a calming presence amidst his anxiety. She looked up flight options on her laptop while Connor checked his emails for any updates from his mother. The mundane tasks of booking flights and packing clothes felt surreal against the backdrop of his father's illness, a strange juxtaposition of the ordinary and the extraordinary.

By midnight, they had booked Connor's flight – a red-eye leaving at 6 am, the earliest he could get. Elena had managed to find a flight later in the day, but Connor wanted to be there as soon as possible. His bag was packed, his alarm was set, and the apartment was quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock.

Connor looked at Maya, her face etched with concern in the dim light of her apartment. He reached out, cupping her face in his hands. "Thank you, Maya," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "For everything tonight, and for… for now."

Maya leaned into his touch, her eyes searching his. "Of course, Connor. I'm here for you. Always."

He leaned in and kissed her, a kiss that was both a goodbye and a promise, a desperate clinging to the love and comfort she offered in the face of so much uncertainty. The kiss was tender, filled with unspoken emotions, a silent vow to return to this, to her, as soon as he could.

"Go," Maya whispered, pulling back slightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Go be with your family. And call me when you land, okay?"

Connor nodded, his own eyes blurring with emotion. "I will. Thank you, Maya. For being you."

He held her gaze for another moment, etching her image into his memory, a beacon of light in the darkness that was now enveloping him. Then, with a final, lingering kiss, he turned and left her apartment, stepping out into the silent, pre-dawn London streets, the weight of his father's illness heavy on his shoulders, and the image of Maya's loving eyes imprinted in his heart, a fragile hope amidst the fear. He knew that this sudden departure was a disruption, a tearing away from the beautiful life they were building together. But as he hailed a taxi, the urgency of going to his father, to his family, was paramount. He was leaving a piece of his heart behind with Maya, but he was carrying her love and support with him, a silent promise that he would return, and that their story, even interrupted, was far from over.