Ramblings.

As if they could replace the smell of her mother’s gingerbread cookies baking in the kitchen back in Arlington. Or the feeling of sitting by the stone fireplace with eggnog warming her hands, surrounded by friends and family. Or the giddy rush of racing her brothers down the stairs on Christmas morning, shoving each other aside to see who got to rip open a present first.

They can’t. They don’t.

And if the decorations aren’t reminder enough, the ache in her chest is.

She’s homesick.

It’s been weeks now, and her phone has stayed stubbornly silent. No call from Paige, though Azzi isn’t really expecting one. Still, she finds herself thinking about that day more than she should. More than makes sense for a chance encounter with a stranger she bribed into coffee so she could have a real conversation without stumbling through her mostly fluent German.

Yet Paige lingers in her mind.

Her laid-back energy, unmistakably Californian. The way she spoke animatedly about her work, her life. The way Azzi found herself hanging onto every word, far more engrossed than she had any right to be. And that grin, tucking into the apples of her cheeks, that had sent a flush creeping up Azzi’s neck more than once.

It was just the heat in the cafe. 

Obviously.

Even knowing Paige was married, Azzi can’t quite shake the pull she felt. Not romantically. She’s not that kind of person and never will be. But in a quieter way. A craving for another conversation. Another walk through Munich’s streets. Another coffee shared across a too-small table in a too-loud cafe.

No matter how platonic it had to be.

It wasn’t just the easy conversation, either. Or the way Paige lit up when she talked about the things she loved. It was the way she listened, truly, like she had nowhere else to be. She never rushed to fill silence or nodded absently while waiting her turn. There was something grounding about her presence, which Azzi hasn’t felt in a long time.

Maybe that’s why the memory still lingers.

For a few weeks, Azzi lets herself think about it. About the woman who never called. It’s almost funny how much space Paige takes up in her head. But time does what it always does. It dulls the edges, and eventually, the memory fades enough that it feels like it never happened.

Almost.

Maybe that’s because Azzi has something else demanding her attention now.

Munich FC doesn’t feel like home anymore.

It isn’t bad, exactly. It’s just… different. She’s poured nearly four years into the team. Endless practices. Brutal matches. A dislocated shoulder. A torn ACL. A whole lot of heart. A piece of her fell in love with the country, and another piece was lost to it forever.

But at training the other day, she realized she didn’t laugh as much anymore. She went through the motions, played hard and kept her head down, but something was missing.

Even her teammates noticed. One of them joked that she was turning into a grumpy old veteran, and that’s when it really hit her.

She isn’t just missing home. She’s missing herself. Who she used to be, at least. Someone who is full of joy and living for the love of the game.

Curled up on the couch now, wrapped in a thick wool blanket to fight the chill in her small drafty apartment, Azzi stares at the laptop balanced on her legs. She rereads the screen, letting the words settle.

The National Women’s Soccer League.

It’s real. 

And this time, it won’t fold in a few years like the leagues before it. This time, there’s real funding. Ten teams spread across the country. Salaries high enough to sustain a career without picking up second jobs on the side.

Her eyes land on one name.

Washington Spirit.

It feels like a lifeline she didn’t realize she was desperate for.

Her agent told her the national team officials want her back stateside. They need big names to help sell the league, draw eyes, and make it stick. That almost guarantees she’ll go to her first choice.

Which means she could go home.

Not just home as in the U.S., but home as in Arlington. Where she grew up. Where she played youth soccer. Where she had her first kiss, her first boyfriend, her first heartbreak. Where she figured out who she was. Where she spent an entire summer running a lemonade stand with her brothers just to buy the flashy cleats her parents refused to get her because she already had a perfectly good pair.

Going home feels obvious, but is she running toward something—or away from it?

Still uncertain, Azzi pulls her phone from beneath the blankets and types out a message.

Azzi: You hear about this new league they’re forming?

KK: I did! Don’t tell me the magnificent Azzi Fudd is thinking of gracing the NWSL with her presence?

Azzi: Haha. I’m thinking about it. I miss home. What do you think?

KK: Well, I know how much your family would love to have you back. Me too! But can you even get out of your contract with Munich FC?

Azzi: Yeah, I signed for a year with an additional player option, so technically, I just have to request it.

KK: Well, it’s up to you. You know I’d love having my favorite defender back in the States! Although, I doubt you’re going to want to come play for the Chicago team with me since I see there’s a team in D.C.

Azzi: Yeah, you got me there lol. 

KK: I’m running to training, but I’m sure whatever you decide will work out just fine.

Azzi: Thanks for the chat!

KK: Anytime!

In the end, it doesn’t feel like much of a decision at all.

Azzi digs her phone out from under the blanket and dials her agent’s number, asking about the release from her Munich FC contract. Then she scrolls down the email, eyes settling on the section marked team preferences.

#1: Washington Spirit.

She leaves #2 and #3 blank.

Call her selfish, but after years of missed birthdays, weddings, baby showers, and holidays, she wants to go home.

 ***** *** *****

As expected, Azzi gets her wish.

The night before she leaves the apartment, and the city she’s called home for the past four years, she sprawls out on the bare floor of her living room. A familiar shoebox sits in front of her, small and unassuming, like it hasn’t been quietly holding the weight of her entire heart.

The walls of her flat are stripped clean now. No photos, decorations, or proof that a life ever existed here at all. And yet, this box contains more memories than any wall ever could.

Azzi hesitates, staring at it.

She could leave it untouched, just like she has for the past year. Buried beneath old shoes and forgotten sweats in the darkest corner of her closet. She shoved it back there for a reason. To forget.

But some memories don’t stay buried. At least not ones that run as deep as this. 

Everything else is packed, labeled, and ready to be shipped back to Virginia, where she’ll play for the Spirit. The fresh start should feel exciting. Instead, it feels unfinished. The furniture is gone. The cupboards are empty. The floors are spotless, scrubbed clean with bleach and carpet cleaner that did a decent job erasing the red wine stains.

Unfortunately, the stain on her heart didn’t respond the same way.

Azzi exhales slowly.

She’s ready. She thinks.

She lifts the lid.

The first thing she sees is a piece of paper, tri-folded like it once belonged in an envelope that was never addressed. Her breath catches as she unfolds it. Her own handwriting stares back at her, black ink smudged where tears once fell.

Lucina,

As I sit here trying to process all of this, I’m left with more questions and fewer answers than when I started. The only thing I know for certain is that I loved you more than I ever thought possible. I gave you my heart, and for a long time, I believed I held yours in return.

But now I’m here, alone in what used to be our home. Germany feels too big. The fall nights, too cold without you beside me. And I keep wondering what happened. What could I have done to drive you away? Into the arms of someone else? My love for you was pure, honest. And I tried so hard to show you that every day.

I remember the first day I met you. I was lost, wandering the streets of Munich with the confused expression that only a fresh college graduate in a foreign city could have. I must have looked pathetic enough for you to take pity on me.

You were kind. You assured me that “not all who wander are lost” with a warm smile as you guided me where I needed to go. But as I wander through the memories of our time together, I am lost. So utterly and completely lost.

I remember the stories you told me as we walked through Munich, the church where your father led your family every Sunday, the schoolhouse where you had your first kiss, the bakery where your mother bought your favorite pastries. And then there were our places, where we made our own memories. Ones that I will never forget.

I came to Munich ready to take on the world, but I was young, naïve, and completely unprepared. I didn’t speak the language. I didn’t know the customs. And I sure as hell would have starved that first week had you not walked me into that cafe and ordered me a proper meal.

We were strangers. Then friends. Then… so much more. I don’t know how it happened, how you swept in like the tide and stole my heart, but you did. And it felt so easy. Somewhere between the moonlit walks, the intimate conversations, and the stolen kisses, I fell for you. And even now—knowing what I know, seeing what I saw—a part of me still wants to believe that you fell for me too.

I never saw it coming. Never saw the cracks forming. Maybe they weren’t really even there. Or maybe I was too blinded by love to notice. But I feel them now. I feel them in my heart when our song plays, in my lungs when I try to take a deep breath, and in my tears when the nights get too quiet.

I started writing this letter hoping it would help me let go of my anger. That it would help me heal. But sitting here, scribbling my pain onto a piece of paper, I realize nothing will help. Because I still love you. Despite what you did. Despite what I saw. Despite everything. I still ache for you. My skin still craves your touch. My lungs still burn with the need to share your breath. And every time I look down at my hand, a tan line reminds me of a ring that no longer resides there.

I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from this. I’d like to believe I will. But right now, the pain is too real. The heartbreak too strong. Maybe one day I’ll understand why you left. Maybe I’ll find peace with the questions that will never have answers.

Maybe.

But for now, all I can do is be thankful. Thankful that you came into my life when I needed someone the most. Thankful that you showed me the beauty of being free. Thankful that, for a time, you loved me. But most of all, thankful that you broke my heart. Because in doing so, you shattered the illusion of fairy tale love.

You made me stronger. Tougher. More focused. And for that, I thank you.

No matter where we go from here, a part of me will always love you. And I hope, when you look back, you remember what we had. And that, for at least some fragment of time, it was real.

As I move forward, trying to find my way out of the darkness and back into the light, I will remember the words you once said to me.

Not all who wander are lost.

All My Love,

Azzi

Azzi stares at the letter long after she finishes reading. Her fingers trace the smudged ink, the words never seen by the person they were meant for. It feels like it was written by someone else. Someone younger, who didn’t know yet how deeply love could wound.

She sets it aside and digs through the box.

First, she pulls out a dried, crushed rose from their first date. Then a small teddy bear that Lucina won at the fair, one eye missing after a month trapped beneath the recliner. A Munich University shirt she never returned, soaked through with too many tears from countless nights.

And finally, at the bottom, a small leather pouch tied tightly with a cord.

She doesn’t need to open it.

Her fingers trace the circular shape beneath the leather.

Azzi swallows, tucks the box under her arm, and steps out into the cold night.

She could have done this months ago. Years ago. Every time she thought she was ready, she found another excuse. Another reason to hold on.

But tonight, standing on the bridge, staring down at the dark, rippling water, the maybes disappear.

It’s time.

She throws the box forward with everything she has left. It spins once through the air before hitting the water with a dull splash. She watches as it sinks, swallowed whole by dark ripples.

Then she exhales a deep, shaky breath.

She always knew she wouldn’t stay in Germany forever, but now she understands this isn’t just about leaving. It’s also about letting go.

This city has changed her. It gave her victories, defeats, friendships, heartbreak. And now, as she turns away from the bridge, she realizes that she’s ready.

She’s moving on. 

She’s starting over. 

Nestled between a corner bookstore with glowing windows and a boutique, a woman stands at a bus stop, squinting at a transit map like she’s trying to memorize every route in case there’s a test later. Her gaze darts between the map and the passing crowds, frantic and unfocused in a way that’s kind of endearing.

She’s completely lost and clueless. And completely ignored.

Azzi should keep walking. She knows that. There’s a hot shower waiting at home, calling her name, promising to thaw her frozen limbs after a brutal double session. Her body aches in that all too familiar way that means she’s pushed it maybe a little farther than the trainers would approve of.

Still, she can’t tear her eyes away.

The woman steps toward a passing man, frustration tightening her sharp jawline as the wind tangles the loose golden waves escaping from beneath her beanie. She says something, her voice barely audible over the traffic, but he doesn’t even slow. Just brushes past her without a word.

More pedestrians hurry by, wrapped in wool coats and thick scarves, eyes fixed forward, too focused on getting home or making dinner reservations to spare her a glance. Every few moments, a gust of wind sweeps through the street, rattling outdoor café chairs and making the blonde tuck her chin deeper into her jacket.

Azzi knows that look.

She’s worn it herself. Not that long ago, either. Lost. Overwhelmed. Struggling with the language, the customs, the bus routes everyone else seems to understand instinctively. She’s still lost in some ways, but that’s a separate issue she doesn’t have the energy to delve into right now.

She exhales, the breath visible in the cold, tightens her scarf, and crosses the busy street.

"Kann ich Ihnen helfen?"

The blonde’s head snaps up, blue eyes wide with panic. She shakes her head quickly and turns back to the map, shoulders curling inward like she’s bracing for another failed interaction.

Okay. Different approach.

“Can I help you?” Azzi asks again, switching to English as she places a light hand on the woman’s shoulder to get her attention.

Blue eyes, bright despite the fatigue, flick over Azzi’s face. The panic softens into mild relief. Still, exhaustion lingers in the hollows beneath her eyes, suggesting she’s been fighting this city all day. The purplish tint to her exposed fingers as they trace the colorful lines on the map confirms the suspicion.

“Thank God. Someone who speaks English,” she breathes.

The sincerity of it makes Azzi smile. She takes a moment to actually look at her now that she’s closer. Between the American accent, the oversized duffle bag slung over her shoulder, and the useless leather jacket, she’s clearly not a local. A jacket like that won’t do a damn thing against a German winter, no matter how good it looks. Neither will the flimsy beanie perched on her head. 

And no gloves? 

Rookie mistake.

“How can I help?” Azzi asks, keeping her voice easy.

The blonde’s grin is bright despite the exhaustion settling into her bones. She seems more at ease already as she extends her hand.

“I’m Paige.”

Something warm zips up Azzi’s spine when their hands meet. She isn’t sure why that surprises her, but it does. She pulls her striped scarf tighter around her neck, unsure if she’s blocking out the cold or the feeling, and quickly releases Paige’s hand, flexing her fingers to shake it off.

Needing something to do with her hands she tucks a stray curl behind her ear.

“Azzi,” she supplies in return after finally finding the ability to speak. 

Paige clears her throat and glances back at the map like she’s trying to refocus, though it’s obvious she has no idea what she’s looking at. Azzi can’t blame her. Four years in Germany and she’s mostly fluent now, but she still remembers those early months. 

So when Paige looks back up at her, pleading and desperate, Azzi doesn’t hesitate.

“Where do you need to go?”

Paige exhales in relief and pulls a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. She studies it, then blushes. Azzi knows it’s not from the cold this time, and takes it gently from her numb fingers.

“Oh, I know where this is,” she says, nodding vaguely behind her. “It’s a couple of miles uptown, near my favorite bar.”

Paige smiles, grateful, but the apprehension doesn’t fully fade.

“Can you point to where I should go to grab the next bus? I need to get out of the cold.”

Azzi lets out a soft laugh before she can stop herself, catching it just in time.

“What’s so funny?” Paige asks, smiling despite her current situation.

Azzi guides her gaze back toward the map mounted on the metal pole beneath the swinging stoplight, placing a hand lightly on her lower back.

“We’re here,” she says, pointing, “and you need to go all the way over here.”

Her finger drags across the map as she speaks, ignoring the bite of cold metal through her thin glove, and the warmth of Paige leaning in just a little too close. Azzi shifts, pretending it’s for visibility, not because her nervous system has suddenly become unhelpfully aware of the blonde.

“The walk to the other bus stop is as long as the walk to your place.”

Paige groans, dropping her face into her hands.

“Either the taxi driver didn’t understand me, or he saw an easy target and robbed me of a bunch of euros.”

Azzi squeezes her arm gently. “I parked my car around the corner, and I live just a few blocks from where you’re going. Why don’t you let me give you a ride?”

It’s a lie. A complete lie. She lives across town, the opposite direction entirely.

Still, something about Paige tugs at her. The homesickness she rarely acknowledges stirs at the sound of an American voice. And yes,fine, the fact that Paige is attractive doesn’t hurt.

Azzi smiles, a little shy. “We could grab some coffee on the way to warm up. There’s a cute little place right around the corner.”

Paige stiffens instantly. “I’m married.”

She lifts her left hand, platinum band catching the dull light. Azzi laughs without thinking.

“Okay,” she laughs, hands thrown in the air in surrender. “I was just offering a ride and a friendly cup of coffee. I don’t make a habit of picking up helpless Americans off the streets and seducing them over lattes.”

Although she absolutely should.

Paige relaxes, relief washing over her features.