Arrival at Heathrow
London looked different after Barcelona — colder, moodier, but familiar in that way a city only feels when it’s yours. The cab queue outside Heathrow was a river of umbrellas and accents, everyone in a rush to get nowhere.
I was halfway to the curb when I heard someone shout, “Raven!”
I turned, and there she was — Isabella, dragging her suitcase, laughing like she’d just stolen the sun.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, grinning despite myself.
She shrugged. “Changed my ticket. Figured I’d see what all the London fuss is about before heading back to Ibiza.”
“You mean before causing chaos here, then leaving us to deal with the aftermath,” I said.
“Semantics, but Ouch,” she winked.
Back in My Flat
By the time we reached the city, the rain had turned to mist. The cab windows fogged, and the skyline came into view — glass and grey, the Shard slicing through clouds like it owned the place.
Isabella pressed her face to the glass. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. I laughed. “You’ll change your mind after the first parking ticket.”
We dropped our bags at my flat in Shoreditch — brick walls, vinyl player, tea that actually tastes like tea.
Isabella collapsed onto the couch, sighing. “Barcelona feels like a dream now.”
“London is a dream,” I said. “It just doesn’t always end the way you want it to.”
Meeting Natasha
Later, we met Natasha at her Notting Hill place — silk robe, jasmine tea, and that perfect smirk. “Well, the gang’s all here,” she said.
“Not quite,” I replied. “We’ve still got to survive the week and then after that when Isabella leaves.” We all fell over each other, we were laughing so hard.
Rain tapped against the windows. The city hummed below. The cameras were off, but the story was just starting again.
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