Tristan Vol 4. Chapter 7 with Audiobook

By: Asa Montreaux 

Chapter 7

The flight back to the city felt different. The lights of Vancouver sprawled beneath the plane, a mosaic of gold and white against the vast darkness of the Pacific. It was late. The whole world below seemed hushed, waiting. Tristan leaned his forehead against the window, staring at the city with new eyes.

Before leaving, he had always felt tethered to it—its streets, its rhythms, the quiet pulse of familiarity. Now, returning from Vancouver felt like visiting a place that no longer belonged to him. The buildings below looked smaller, like they were part of something he had already risen above. He imagined the lives of people moving through the streets—walking home from bars, leaning against bus windows, waiting under neon lights. He wondered if they felt as he did: detached, watching the city from the outside.

Maisie shifted beside him, resting her head against his shoulder. He glanced at her reflection in the window, her face calm, her breath slow. The warmth of her body was grounding. She belonged here, in this moment. He was still unsure if he did.

Home was the same. His apartment, his things, the soft light from the kitchen lamp that was always left on. The city, too, was unchanged—the skyline he had memorized, the quiet parks where he and Maisie had spent endless afternoons.

And yet, everything was different.

He moved through the days with an awareness that had not been there before. Walking down familiar streets, he felt like a ghost of himself. He watched himself order coffee, watch the steam curl against the cool air. He watched himself sitting beside Maisie in the movie theater, their fingers interlocked. They went on dates, had sex occasionally, got their college applications back. He existed in these moments, but they felt transient, like a life he was inhabiting temporarily.

University decisions arrived in thick envelopes and sterile emails. Tristan would be going to the University of Toronto. Maisie had options—McGill, NYU. He read the words on the screen, let them sit in his mind, and then closed the laptop. He didn’t feel joy or relief. Just a quiet acceptance that his path had been set, whether he had chosen it or not.

His father came back from a business trip and brought with him the scent of airports and expensive hotels. He spoke in clipped sentences about meetings, deals, numbers that meant nothing to Tristan.

“There’s a house in Orange County,” his father said over dinner. “A business associate’s place. We can stay there for a while.”

Maisie raised an eyebrow. “Orange County?”

His father nodded. “Thought you two might like a change of scenery before Toronto.”

Tristan watched Maisie’s reaction carefully. There was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes, a consideration of what it would mean to step into a new space, even if just temporarily.

“I’ve also been offered a house in North York,” his father added. “Promotion came through. We’ll be moving there.”

Tristan nodded, though the words felt distant. A house in North York. A future waiting for him in Toronto. It was strange how inevitabilities unfolded so quietly, slipping into conversations like they had always been there.

Maisie leaned back in her chair. “Orange County sounds nice.”

And that was that.

*

California was sun-drenched highways and sprawling landscapes, a place that felt suspended in time. The house was large, white, pristine. They spent slow mornings by the pool, drove along the coast with the windows down, let the salt air tangle in Maisie’s hair. She wore oversized sunglasses and let her bare feet rest on the dashboard, singing along to songs Tristan barely recognized.

They moved through the days like tourists in their own lives. The world felt cinematic—golden light pooling on the pavement, ocean waves rolling in rhythmic certainty. Tristan watched Maisie as she floated in the water, her arms outstretched, her body moving with the tide. She looked weightless, unburdened.

At night, they lay in the quiet house, doors open to let in the cool air. The sound of distant traffic hummed through the walls, blending with Maisie’s steady breathing.

“Do you think you’ll like Toronto?” she asked one night, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tristan exhaled slowly. “I think I’ll exist there.”

She turned toward him. “You’ll do more than exist.”

He wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe that change would bring with it something more than just a new backdrop.

Goodbyes were never as dramatic as they should be. They stood in the airport, Maisie’s fingers gripping the strap of her bag, her eyes glassy but steady.

“It’s not forever,” she said, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips.

“I know.”

She kissed him softly, briefly, before pulling away. And then she was gone, disappearing into the terminal.

Tristan watched her until she was no longer visible. Then he turned, walked out into the Toronto air, and stepped into his new life.

*

Toronto was colder, grayer, more alive. The streets pulsed with movement, with urgency. His apartment was small, clean, temporary. He unpacked with the efficiency of someone who knew he wouldn’t be staying forever.

Days passed in a rhythm of quiet routines. Classes. Walking unfamiliar streets. Sitting by the window at night, staring at the skyline that was slowly becoming his.

And then, Maisie arrived.

She stood in his doorway, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, determination set in her expression. “I’m not waiting till September.”

He blinked at her, processing her presence. “You—?”

“I’m here,” she said simply. “For the summer. For however long.”

A warmth spread through him, unexpected and grounding. He stepped forward, pulling her into him, breathing her in. She smelled like home, like something familiar in a city that still felt foreign.

She pulled back slightly, her hands resting against his chest. “Okay?”

He nodded. “Okay.”

They spent the rest of the night together, moving through the apartment as if it had always belonged to both of them. And for the first time in a long time, Tristan felt like he was not just watching his life happen—he was living it.