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I feel a surge of anger. Why am I worrying about Tom? This is my trip, and I want to share my travels and promote my photography. Before I can change my mind, I upload the photo with a simple caption, slip my phone away and think about what’s next on my ‘letting go’ tour, because it’s 23 August – the day. Time to release more memories.

I leave my shady bench and venture through the park until I reach Bodestrasse and take the path to the Alte Nationalgalerie. I glance up at the sandstone building with its Roman pillars, extravagant stairwells and the equestrian statue guarding the entrance. The scene is the same as it was eleven years ago, although I didn’t appreciate the beauty of the building as a twenty-year-old.

Inside, the visitors have thinned out being late afternoon, and I’m alone as I head to the upper galleries. On the top floor, I pause for a few seconds to get my bearings, then make my way to the room I want, taking a sharp intake of breath when I see it. The bench seat with the same dusty pink cushioned top is still there. I see a younger version of myself gazing at the painting, naïve, hopeful and focused on my studies, no clue that the person who was about to talk to me would leave a scar. Casey had told me she’d followed me from the gallery below, watching me tilt my head at paintings trying to figure them out, and waiting for an opportunity to talk to me.

I walk to the middle of the room, my sandals making a soft thud on the parquet floor, and sit in the same spot I had that day. Italia und Germania is long gone, in a gallery in Munich now. I take in the painting in my line of sight. All I see is a house among some trees. It looks rushed, like something my nephews would paint at preschool, but if Casey were here, she’d talk about the significance of the brushstrokes, the symbolism in the art, and how it reflected society at the time.

I shake my head to clear the thought. I’m not here to dwell on what might’ve been. I close my eyes and let that day swirl in my mind – walking through the different galleries, Casey showing off her university-level art knowledge, all cockiness and swagger. The way she gazed at me, dreamy-eyed, as I spoke. And later that night, our first kiss. My stomach flutters at the memory. I’ve never experienced a first kiss like it. The way we both sighed when our lips pressed together, her warm tongue tentative against mine, her mouth as soft as it looked, and the way my fingers tingled when they brushed her skin. I hold a hand to my chest, reluctantly let the memory go and say a silent goodbye to her.

I head outside, unsure if that exercise has made any difference, so I do the thing that always helps – set up my tripod, adjust the camera settings to architecture mode and line up the building. I snap image after image. Different angles, shifting light, the contrast of sandstone against the expanse of blue sky and feathery white clouds. The edges of the building are sharp in the summer sunshine and the starkness of the different textures is striking. I snap some with my phone, send one to Adam and Mum, and upload another to Instagram. I stroll along the busy walkway to the Bode Museum where I take more shots, focusing on the way the sun casts a sheen across the magnificent copper dome.

Once I’m happy with my photos, I pack up my gear and slowly turn around, my stomach jumping. Across the small body of water is Monbijoupark. I peer at my watch – 5.40 pm. My legs have suddenly become heavy but I force myself to move, cross Monbijou Bridge and descend the concrete steps to the park. Crowds are gathered along the promenade, lounging in deck chairs, soaking up the late afternoon sun and live music.

I head towards the centre of the park and take the dirt path. It takes a few minutes to orient myself, but then I’m certain I’ve found the right spot because the Berliner Fernsehturm antenna is peeking over the treetops. I know the tree by the width of its trunk; I’d measured it against my body when I first returned looking for Casey so I’d never forget.

I sit cross-legged on the grass and let the memories surface. My head on Casey’s shoulder, her mouth on mine, my fingertips brushing her silky skin. I’ll remember. This spot. This day. This time. My mind shifts to our other conversation that day – me pushing to go to London, trying to force a situation where we’d be together – and deep regret flares in my chest. I release a heavy, shuddering breath, hoping it will rid me of this hurt and confusion I’ve carried for so long.

‘Time to move on,’ I whisper. Opening my eyes, I look around the park. Nothing has changed. No one has magically appeared in front of me. But I feel a shift inside, a willingness to let it go, and that’s a start.

I pull out my camera and take some random shots. Maybe I’ll go to a bar tonight and find myself a new Berlin romance – create new, amazing-sex neural pathways, test whether this letting go stuff has worked. I flick through the images I’ve just taken and consider my own invitation to go out. Too much effort. Maybe I’ll just get some nice food, a bottle of wine, take it back to my Airbnb and spend the night in Lightroom, editing my photos.

Chapter 15

Casey, Berlin

I’ve spent the workday dealing with artists, catering, deliveries, mix-ups and finalising everything for the exhibition opening on Tuesday night. My mind has had no space to dwell on the phone call I need to make to Eva later, but my body carries the stress of it. My shoulders pinch, there’s a relentless dull throb in my temple, and I have no appetite. Now, it’s just gone 5.40pm, and as much as I’d like to keep working so I can avoid that call, we’ve done all we can for today and Felix wants to leave.

‘Call on the weekend if you need me,’ I say to Felix as I slip my laptop into its bag. ‘I’ll be working on the London exhibition anyway.’

‘Sure. I’ll be here Sunday for the installers. That leaves us two days for any last-minute issues, so I think we’re good.’

‘I’ll come in on Sunday and give you a hand, if you like,’ I say.

‘Great, thank you. Any plans tonight?’

‘Erm…’ I massage my temple. ‘Have to call Eva. Things to talk about.’

He grimaces. ‘Like that, is it?’

I frown. ‘Mmm.’

‘Sorry to hear that. If you need a friend afterwards, you have my number.’

I hoist my laptop bag onto my shoulder. ‘Cheers, Felix. I might take you up on that.’

‘Oh.’ He jumps up. ‘Can you wait a minute? The caterers contacted me with some last-minute changes and I’d like your opinion before I get back to them.’

‘Okay,’ I say, welcoming the delay.

He heads down the corridor to another office and I lean against the doorframe and check my phone, automatically navigating to Holly’s Insta profile, hoping for a new post since her night out on Saturday. Her grid has new photos, but they’re outside shots – a park, an old building. I click on the first image and read the caption. Rain in the Tiergarten. I push myself off the doorframe, my heart leaping. Does Melbourne have a Tiergarten? I look at the next image and my legs almost buckle. It’s the Alte Nationalgalerie, posted twenty-one minutes ago. Oh, God. I check the time – 5.49pm.

‘Felix,’ I shout. ‘I have to go.’

He appears holding a piece of paper. ‘Oh, I just need?—’

‘Get whatever you think. Sorry,’ I call over my shoulder as I shoot across the gallery floor and out the doors.

I run to the end of the street, peering at my watch as I turn onto Tucholskystrasse – 5.52. I switch to a fast walk, darting around people who get in my way. Why is this road so long? I reach Oranienburgerstrasse at 5.55. The pedestrian crossing lights are red. ‘Hurry up, lights,’ I mutter. They change to green and I bolt across the road, then run the rest of the way to the entrance of Monbijoupark. I don’t bother with paths this time, just cut across the grass, and then I freeze.