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The next day, we take the train to Florence. It’s not the fastest method but it’s the one both of us prefer, for the same reasons. You can jump out of trains. You can reroute. You have some semblance of control.

Plus, trains are just aesthetically superior. Europe is fucking gorgeous, and it’s a shame not to spend every moment of your life looking at it.

The last time we rode these tracks, we pretended to be a couple. Now we really are one, and I like to think we are just as insufferable. We put up our armrest. We cuddle. We kiss. We check each other’s vitals. We buy each other coffee and Fanta and Skittles.

Knowing we might be killed actually makes being together easier, because we don’t have any angst about the future.

“If we do die,” I tell Jonathan, snuggling into the new suit he bought en route, “I hope we die at the exact same time.”

Our fellow passengers look a little disturbed.

Jonathan absently strokes my hair. “We’ll certainly die eventually.”

“Will you kill me if you’re sure you’re about to die?” I joke.

“Of course,” he jokes. I think.

“Perfect. You’re the best.”

Outside the window, the landscape is turning Italian. We’re going back in time, to the place where we first met, to the place where I lost my fiancé, to the place where Jonathan killed him. What could go wrong?