The email arrives on a Tuesday.
Subject: *"International Artist Residency – Final Selection"*
I click it with a calm I don't feel.
*Congratulations, Ayanna. You've been selected for our 6-month writing fellowship in Paris.*
*We'd love to have your voice, your story, your presence.*
*Start Date: August 5th.*
*Flight covered. Stipend included.*
I stare at it for five full minutes.
Then another five.
Then I whisper to myself, "This is the dream… right?"
But the question echoes instead of landing.
Because it *was* the dream.
Before *him.*
Before *us.*
---
When I tell Nene, she screams so loudly the girls down the hall knock on the door.
"Girl! Paris?! They're gonna EAT your poems with croissants!"
I laugh, but it's hollow.
She notices.
"You haven't told him, have you?"
"No."
"What are you afraid of?"
I sigh. "That if I go, I lose him. And if I stay… I might lose me."
---
I meet Tari at the back of the library, where it's always quiet enough for confessions.
"I got something," I say.
He smiles. "A poem?"
"A plane ticket."
His smile fades.
I show him the email.
He reads. Twice.
Then hands the phone back without a word.
---
"So?" I ask.
"So what?" he replies.
"Say something."
He looks at me, eyes unreadable. "What do you want me to say?"
"That I should stay. That you need me."
He shakes his head. "That's not love."
Silence.
Then, softer: "Do you want to go?"
I swallow. "I don't know."
"You do. You're just scared it'll cost something."
"I don't want it to cost *you.*"
He leans forward. "Then take me with you."
My eyes widen.
"What?"
"Not to Paris," he chuckles. "I mean… in your heart. In your stories. Just don't leave me out of the next chapter."
---
And suddenly, I'm crying. Because love isn't always someone begging you to stay.
Sometimes it's someone helping you pack.
---
The last two weeks on campus feel unreal.
I walk through halls I once cried in, classrooms where I found my voice, and quiet benches where I first whispered poems into the wind.
Everything feels like a goodbye—even the shadows.
---
Nene throws me a small send-off party.
Popcorn. Afrobeats. Too much soda.
She makes everyone write one word on my wall.
"Describe Ayanna in one word."
By the end of the night, my wall is covered in color.
*Fire. Storm. Healer. Fighter. Soft. Wild. Voice. Becoming.*
I look at it for hours after everyone leaves.
Becoming.
Always that one.
---
The night before my flight, I sit on Tari's balcony with a blanket over our laps and fear tucked between us.
He's quiet.
I reach for his hand. "Are we going to make it?"
He shrugs, honest. "I don't know."
I nod. "Same."
He squeezes my fingers. "But I know I've never loved anyone the way I love you. So maybe that's enough."
And in that moment, it is.
---
At the airport, we don't say goodbye.
Just, "See you soon."
Because hearts like ours aren't built for endings.
They just pause in between chapters.
---
*Excerpt from Ayanna's journal, 30,000 feet above land:*
*I'm afraid.
But I'm flying anyway.
Because sometimes growth looks like leaving the familiar behind—
and loving what you left enough to return stronger.*
---