Longing
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If timing were somewhere they could meet, perhaps there would be a version of them that never had to keep saying goodbye.
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Home becomes a scent left on borrowed fabric—sawdust, sweat, summer, and the strange peace of breathing someone in after they are gone.
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Somewhere between packed boxes and the road out of British Columbia lived the quiet thought that almost made her stay.
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Butterflies show up somewhere between midnight nachos, teasing messages, and the kind of ordinary conversation that feels unexpectedly electric.
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Years disappear whenever one familiar name lights up her phone and her heart remembers how to be fourteen again.
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Before she even reads the message, her smile recognizes the name—proof that memory lives as much in the body as the mind.
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At four in the morning, she misses the heavy quiet that once softened sleeplessness, anxiety, and the relentless sprint inside her mind.
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A photograph of a boy with a pelican becomes a doorway back to the voice that once crossed an ocean to make a frightened girl feel safe.
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At seventeen, safety arrived through a voice across the distance, leaving behind the ache of wondering what might have happened at another time.
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A quiet hope that her name lives in someone else’s silences as often as theirs lives in hers.
