The first Monday after graduation felt like standing at the edge of a long, unmarked road.
No campus map.
No syllabi.
No familiar footsteps echoing in hallways that held your ghosts.
Sky sat on her narrow dorm bed—now mostly stripped of color and clutter—staring at a small box of her belongings. Books. Her journal. The sketch of Ayana she'd once drawn. A chipped coffee mug that held more memories than caffeine.
This place had been more than a room. It had been a cocoon. A hiding place. A space where she could shed the world and fold inward.
But cocoons were meant to be outgrown.
There was a knock at the door.
She already knew who it was.
Ayana stood there, not with flowers or grand gestures, but with two iced coffees, a tote bag slung over one shoulder, and a softness in her eyes that made Sky's chest ache.
"Thought you might want some company," she said.
Sky stepped aside to let her in. "You brought the good kind."
Ayana handed over one of the cups. "Extra cinnamon. No sugar."
"You remember."
"I remember everything," Ayana said, then looked around the room. "Almost empty."
Sky nodded. "Feels strange. Like the end of a movie I didn't expect to like."
"Or the beginning of one that hasn't been written yet," Ayana offered.
They sat on the bed, legs close, shoulders brushing.
Sky turned the coffee cup slowly in her hands. "Do you ever get scared when the story shifts?"
"All the time," Ayana said. "But I've learned not to run from the plot twist."
Sky smiled faintly. "Even when it's messy?"
"Especially when it's messy."
They didn't kiss.
They didn't need to.
But Sky leaned her head against Ayana's shoulder, and for a long time, that was enough.
Two weeks later, Sky moved into a shared apartment off-campus with Kairo and another friend from the literature department, a quiet girl named Imani who collected incense and vintage records.
The space was small but alive—walls covered in art, shelves crammed with books, plants trailing from hooks in the ceiling. It was chaotic in the best way.
Ayana helped her move in, carrying boxes, assembling a secondhand bookshelf, and sneaking little comforts into the kitchen: herbal teas, spices, a handwritten recipe for her famous lentil stew.
They didn't define what they were.
They didn't need to.
But every evening Sky stopped by Ayana's place felt like a secret homecoming.
It was mid-June when Sky woke up in the middle of the night, chest tight, heart racing.
A nightmare.
Not a violent one.
Just... memory.
She sat up, gasping, wiping sweat from her forehead. The apartment was quiet. Her roommates were asleep. The city hummed softly outside her window, like the world was exhaling just loud enough to remind her she wasn't alone.
She reached for her phone before she could second-guess herself.
Sky: Are you awake?
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
Ayana: Yes. Want to talk or just... be?
Sky: Be.
Minutes later, she arrived at Ayana's apartment, barefoot in sandals and a hoodie three sizes too big.
Ayana opened the door wordlessly.
Sky walked in and curled up on the couch. Ayana handed her a blanket, then sat across from her with her legs tucked under her. The room smelled like chamomile and ginger.
For a while, they said nothing.
Then Sky whispered, "I keep thinking... this won't last. That something's going to take it away."
Ayana didn't flinch. "What makes you think that?"
"Because I don't keep things," Sky said. "People leave. Or I leave. Or things break."
Ayana leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You haven't broken this."
Sky looked at her. "Yet."
Ayana's voice softened. "Love doesn't disappear because you doubt it. It disappears when we stop feeding it."
Sky swallowed. "So how do we keep feeding it?"
Ayana reached for her hand. "By showing up. Even at 2:17 AM."
Sky smiled. "That's oddly specific."
Ayana held her gaze. "Because I'll always remember when you came back."
July arrived in waves of heat and early sunsets.
Sky got a freelance editing gig through a poetry professor she once admired from afar. It didn't pay much, but it made her feel real. Useful. Capable.
Ayana started prepping summer workshops—free writing classes for underserved teens in the city. She invited Sky to help.
They spent mornings in the community center, rearranging plastic chairs and taping poems to the walls. The teens were sharp, observant, and unfiltered. Sky loved them instantly.
"You two are, like... together, right?" one girl asked during the break.
Sky turned red. Ayana just smiled. "We're figuring it out."
The girl shrugged. "Cool. Y'all got that soft love. Like low-fi jazz and late-night soup."
Ayana and Sky laughed so hard they cried.
Later that night, Sky said, "She's right, you know."
Ayana smiled. "About which part?"
"The soup."
But not everything was soft.
Some days, Sky woke up and didn't feel like herself. The fog rolled in. She couldn't breathe without it weighing down her ribs.
One morning, Ayana found her curled up on the bathroom floor, eyes distant.
She didn't speak.
She just sat beside her.
No lectures.
No fixing.
Just presence.
Sky leaned into her and whispered, "I'm sorry."
Ayana kissed her forehead. "You don't owe me sorry. You owe yourself grace."
Sky cried then—not because she was weak, but because someone had finally given her permission to fall apart without punishment.
In early August, Sky took Ayana to her favorite place—a hill near the old library with a view of the city lights.
They lay on a blanket under the stars, fingers intertwined.
"Sometimes I imagine a version of me that never met you," Sky said.
Ayana turned toward her. "And?"
"And she's still hiding," Sky said. "Still afraid of being seen."
Ayana kissed her knuckles. "I see you every day. Even when you don't."
Sky's voice wavered. "What if I lose this version of me?"
Ayana didn't hesitate. "Then I'll help you find her again."
One night, after hours of writing and takeout and terrible horror movies, Sky sat on Ayana's kitchen counter and asked the question she'd been holding back for weeks.
"Why me?"
Ayana looked up from the sink. "What do you mean?"
"You could have anyone. You're brilliant. Kind. Beautiful."
Ayana dried her hands and walked over, standing between Sky's knees.
"You want the truth?"
Sky nodded.
"I saw you," Ayana said. "I saw how you carried silence like armor. How your eyes held stories you didn't know how to tell. And I remembered what it felt like to wish someone would ask you to stay."
Sky whispered, "And you asked me."
Ayana smiled. "I'm still asking."
Sky leaned forward and kissed her, soft and lingering.
It wasn't their first kiss.
But it was the one that rewrote the rest.
By mid-August, the heat began to lift, and Ayana's workshops wrapped up. The teens gave her a handmade card with glitter that refused to come off her clothes for days.
Sky was offered a part-time assistant role in the literature department for the fall.
It came with a desk. A badge. A strange kind of legitimacy.
She told Ayana over dinner, trying to sound casual.
Ayana's face lit up. "Sky, that's incredible."
"You really think so?"
"I always have."
One evening, they hosted a small dinner at Sky's apartment. Kairo cooked. Imani made cocktails. Sky arranged mismatched candles along the windowsill.
Halfway through dessert, Kairo raised his glass. "To love that doesn't shout but never goes quiet."
Sky blushed. Ayana reached for her hand under the table.
After everyone left, they sat on the balcony, feet tangled.
Sky whispered, "This feels like a life."
Ayana kissed her temple. "That's because it is."
But love, even the quiet kind, isn't always easy.
In September, Sky's mother called.
They hadn't spoken in nearly a year.
She wanted to meet.
Ayana offered to go with her, but Sky said no. "I need to face this one on my own."
She returned two hours later, drained, silent.
Ayana didn't ask what happened.
Sky finally said, "She told me I was confused. That I'd grow out of it."
Ayana clenched her jaw. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not," Sky said. "I'm not confused. And I'm not alone anymore."
Ayana pulled her close. "No. You're not."
October arrived with rain.
Not violent.
Just steady.
Sky and Ayana spent hours indoors—reading, writing, building pillow forts on Sunday mornings.
Their love didn't flare or burn.
It smoldered. Warm. Steady. Safe.
One night, Sky asked, "Do you think we'll last?"
Ayana replied, "I think we already have."