The night was humid, the air thick with the scent of rain that hadn't yet fallen. Joey lay curled on her bed, the window cracked open, letting in the distant hum of Nairobi nightlife. Her journal lay open beside her, half-filled with fragmented thoughts and unfinished sentences.
Sleep came slowly, like a tide creeping in.
And then—
She was standing in a garden she didn't recognize. The sky was lavender, the trees swaying gently though there was no wind. Everything shimmered slightly, like it had been painted in watercolor and left out in the rain.
Ahead, a crowd gathered. People dressed in soft pastels, their faces blurred but familiar. Laughter floated through the air, light and melodic. A wedding was taking place.
Joey moved closer, her bare feet brushing against petals scattered across the grass. She saw the bride—tall, radiant, faceless. The groom stood beside her, and Joey's breath caught.
It was Zed.
But beside him, not far off, stood Paul.
They weren't rivals. They weren't tense. They stood side by side, both watching the ceremony with quiet reverence. Zed's hands were ink-stained. Paul's were clean, trembling slightly.
Joey tried to speak, but no sound came.
She turned and saw Wayne, seated alone beneath a tree, sketching the scene with charcoal. He looked up and met her eyes. "You're not late," he said. "You're just not ready."
Joey walked toward him. "What does this mean?"
Wayne smiled. "It means you're still choosing."
The sky darkened suddenly, the lavender bleeding into deep indigo. The crowd faded. The bride vanished. Zed and Paul turned toward her, their faces clear now—both beautiful, both broken.
Joey felt a pull in her chest, like a thread unraveling.
"I don't know who I am with either of you," she whispered.
Zed stepped forward. "Then find out who you are without us."
Paul nodded. "We'll still be here. In different ways."
Joey looked down. Her hands were covered in ink and ash.
She woke with a gasp.
The room was still. Her heart raced. She sat up, wiping sweat from her brow, and reached for her journal.
> I dreamed of a wedding. Not mine. Not theirs. Just… a moment. A choice. A mirror. I think I'm grieving something that never happened. And maybe that's okay.
She closed the journal and stared out the window.
The rain had finally come.