Chapter 27
I’m quitting writing. Drawing is clearly calling me y’all.
Gio
"Can you put it on speaker for me?" he says.
So I do. I put it right there, in the middle of the table. It’s some international number. Weird.
"Good evening, may I speak to Mr. Rava Weston?" His entire posture straightens, his face goes pale.
"This is…this is Rava Weston speaking," he answers, but his voice isn’t steady. Not even close.
I sit up straighter too. What the fuck is this? "We’re calling regarding your recent application for postgraduate studies. We’re pleased to inform you—"
I don’t even hear the rest.
Because I’m staring at him.
At his wide fucking eyes. And it hits me.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
The Canada thing. The fucking future thing.
I forgot that life isn’t just showers together, cooking side by side, falling asleep with his foot tangled in mine. No. It can’t just be that simple. Everything has to fall apart now. Right when it’s starting to feel like maybe, maybe, we can breathe.
Should’ve known better. He shakes his head like don’t say anything. And for a second, everything is just…still. Except my heart. That’s losing its goddamn mind.
I lift my brows at him, mouthing silently: What is this?
Rava’s eyes dart toward me, wide, slightly panicked. He hits mute. "It’s—it’s that master’s program. The one. From a month ago. I applied…I didn’t think I’d even hear back."
My heart slams inside my chest. It suddenly feels like this voice, this woman, just walked into our moment, into our night, and is here to rip him away from me.
I swallow hard. "Okay," I whisper, nodding fast like an idiot. "Okay." I stop hearing the words. It all feels distant now, like we’re sitting underwater and her voice is coming through glass.
He’s really being offered this. This is real.
Too fucking real. It isn’t some vague possibility anymore.
"We are pleased to offer you a full scholarship for your master’s studies, Mr. Weston.
Your application was excellent. Your professors spoke very highly of you.
We believe you’ll thrive in our program. "
Rava blinks, frozen for a moment. And then…God, that small smile of his. That polite, tiny, grateful smile.
The one you give when you know you’re supposed to feel happy but your chest’s too fucking tight to breathe. He’s trying so hard. To be calm. To be collected. To not crumble right in front of me.
And me? I’m smiling too. Wide. Supportive. Proud.
And dying inside.
Because I can already see him, in lecture halls. In classrooms. With books in his arms, papers in his hands, changing kids’ lives the way only someone like him could. He’ll be brilliant. The best teacher. Exactly who he was always meant to be.
And I’ll be…here.
Stuck. My jaw clenches, but I keep the smile on.
"That’s…that’s incredible," Rava finally manages to say into the phone. "We’ll need your confirmation within the next 48 hours, Mr. Weston," the woman continues politely. "Please take your time, but do let us know by then."
Rava drags a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes, trying to push the reality of it back for just one second longer. "Of course," he breathes. "Thank you so much."
Click.
He hangs up and turns to me with that look, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to be happy. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll fall apart first. But I don’t.
I smile. Big. Like an idiot.
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to take that phone and throw it off the goddamn balcony.
"Hey," I say quietly, reaching for his hand. "Rava?" His eyes flick up, glassy. "You did it, baby," I whisper, squeezing his hand.
"You fucking did it." I grab him and kiss his forehead like he’s five years old. He laughs a little, but I feel how tight his arms are around me. Like he’s scared to let go.
I won’t let him think that going is the wrong choice. Not even for a second. Not even a flicker of doubt. He’s worked too hard for this. Wanted it too bad. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from him, it’s what love actually is.
It’s this.
It’s pushing someone forward, not holding them back.
It’s letting go of your own fear just so they can fucking fly. And right now? I’m his biggest fan. Louder than the voice in his head. Louder than the part of me that’s breaking.
He needs to see it. He needs to see me clapping for him with both hands, even if my heart’s holding a white flag. Because that’s love, right? Even when it hurts like hell, you still want them to win.
His jaw trembles for a second. "I don’t even know if I—" "Shh," I cut him off, leaning closer, my thumb stroking over his knuckles. "You were made for this. Do you hear me? This is what you were meant to do. And you deserve every fucking second of it."
I’m lying. Not about him deserving it, God, no. He deserves everything good this world has to offer.
But about how okay I am.
Because inside I’m fucking crumbling.
I’m trying not to picture him gone. Trying not to imagine this house empty, my mornings empty, my nights…fuck. I rub his arm gently, pulling him closer into my chest.
His head finds my shoulder. "I’m so proud of you," I whisper again, pressing a kiss to his temple.
"So fucking proud." My heart is screaming: What the hell am I supposed to do without you?
But my mouth only says: "They will be so lucky to have you.
" His breath hitches against my neck, like he’s fighting not to cry.
And still, I smile. Because someone has to be strong for him. I have to be strong for him. Because no one else ever fucking was. He’s quiet for a second, staring down at his hands. "Do you really think I deserve this?" his voice comes out small, raw.
I don’t even let him finish the breath after. "Nobody deserves this more than you," I say firmly. "You hear me? Nobody. You’ve worked your ass off for this. You earned it." He swallows, nodding slowly, like he’s trying to force himself to believe it.
I’m so fucking sorry that his first instinct is guilt.
That the second he gets what he’s been dreaming of, the first thing that hits him is doubt.
I hate that he’s been trained to flinch at his own wins.
To question whether he’s allowed to want more.
To look at the door opening and wonder if stepping through makes him selfish. It doesn’t.
He deserves every good thing coming to him. Every degree, every classroom full of loud-ass kids that are gonna love him without even trying. I’ve never met anyone more worthy of it all. And it breaks me that he still doesn’t know it.
"Okay," he whispers finally. "Okay…yeah. You’re right."
I give him a soft smile. "There you go. That’s my boy." I start gathering the plates to take them inside, but as I move, I catch him wiping his face quickly with the back of his hand.
I pause. Tilt my head. Raise my eyebrow. "Rava." He doesn’t look at me. "Yes?"
I narrow my gaze at him. "Was that a tear?"
He blinks. "No?"
The way his voice cracks makes me bite back a laugh, even as my own chest aches. I set the plates right back on the table. Slowly.
"What am I gonna do with this little guy," I mutter under my breath. I reach for his hand, tug him gently toward me. "Come here." He follows, and I pull him onto the small balcony couch.
I wrap my arms tight around him, tucking him into my chest like I’m protecting the most fragile thing in the world. My fingers slide into his hair, stroking it softly, grounding both of us.
"Hey," I whisper against his temple. "Look at me." His eyes are glassy, lips trembling just a bit. I cup his face, brushing my thumbs over his cheeks. "Do you realize what this means?" I grin.
"You’re officially the hottest academic weapon in North America. I should be jealous, but instead I’m just proud as hell."
He looks at me then. That look.
That fuck, what about us look.
And I feel it hit me like a truck. I can’t follow him. As much as I fucking want to. As much as every damn cell in my body wants to just get on a plane and go with him, wake up next to him every day, kiss him before his lectures, pick him up on my bike like some dumb rom-com fantasy, I can’t.
Because someone’s gotta be here. Someone’s gotta take care of my mom, someone’s gotta keep my father’s business alive. That thing, it’s him.
And I can’t let that die too. Not when he already did.
So I do the only thing I know how to do. I cup Rava’s face, make him look at me, and I smile. "You’re gonna go there and kill it. You’re gonna make them wish they had three more of you. And I’ll be here, clapping from this side of the ocean like a lunatic every time you do something amazing."
He tries to say something, but I cut him off with a kiss.
"Don’t think about what we’re leaving behind," I whisper against his lips. "Think about where you’re going. About what you’ve worked for.
You earned this, Ravioli. You earned it.
" He’s shaking his head, eyes shining, and yeah, I can’t take it anymore either.
So I pull him in, hold him like he’s already slipping through my fingers. "If I could, I’d already have two tickets booked. You have no idea how fucking bad I wanna go with you. But…I have to stay. I have to be what’s left for her. And for him. For now, at least. And I hope—"
I swallow. "I hope that doesn’t make you think I love you any less. ’Cause it’s the opposite. I love you too much to keep you here."
Then I force another smile, the Gio special, messy, cocky. He opens his mouth, but I see it coming. "But what if—"
I cut him off instantly. "You’ll handle it. Because you always do." His brows furrow. "But what if I can’t—"
"You can, Rava. And I’ll be right here to remind you of that whenever you forget."
"But what if I fail—"