Epilogue
Five years later | Delany’s Coffee, Vancouver
It was the first warm day in weeks: real warm, not just sun-with-a-windchill.
The kind that makes your fingers crave iced drinks and your skin finally breathe.
The sun was finally flooding English Bay with a sharp, golden light, and Vancouver was slowly turning into a Baywatch destination: families picnicking, cyclists, runners, beach volleyball players, the smell of cannabis leisurely smoked at the beach, and people on rollerblades with dogs running by their side.
I had nowhere to be, which was still a novelty: no airport briefing, no check-in with ground crew, no flight manuals. Just a chai latte, a quiet seat by the window, hair tied up, no uniforms or make-up, and the loose stretch of time.
Paul’s old David Bowie T-shirt clung softly over my very pregnant belly: faded black to the point where you could only read “Owie”, slightly stretched at the collar, but still my favorite.
It was the only one that still comfortably fit now without making me feel like a sailboat.
I caught myself tugging it down out of habit.
Paul once joked it was so thin it barely counted as clothing, but it felt right and perfect for this weather, worn in and mine.
I opened my laptop to keep my hands busy.
Mostly, I was people-watching, letting in the café noise: espresso machines, forks clinking, someone’s terrible lo-fi playlist wash over me like white noise.
The salty breeze coming through the café door reminded me of the seagull poster at Tommo, a place that had grown on me thanks to Mia.
I moved to Vancouver last fall, after the airline offered me a full-time position.
A real, commercial airline. And I made it as a Boeing 737 pilot, with plans to transition to wide-body aircraft and fly across continents after I finish my maternity leave.
I still whispered final approach under my breath sometimes, to believe it.
I was one of the first pilots in North America who wore a hearing aid in my left ear, which finally gave me a sense of pride and accomplishment.
Life was complete, balanced, and full of noise.
Dad had eventually moved to a smaller apartment in Nanaimo, with a sunny balcony on the first floor, just enough space for his records, his ebook, and Hannah.
We were still a quiet team, my father and I, happy in the way people who’ve stopped rushing and learned to be.
I still visited often, sometimes flying in when the weather was good or driving with Mia and Talia.
Mia was still a force to be reckoned with and my best friend, and she deserves a separate story.
Adam, fresh out of Stanford, full of impossible energy and a degree in computer science, which he changed from chemical engineering, because he “was bored”, was now consulting for some AI startup downtown.
He lived nearby, in Mount Pleasant, and we met for ramen on Thursdays, sending each other memes regularly.
A small bell above the café door jingled, startling me a little.
My eyes moved toward a corner table, hidden in the right edge of the café, half in sunlight, half in shadow.
There was a man in a black T-shirt, coffee in one hand, the other resting on a laptop keyboard, mid-sentence, as if he’d been writing for hours.
Longer, messier curls. Glasses. A new tattoo along his forearm, ink peeking out beneath his rolled-up sleeve, a dragon or bird of sorts.
I didn’t need an introduction—the eyes, now piercing through the lens, always gave it away. Paul Andersen.
He looked up, and it was instant. We just sat there, across the café, looking at each other, and nothing about the years between us softened the certainty of that recognition. Paul didn’t smile, but his gaze lingered: curious, cautious, and familiar when he looked down at the faded T-shirt.
I smiled before I could stop myself and returned my eyes to my screen, pretending to scroll.
Cautious, like the first time our eyes met at Tommo.
I sipped my chai again, no rush. There was too much story in the air to be hurried.
Then my laptop pinged: new email. The subject line said: Phoenix. And I knew.
Subject: Phoenix.
No Title. Just Truth.
Hey Alicia,
I wasn’t going to say anything today. Seeing you across the room, looking like you’ve built a life that finally fits you, I thought it was better to leave it at that: a nod, a quiet smile. Let the story stay closed. But then you looked up, and I saw the familiar hazel eyes—and that T-shirt.
I realized that if I leave without saying this, I’ll carry it with me forever.
And you deserve to know that I finally understand.
You once told me to get better: not for you, not for anyone else, but for myself.
I didn’t get it back then. I thought “better” meant being the version of me that could chase love like Bukowski, the kind that knocks you sideways and leaves you breathless.
The chaotic, cinematic kind that made good stories but terrible lives.
I thought that was the only love worth having.
But you… You were never a storm—you were the calm after.
The quiet after the crescendo. The kind of love that doesn’t knock you down but holds you upright, and I was too dizzy to recognize that.
I remember everything, you know. That night in Victoria, you were in that white shirt and jeans, pretending you weren’t freezing while the jazz band played under the stars.
Our kiss, the sweetest one you decided to share with me.
You told me about your crash like it was an anecdote, but it was a scar—and you let me near it.
Near you. And I ruined it, I completely ruined it—and pulled you down with me.
I ruined it because I was too blind to see that real love isn’t chaos and dramatic exits—it’s showing up, every fucking day.
You did stay, through more than I deserved.
Through a version of me that couldn’t see past his own reflection and ego.
You did that for me, and I called it a mistake.
I called you a mistake, the most horrendous thing I have ever said to anyone—and I’ve said a few things in my life I’m not proud of.
I will never forgive myself for insulting you, Alicia.
But it wasn’t until we lost her that something broke for good.
I remember waiting for you together with your dad, knowing and realizing that I hadn’t just lost a heartbeat on a screen.
The way you held your breath so tightly, I thought you might disappear right in front of me.
I lost two people that day. And you walked away, quiet, brave, and final.
I tried to rewrite that scene a thousand ways.
I wanted to tell myself it hadn’t mattered.
I told myself I didn’t love you because it didn’t fit my idea of what love is.
But I did—and I do. In the quiet ways I never understood: in every text asking if you were safe, in every stupid bag of ginger tea when I didn’t have the courage to say I cared.
You once said you loved me. For me, it took too long to realize that I always did: just too late to know what it meant.
And maybe this is the strangest part: I didn’t understand this until I saw someone else learn how to walk.
My daughter is almost four now. Her laugh is ridiculous.
Like a bird caught mid-song. And she already knows how to ask big questions with wide eyes.
She made me understand what it means to show up, to be soft and steady.
To be a place someone lands, not a storm they survive. It made me think of you.
I went to therapy and started walking more. Moved to Vancouver and took a quieter job, digital strategy for local businesses. No more late-night music binges pretending to be epiphanies, I switched that for peaceful mornings, preschool drives, and watching Peppa as evening entertainment.
I’m not writing this to rewrite history. I know you’re far beyond needing anything from me.
And today, when I saw you in that Bowie T-shirt, I realized you’re still the bravest person I’ve ever known.
I saw it in your eyes today: you’ve found your peace and your sky.
I guess I just wanted you to know… I get it now.
You don’t need this letter. You don’t need me, but I needed to share this with you anyway.
Thank you. For the late-night texts, for bearing with me, for love, emails, and silences, for seeing us when I was lost. I hope life gives you everything you’ve dreamed of and everything I couldn’t, then.
James is a very lucky man. I hope your sky is vast and forgiving, and the lift is always there.
I hope your child grows up knowing their mother can fly and that she once taught someone else how to land with grace.
You were never the crash: you were the glider.
Stay brave, honey. Love, always,
Paul
I read the message twice. Then once more, slower.
The screen blurred briefly, a deep, throat-tight feeling when something lands exactly where it was always meant to.
I leaned back in my chair, playing anxiously with my pendant resting peacefully over my collarbone.
The chai had already gone lukewarm. The sunlight through the café window had shifted, brushing my belly in golden warmth.
The baby kicked once: soft, as if she knew and read everything, too.
Paul. Always a little late, always too poetic for his own good, but this time, it wasn’t a grand performance—it was him: older and finally still. I traced the edge of my laptop, but didn’t reply: not yet and probably not ever. Sometimes a message doesn’t need a return flight, just a safe landing.
Across the café, Paul didn’t move. He looked up from his laptop again, maybe sensing the moment. Our eyes met, his glasses catching the light, a half-smile pulling at his mouth—and I returned the smile. That was it for today.
Outside, a seagull dipped low across the street, and a cyclist swerved around it, laughing. The wind tugged playfully at the hem of my T-shirt. I closed the laptop and placed a hand on my belly.
“You okay in there?” I whispered. “We’re almost home. Your dad is waiting.”
Then I stood up, tossed my cup in the bin, and walked past the window, past the beautiful man in the corner, and into the sunlight. Paul stood up, and I could feel his gaze follow me toward the open door.
The End