Chapter 4 #2
And just like that, the past and present blur together—two women, a couch, and a quiet night where, for a little while, nothing else has to matter.
* * *
Later that night, after we finish the movie and the last of the wine, Jane leads me upstairs. “I kept your old room just the way it was,” she says with a soft smile, flipping on the hallway light.
The familiar creak of the stairs wraps around me like a sound I’d forgotten.
We reach the third floor, and she opens the door with a gentle push.
And there it is.
My room. The same sloped ceiling and bright white walls. The same patchwork quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed. The same window overlooking the quiet street, the lake breeze sneaking through the curtains.
Everything is exactly as I left it.
I step inside, the air carrying that faint scent of sandalwood and college books.
For a second, I’m twenty-one again—full of hope, heart wide open, dreaming of futures that never came true.
“I’ll let you settle in,” Jane says softly, lingering in the doorway. “You’ll find everything you need in the closet.”
I nod, my throat tight. “Thank you, Jane. For… everything.”
She gives me one last, knowing smile. “Always, Della. This will always be your home, too.”
Then she leaves, her footsteps fading down the stairs.
I sit on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the familiar patterns in the quilt.
And suddenly, it’s too much.
The weight of memories. The ache of what’s been lost.
The war I’ve been fighting with myself since the moment I stepped off that plane…
I bury my face in my hands, breathing deep, steadying myself.
“You’re not that girl anymore,” I whisper into the quiet, the words meant to anchor me. “You’re stronger now. Nothing can touch you.”
But as I lie back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling I used to dream under… I know it’s a lie.
Because no matter how composed I try to be, some memories don’t ask for permission. And now, sitting on the edge of the bed, I feel it—not like a ghost, but like heat rising through skin that still remembers.
Just for a moment, I close my eyes.
The press of his mouth against mine in the dark pulse of the club. The light touch of his fingers brushing my wrist in the lobby. His voice — low, quiet, too familiar—saying my name like it still meant something to him.
I draw in a breath, sharp and deliberate, willing it all to fade away.
But it doesn’t. It stays—vivid, close, uninvited.
I tell myself it means nothing. That I’ve moved on. That I’ve built walls too high for him to cross.
But the ache beneath my ribs says otherwise.
* * *
Sunday unfolds like a quiet dream.
I walk through the sleepy streets, down to Lake Michigan.
The wind off the water is soft, carrying the scent of late spring and soon to be summer. I wander through the peaceful gardens surrounding the Bahá'í Temple, letting the stillness settle into my bones. Even here, in the heart of the calm, the past has a way of finding me.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes. Unknown number.
I don’t need to guess. I already know.
I unlock the screen anyway.
We need to talk. Please. D.
I stare at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering above it.
Delete. No reply.
The act leaves me both satisfied and breathless.
I will turn off my phone—but first, I need to call Silvia.
My best friend during that year in college, the girl who’d just moved from Barcelona, and who instantly became my loudest, brightest friend. Silvia always had a way of turning a mundane moment into an adventure.
“Chiquitaaaa!” she practically screams, pure joy in her voice.
“You won’t believe where I am.” I say, smiling as her laughter bursts through the speaker.
“Let me guess. Somewhere completely gorgeous and totally dramatic?”
“Maybe,” I tease her, letting the breeze carry my words.
She gasps, all drama. “Tell me! Tell me! You know I have zero patience.”
“Lake Michigan. Willow Creek.”
“No way!” She lets out another delighted shriek. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were coming to the U.S.! Oh, Chiquita, I’m so happy! We have to meet.”
We talk for nearly an hour about life, work, and all the things we never seem to have enough time to say.
Her voice is a rush of energy, a reminder of the amazing time we had together, of the kind of friendship that feels untouched by distance or years.
Even though we haven’t kept in close contact, it’s like I left yesterday—the connection is still there, alive and warm. Her joy, her wildness, the way she throws herself into every word—it reminds me of my own spark.
The one I lost.
But in this moment, I want to feel it again.
“Come to San Diego,” she urges, playful but firm. “We need a girls’ weekend. Sun, margaritas, hot surfers...”
“Don’t tempt me.” I can’t help but smile; she always had a way of breaking through my walls.
“You have to, Della! You can’t leave without seeing my beautiful, crazy face.”
“You’re definitely crazy,” I say, laughing softly.
Silvia chuckles, then her tone shifts, more serious but still playful.
“When does your visa expire?”
“My visa’s fine,” I reply. “It’s valid for six months. But my return flight is booked for next week, Silvia.”
She lowers her voice, warm and insistent.
“Please. Just think about it, okay? If I could hop on a plane, I would’ve flown to you already.”
My smile fades slightly, the weight of her words settling in my chest.
“I miss you, Silvia,” I admit quietly.
“I miss you too, Chiquita. Always.”
When we hang up, the quiet returns—but this time, it feels softer.
I stay on the beach a little longer, my feet sinking into the cool sand as the late morning sun glimmers over the lake.
Now, sitting alone, I watch the waves blur—steady and endless, and I remember the girl I was here.
The one full of life and self-confidence, who believed anything was possible.
Back then, I thought someone else would hand me the life I dreamed of. That love could carry me there. That he could.
But now… for the first time in years, I let myself wonder—Could it still be possible? Could I make my dreams come true? What if they’ve just been waiting… for me to choose them?
Maybe, just maybe, I could build the life I imagined—not the one promised to me, but one I create, step by step, with my own hands.
By early afternoon, I slowly make my way back through the quiet streets—passing families barbecuing in their yards, kids riding bikes, couples holding hands.
And somewhere deep inside, a fragile hope stirs.
Maybe this time… I don’t have to wait for someone else.
Maybe this time… I could begin on my own.