Page 92 of Until Forever Falls

“I’m sorry I walked away, Dylan. I know I said that, but seeing you in Maine—after I’d stopped searching for signs, stopped hoping for second chances—felt like the universe had been listening the whole time. Over the years, I stood in rooms full of people, held hands that weren’t yours, told myself I was moving on. But nothing ever settled. Every smile felt borrowed, every love story belonged to someone else.”

It’s not just what he says—it’s how he says it, as though fate has already decided this for us.

“I let you go once because I thought it was the right thing. Because I was afraid. But I never stopped loving you, not for a second.” His brows knit together, his eyes glossy as he holds back years of emotion before continuing. “And this time, I’ll fight. I’ll stay. I’ll be whatever you need, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Brooks’ heartbeat knocks against mine, steady where mine stumbles. And instead of retreating into doubt, into the past, I do something terrifying—I trust him. I trust that his love never left, only waited. That even in our years apart, his heart still beat in time with mine. A pause isn’t an ending, and love isn’t something that time can steal.

“The second I walked into The Drift, it hit me—even if I hadn’t realized it right away—that I’d spent so long running from the one thing I should’ve held onto.” I give in to the truth, my eyes skimming over him, drawn to the way it settles in his posture. “You. And if I could go back, I’d do everything differently. I love you. You are my home. And I should have understood that wasn’t something I could leave behind.”

The second his lips touch mine, the world reorders itself, like an artist dragging fresh color over a faded canvas, brightening the lines of my existence. I grip his shoulder, anchoring myself in his solid presence, desperate for proof that this isn’t some fleeting dream.

In the moment that follows, we find each other again. We fall back into each other like we were always meant to. The storm outside continues its fury, but here, with him, we make promises to one another. That we’ll never be apart again. That nothing will ever tear us from this. We’re safe in the certainty of us.

His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones as he exhales against my lips. “Paris,” he whispers, drawing it out like a promise he didn’t forget. “If you never made it there, then I think it’s about time we change that. If this life has shown me anything, it’s that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. I’ve spent enough of my life waiting. That ends now.”

Love has never arrived gently for me. It always came with conditions, with rules or an escape plan. But his voice holds no expiration date, only permanence. He’s right, I never made it to Paris. But I’m done holding back. I’m done keeping life at arm’s length, afraid to feel too deeply. I’m stepping into it now—into all of it. The dreams I tucked away, the love I told myself I didn’t need, the messy, beautiful reality of being alive. I want to feel it crash over me and turn every locked door into an open invitation to the unknown. I want to live like I was always meant to—without fear, without apology. Fully. Freely.Finally.

“I never made it. So let’s go—no more waiting, no more what-ifs. I want to see the world, chase the dreams I left behind. And I want to do it all with you.”

“Alright, then.” His wink is quick, almost imperceptible, but I catch it. Just as the edge of his mouth tilts up, the kind of trouble that doesn’t ask permission before it takes over. “Let’s go…explore.”

No more questioning if I’m enough, if I deserve this, if love is something meant for me. I spent years convincing myself that healing was out of reach, that some cracks could never be filled. But here, with him, I don’t feel broken. I feel whole in a way that has nothing to do with being fixed and everything to do with choosing to move forward.

Brooks loves me. That love isn’t a battlefield littered with losses, nor a coin flipped in the dark. It’s a certainty, as natural and infinite as the tide meeting the shore.

I feel like I’m stepping into a life I get to build. A love I get to choose, again and again.

I am not the same person who ran away, who let fear dictate her future. I am here, fully, without reservation. Not because I’ve outrun the past, but because I’ve finally stopped letting it define me.

This time, I’m not bracing for the fall.

I’m ready.

“Oh? Stealing me away already? I must be special.”

Epilogue

Dylan

One Year Later

Hi KitKat,

I know it’s been a year, and for the first time, I’m actually not calling because I miss you—I mean, I do, I always will—but because I want to tell you I’m okay. I made it. I’m living again.

I thought I had to keep calling, as if holding onto your voice would keep you here. But I know now—I don’t need to say your name into the static to know you’re listening. You’re everywhere. In every sunrise, every song, every ridiculous inside joke that still makes me laugh. You never left me. And because of that…this is my last call.

I think you’d like who I’m becoming. I think I like her too. Maybe that’s what healing really is—not about forgetting or replacing, but making space for joy alongside the sorrow.

So, guess what?

I’m a teacher now. Can you believe it? An art teacher, of all things. Rockport High needed someone after Mr. Lyons retired, and somehow, that someone ended up being me. Wild, right? But the real surprise? I love it. Every day, I stand in the middle of a whirlwind of color and possibility, watching kids pour themselves into their ideas. I never imagined I’d be the one nudging hands toward creation, but here I am. It’s not just a job. It’s a privilege. One I never expected, never even considered. But now that I have it, I’ll fight like hell to keep it.

You probably wouldn’t believe it if I told you, but a few months ago, Brooks and I went to Paris. I still can’t say it without feeling like I’m dreaming. I don’t know if it was the city itself or the way the two of us fit into it, but something about being there felt like proof that no matter how much time has passed, some people are meant to find their way back to each other.

I saw the Louvre, Beckett. It was overwhelming, but in the absolute best way. I stood in front of The Winged Victory of Samothrace for what felt like hours, tracing the arc of her missing arms in my mind, wondering if she felt incomplete or if she had transcended the need for wholeness.

At the Musée de l’Orangerie, I sat in front of Monet’s Water Lilies, letting the ethereal blues, moody purples, and lush greens consume me. The brushstrokes weren’t perfect up close—messy, layered, chaotic—but when I stepped back, the image softened into something infinite. It made me see my own life as a series of jagged strokes on a canvas—chaotic up close, but maybe, from a different angle, something beautiful could take shape.

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