Page 63 of The Spark

“I believe you,” she said finally. “But I’m still in too much pain to come back to this right now. I need space.”

My heart cracked but I nodded and compartmentalized my pain.

“Okay,” I said softly.

“Maybe we can go back to being who we were before. Friends. I don’t know when, though. Not yet.”

I gave her a tight smile, my throat thick. “I’ll wait.”

She nodded once, and started to walk away.

But she stopped and turned back.

“You were the safest thing I’ve ever felt. Don’t forget that.”

Then she left. And I let her go.

For now.

27

Weeks passed and it still hurt to think of him. To think of what we shared and what was lost in such a short time. I lost more than love, I lost my friend.

But it was getting easier.

At least, that’s what I told myself when I was brushing my teeth or folding laundry or smiling through conversations with people who didn’t know I was barely holding it together.

I spent more time at my parents’ house, letting the familiar walls of my childhood wrap around me like a quilt I didn’t know I needed. I was chasing something steady. Something safe. Something that wouldn’t collapse under the weight of silence and unsaid things.

Dad was in the living room, eyes fixed on the TV, muttering about NFL free agency like it was gospel. He barely looked up when I walked in, and I was grateful. Because I didn’t have it in me to pretend today.

Mom was at the dining table, going through a stack of mail with her readers perched on the edge of her nose, her brow furrowed like something in that envelope had personally offended her.

I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and sat across from her, needing something cold to cool the heat rising in my chest. I could feel it coming—the question I didn’t want to answer.

She glanced up, and her eyes did that thing—soft, sharp, full of truth. She didn’t need to ask if something was wrong. She already knew.

“You been drawing?” she asked, her voice quiet, careful.

I nodded, swallowing thickly. “A little. I finished that commission project a few weeks ago.”

Her face brightened like the sun finally peeked through a cloud. “That’s good, baby. What’s next?”

I hesitated, twisting the cap on the bottle like it held the answers I couldn’t find in myself. “Actually… my agent locked in a showcase at the August Wilson Center.”

Her eyes flew open, mouth parting like she needed a minute to take it all in. “Amaya, that’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

I shrugged, avoiding her gaze, trying not to let the shame creep up my neck. “It just happened.”

Lying.

It had been weeks. Deirdre had called, breathless with excitement, telling me this was the kind of spotlight most artists dreamed about. That I’d get to display the Taraj Ferrell cover alongside original pieces that would tell the story of my evolution.

And the second I hung up with her, I thought of him.

Amir.

Because that’s what we did. We shared wins. We shared everything.

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