I swallow.
“I think…” I start slowly, “some moments feel fleeting because we’re afraid to admit how much they matter.”
Her brows lift. “Is that what these photographs are about? Fleeting moments?”
My throat tightens. Because suddenly, I hear Kendrick sayingI don’t do temporary very well.
I hear myself answeringMaybe neither do I.
I feel the warmth of his hand on my cheek, the way he touched me like I was something worth remembering.
“No,” I say quietly. “They’re about something else.”
“What?”
I look at the aurora photo again, but all I see is the outline of his shoulders, the softness in his eyes.
“They’re about clarity,” I say. “About realizing what you want when you can’t have it anymore.”
The journalist nods slowly, scribbling something down. “That’s… unexpectedly vulnerable.”
She moves on. I stay where I am, pulse thudding at my throat, eyes fixed on the photograph that suddenly feels like a lie by omission.
My success feels hollow.
The room feels too bright.
My lungs feel too small.
I step outside, the blast of cold air grounding me for the first time all night. Snow falls slow and soft, melting as it touches the pavement. I tilt my head back, watching it disappear, feeling the echo of loss and longing pull trough my ribs.
I reach into my pocket and touch the folded paper I couldn’t throw away?—
Thank you for showing me what home feels like.
My eyes burn.
Before I can rethink it, I pull out my phone and open a travel app. My hands tremble only slightly as I scroll. Flights. Times. Prices.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
I came to Alaska to find something real.
I found him.
And leaving without him wasn’t clarity — it was fear dressed as ambition.
I take a steadying breath.
Then I book a one-way ticket.
Tomorrow morning.
When the confirmation email pings into my inbox, something sharp inside me loosens. Not fully. Not cleanly. But enough that I can breathe again.
I look up into the falling snow and whisper, because I can’t not:
“I’m coming back.”
