Remember: love is about taking the leap even when you’re afraid. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn’t, but I know for you and Noah, the love you share, it doesn’t hold back. It doesn’t wait. It’s not something you wait to fall in to. It’s something you both jump for. So, take the leap, and know wherever I am, I’ll be watching.
P.S. If that sounded creepy … well, good.
Interlude
I should jump.
Because love is the distance between the ledge and the drop,
the moment when fear whispersdon’t
but something deeper whisperstrust.
Love is the reason we hope for tomorrow,
why we explore the wilderness unknown,
why no road is final, only another beginning in disguise.
Love is the cliffs of Yosemite,
giant domes breathing till death,
waterfalls that never ask if they should fall?—
they just do.
Love is life because without it,
we’re just standing at the edge,
watching the world move on without us,
wondering what it would feel like to let go.
—love is lifeby Lily Parker
Epilogue
Noah
One Month Later
“Idon’t do planes.” Lily slings her backpack over her shoulder as we exit.
The jet bridge is cramped, but I don’t mind. Not when I’m with her. Lily shoots a look over her shoulder, nose scrunching at the crowd traffic behind her, and I smile. “You already did the plane, Lil.”
She rolls her eyes.
People are jittery, hustling to get ahead of others, and I shake my head. Who in their right mind would be in a rush to leave the airport in Jackson, Mississippi? I shift to the side, letting a mom with a stroller squeeze by, and I offer a smile to the gray-haired guy huffing behind her.
The air on the jetway smells like fuel and recycled air, but there’s something about stepping off a plane in Lily’s home state that excites me. I roll my shoulders back, stretching out after the long four-hour flight. My hoodie already feels heavy in the humid spring air, and we haven’t even stepped outside yet.
Someone brushes my arm with their carry-on and grumbles out an apology. I nod unbothered, and watch Lily speed-walkup ahead, weaving through people. She says she’s dreading it, the reunion with her family, but she doesn’t realize she smiled the whole flight. Ducking through a gap, she skips ahead—God, she’s beautiful. Especially when she’s unguarded, open, all heart and vulnerable words. I’d follow her anywhere. But this? Her rushing toward something healing, something good that she’s been missing—yeah, this is the kind of moment I’ll remember forever.
Something slips from the back pocket of her black jeans and flutters to the stained jetway carpet. I bend to grab it before it gets trampled, assuming it’s trash, but it’s not. It’s a napkin, but not some greasy leftover from her in-flight fast-food tacos. It’s been folded with care, crumpled yes, but ink-smudged and slightly torn at the edge. Her messy script runs down the length, looping in blue pen:
First things to say to my parents:
