“Yes,” said Zofia without hesitation.
“Why?” he asked.
Zofia opened her mouth, then closed it. There was no science behind her answer. And yet she had dreamed of Laila often in the days since they’d left Poveglia. In her dreams, her friend sat beside her and told her all would be well, that there was nothing to be scared of. Zofia could neither quantify where her certainty came from nor locate its source beyond the flimsy substance of dreams. And so the only words that came to her were not her own, but Enrique’s, the same words he’d so often used to taunt her.
“Call it a gut feeling,” she said.
A wide smile broke across his face. He looked out the window and his smile faded a bit.
“I know it’s ridiculous, but sometimes I… I dream of her. I hear her telling me that all will be well,” he said.
Zofia’s eyes widened. “You dream of her too?”
Enrique looked back at her. His eyebrows went up. Zofia recognized his expression as disbelief.
“That can’t be coincidence,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand…”
Zofia did not know what to say. Enrique was right. He would never understand, and neither would she.
“Now what do we do?” he asked, looking at her.
A pause stretched between them. The train rumbled along the tracks. Rain smeared the glass windows.
Zofia had imagined that the world would come to a complete halt inside the temple, and yet it continued, gathering speed andmomentum despite the changes. Science quietly asserted itself into the chaos. An object in motion would stay in motion unless acted upon by a new force. Zofia wondered if that applied to her feelings for Enrique. Perhaps it would always stay like this—silent and the same—unless she acted upon it. In the past, she would have said nothing. She feared rejection. She feared believing that she was acting outside of what was conventional.
But now, she found she no longer cared.
Zofia took a deep breath. In her mind’s eye, she pictured Laila smiling encouragingly, and it gave her the strength to speak.
“I like you, Enrique. A lot.”
Zofia studied his face. The look of disbelief shifted. A corner of his mouth tugged up. His eyes crinkled.
It was joy.
“I like you too, Zofia,” he said, before adding: “A lot.”
“Oh,” said Zofia. “Good.”
She had not planned for what to say after that. Her face felt warm. Her hands felt tingly.
“May I… hold your hand?” he asked.
Zofia tugged her hands farther into her lap. “I don’t like hand holding.”
Enrique was quiet. He made a “hmm” sound, and Zofia wondered if she had upset him, if he would go or—
“Tell me what you do like,” he said.
“I… I would like you to sit closer to me.”
He moved and sat beside her. Their shoulders touched. His leg brushed against her skirt. Zofia looked at him. She wanted to kiss him again. She wondered if she should ask first, or simply press her face to his, but then she remembered that if he was taking the time to ask what she liked, she should reciprocate.
“Do you like this?” she asked.
He smiled. “Yes.”
“Now what do we do?” asked Zofia.
