"Now we wait," I agree.
But as we walk back toward the subway, I realize waiting doesn't feel as terrifying as it used to. Not with Maya beside me.
We stop at her favorite café, our café now, I suppose. The barista, a pierced twenty-something with purple hair, grins when she sees us.
"The usual?" she asks.
"Please." Maya settles into our regular corner booth. "And maybe one of those blueberry scones."
I slide in across from her, marveling at how natural this feels. How quickly we've built routines, traditions. Small domestic rituals that feel more significant than grand gestures.
"So," Maya says, breaking off a piece of scone. "I have something to show you."
She pulls out her laptop, fingers flying across the keys. The screen fills with text, and I lean closer to read.
"Letters to My Neighbor: A Love Story in Real Time,"reads the header.
My breath catches. "Maya..."
"It's our blog," she says quickly. "Joint byline. I've been working on it all week. Our story, but told together. Both perspectives."
I scroll through the entries, recognizing moments from our early encounters reimagined through her words, my voice woven throughout. It's beautiful and honest and completely terrifying.
"You want to publish this?"
"Only if you're okay with it." Her voice is uncertain now. "I know you value privacy, but I thought maybe it could help other people. Show them that different doesn't mean dangerous."
I keep reading, my chest tightening with each paragraph. She's captured things I didn't even realize she'd noticed, the way I arrange my notebooks, my careful pronunciation of English words, the vulnerability I try so hard to hide.
"Here," she says, clicking to a new entry. "This is what I was working on last night."
"Day 47: On Learning to Be Loved"
"Ursak tells me that in Orcish, there are seventeen different words for love, each with specific applications. The love between warriors. The love for homeland. The love of parentsfor children. The love that builds slowly, like stone warming in sunlight."
"He taught me that phrase—'Stone warms slow.' I thought he was talking about his own heart, how carefully he opens it to new people. But I think he was also talking about mine."
"I spent so long protecting my solitude, building walls to keep the world at bay. But love, real love, doesn't respect walls. It seeps through cracks, pools in unexpected places, transforms everything it touches."
"Today I woke up in his arms and realized something: I'm not losing my independence by loving him. I'm becoming more myself than I've ever been."
My throat feels tight. "You wrote this about me?"
"About us." She reaches across the table, her hand covering mine. "If you don't want me to publish it?—"
"Publish it."
The words surprise me with their certainty. Six months ago, the thought of my private life exposed to strangers would have sent me into hiding. But Maya has taught me something about vulnerability, about the strength it takes to let yourself be seen.
"Are you sure?"
"Keth dalak mor ushran," I say. "Love shared is love multiplied."
Her smile could power the entire city. "I love when you speak Orcish."
"I love when you write about us."
We sit with her laptop between us like a bridge. I watch her work, adding final touches to the blog post, and marvel at this woman who saw past my size and difference to the heart underneath.
