My phone dings. Text message from an unknown number.
"Visa appeal received. Initial review in 2-3 weeks. Thank you for your patience."
I show Maya the screen. She whoops loud enough to make the barista look over, then launches herself around the table to kiss me.
"Two weeks," she says against my lips.
"Two weeks," I agree.
But I'm not scared anymore. Whatever happens, we'll face it together.
We walk home slowly, hands linked, taking the long way through the park. Maya stops at a food truck to buy roasted nuts, sharing them with me as we find a bench overlooking the pond.
"Tell me about your first home," she says quietly. "Before the exile."
I've never talked about this with anyone. Not the immigration lawyers, not my colleagues at the university. But Maya's hand is warm in mine, her presence a steady anchor.
"Mountain clan," I begin. "My family has been metalworkers for generations. The forge songs, the rhythm of hammer on anvil—that's where I learned about voice, about how sound shapes meaning."
"Is that why you became a linguist?"
"Partly." I watch ducks paddle across the pond, remembering. "But also because words were how I survived exile. Learning new languages gave me new identities, new ways to belong."
"What happened? Why were you exiled?"
The old shame tries to rise, but Maya's steady presence keeps it at bay. "I questioned tradition. Suggested we could learn from human methods, integrate some of their techniques with ours. The elders saw it as betrayal."
"Their loss."
Such simple words, but they hit me like a physical blow. Not pity, not sympathy—just fierce, unwavering support.
"I used to think so too," I say. "But now... maybe it was necessary. Maybe I needed to lose one home to find another."
Maya squeezes my hand. "Home isn't a place."
"No," I agree, looking at her. "It isn't."
We head back as the sun begins to set, painting the sky in shades that remind me of the fairy lights in her hallway. Our hallway now, I suppose.
In the elevator, Maya leans against me, solid and warm. "Stay tonight?" she asks.
"Where else would I go?"
She grins. "Your place or mine?"
"Ours," I say, and mean it.
We end up in her apartment. My things scattered among hers now, creating a beautiful disorder that would have horrified me months ago. She settles at her desk to finish the blog post while I make dinner, the domestic rhythm as natural as breathing.
Later, I find her asleep at her laptop, headphones tangled in her hair, soft music still playing. The screen shows our joint blog, cursor blinking after the final paragraph.
I save her work, then gently lift the headphones away. She stirs but doesn't wake as I scoop her into my arms, carrying her to bed.
"Mmm," she murmurs. "Ursak?"
"Sleep,dalak mor.I'm here."
I tuck the covers around her, then slide in beside her. She automatically curls into me, her hand finding its place over my heart.
