“And you learned,” she said.
“Yes.” My voice wavered. “I learned how to live in the almost. How to wait. How to be grateful for attention even when it hurt. I learned that wanting was something you did quietly so you didn’t embarrass yourself.”
Amaya leaned back, eyes still on mine. “And now Connor?”
I swallowed. The name did something to me—an immediate heat, low and sharp.
“Connor doesn’t feel like almost,” I admitted. “He feels like … impact.”
Amaya’s mouth curved faintly. “Good.”
I frowned. “Good?”
“Yes,” she said. “Because almost is where girls get trapped.”
The words hit hard. Too accurate.
I stared at my apartment—my pale walls, my restrained furniture—wondering how many years I’d built my life around being the kind of woman who could survive almost.
Amaya stood and set her empty glass down. “You have dinner.”
My heart jumped. “Yes.”
“Are you excited?”
The honest answer came out before I could edit it. “Yes.”
Amaya nodded once, satisfied. “Then don’t punish yourself for it.”
I stood, too, feeling suddenly restless. “What if I’m making it bigger than it is?”
Amaya’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “Maybe you are. But you’re allowed to be a woman who wants.”
My throat tightened again. I hated that wanting still felt like a thing I had to earn permission for.
Amaya moved toward the door, sliding her shoes on. “Text me when you’re at dinner,” she said.
I blinked. “Why?”
She gave me a look. “Because you’re new.”
Then she leaned in and cheek-kissed me like she’d done a hundred times, like we were sisters, like intimacy was normal instead of earned.
“Bonne chance,” she murmured. “Be brave.”
When she left, the apartment felt quieter than before. Not safe-quiet. Anticipation-quiet.
I checked the time and felt my pulse spike.
I showered again even though I didn’t need to. I wanted the ritual. The reset. The feeling of water washing off the old version of myself—the one who’d learned to want in secret.
I dressed carefully this time, not for the room, not for the gaze of strangers, but for the idea that I might be seen by someone who didn’t reduce me.
A dress that skimmed rather than clung. Shoes I could walk in. Earrings small, gold, like a whisper.
I stood in front of the mirror and stared at my own face.
There was a softness there that felt new. Not naive—awake.
