And I'm here, alone, wondering what it would be like to be part of that world, to be someone who stays instead of someone who leaves. The thought terrifies me, but not as much as the thought of walking away.
My phone buzzes with a text, and my heart jumps before I even look at the screen.
Dylan: Thank you for today. For being patient with the interview. For making Maddie smile. For being you.
I stare at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Me: Thank you for trusting me. With your story. With your daughter. With your cake.
His response comes quickly.
Dylan: Trusting you is the easiest thing I've done in a long time.
I read the message three times, each time feeling it settle deeper into my chest.
Me: Same.
I set the phone down and wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold onto the warmth his words created.
Tomorrow, I'll film more content. I'll be professional. I'll remember that this is temporary.
But tonight, I let myself imagine what it would be like if it were not.
The next morning,I wake to another text from Dylan.
Dylan: Maddie wants to know if you’ll come to her school's spring fair this Saturday. No pressure. But she has been asking since she woke up.
I smile at my phone like a fool.
Me: I would love to. What time?
Dylan: 10 AM. Fair warning, there will be face painting, questionable baked goods from other parents, and at least one bounce house incident.
Me: Sounds perfect.
Dylan: See you then.
I get ready for the day with more energy than I've had in weeks. I choose my clothes more carefully than usual. I actually do something with my hair instead of just pulling it into a ponytail.
When I walk into Spice Spice Baby an hour later, Dylan looks up from the cake he is working on, and his entire expression softens.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning," I reply, and the way he’s looking at me makes my stomach flip.
Evan appears from the back room, takes one look at us, and grins. "Oh, this is going to be fun to watch."
"Evan," Dylan warns.
"What? I'm not saying anything. I'm just observing that the bakery has a very romantic energy this morning."
"Get back to work," Dylan mutters, but there is no heat in it.
I set up my camera and spend the morning filming Dylan as he adds intricate details to the phoenix design. Feathers. Flames. All delicate sugar work that catches the light like stained glass. Every few minutes, our eyes meet across the workspace, and each time feels like a small conversation we are having without words.
Around midday, my phone rings. I glance at the screen and see it's the festival coordinator from Seattle, the one who offered me a spring-summer contract.
My stomach drops.
