"I'd like that," she says simply. As we finish cleaning up, our discussion turns to practical details but underneath runs a current of something new and undefined.
When my phone buzzes, I expect another text from Tessa about our "metrics," but instead find a message from work that shatters the quiet comfort of the evening:
Board is pushing for confirmation on the storefront.
I set the phone face-down on the counter, the warmth of the evening suddenly cooled by the reality of what lies ahead.
Rosanna is planning how to celebrate buildings marked for demolition.
The board is asking when to destroy them.
I am standing in the center of both worlds.
And I’m not sure which one I want to win.
Chapter eighteen
Rosanna
Sunday's street art festival lingers in my mind days later as I sit at my illustration table, sketching character designs for my current project.
Something shifted between Seamus and me that day.
I still feel the ghost of his hand in mine, the unexpected warmth of his fingers.
That touch wasn’t for cameras. It was real.
The morning light streams through my studio window, illuminating the organized chaos of my workspace. The reference books are stacked in precarious towers, sketches are pinned to corkboards, cups of brushes and pens are sorted by type and purpose.
Outside this door, I still move carefully.
I know I'm temporary. This is a six-month arrangement. We’re nearly two in.
My eyes catch on the other sketchbook lying open at my elbow.
The Seamus Project.
I’ve added another page this week.
Seamus and I beneath a mural, fingers threaded.
I let the color bleed from our joined hands into his sleeve.
My phone buzzes with an email notification. It's from Shay again, his third message this week.
His emails have increased in frequency and depth lately, shifting from our usual casual updates to more thoughtful reflections on connection, authenticity, and finding meaning in unexpected places.
It's like my pen pal somehow sensed I needed this particular touchstone during this strange transitional period.
I open the message eagerly, finding a response to my description of the art festival (carefully edited to exclude any mention of Seamus or our arrangement).
"There's something powerful about temporary art," Shay writes. "Maybe the fact that it's temporary makes it more precious. It forces us to appreciate what exists now rather than assuming it will always be there."
The observation resonates with my own feelings about the festival, about the neighborhood fighting for preservation, about the strange in-between space I currently occupy with Seamus.
I find myself smiling as I read Shay's thoughtful analysis, appreciating how he always seems to expand my perspective rather than simply validating it.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I consider my reply, but a glance at the clock tells me I'm already running late for coffee with Luna.
