I reach out.
My fingers hover over his contact, and I realize it’s still there. Still saved. Still waiting. I type slowly, the words measured like I’m defusing a bomb.
Me: Did you… invest in the program? The Medina Family Trust donation.
I stare at it before adding more.
If it was you—thank you. Truly. It will change lives.
My thumb hesitates. Then I hit Send. The message sits there, delivered—no bounce back. No instant rejection. My heart lurches so hard it hurts.
I stare at the screen for a long time. There’s no response. I shouldn’t expect one. Still, the quiet that follows feels like standing outside a locked door in the rain.
Boarding starts. I stand in line with my bag, half asleep, half aware.
The plane is cold. The volume too loud. The overhead lights are too bright. I buckle in, shove my bag under the seat, and watch the aisle slowly clear. My phone is in my hand even though it shouldn’t be.
We taxi. The safety video plays, and I’m about to turn my phone off when the screen lights up with a new message. For a second, my heart stops. Then it starts again, too fast.
Rafe: Yeah. It was me.
That’s it. No warmth. No invitation. But it’s him. It’s real. And it means he heard me.
I swallow hard, staring at the words until my eyes burn.
Hope is dangerous. It’s a blade. But it’s also an ember.
I type back before I can overthink it—before fear can glue my words to my heart again.
Me: Thank you.
Then I turn my phone off because the flight attendant is walking down the aisle and because I’m shaking and because if I keep holding this moment too tightly, I’ll crush it.
As the plane lifts into the night, the city falling away beneath us like glittering dust, I close my eyes and let myself believe one small thing: He’s still capable of caring.
And if that’s true, then maybe I’m not too late.
Not yet.
6
RAFE
San Francisco feelsdifferent when the fog rolls in. While LA is all glare and performance, light bouncing off glass and skin like the world is a stage, here the air softens the edges. Sound dulls, and the world feels smaller, closer, like it’s asking you to breathe slower.
It’s the only place where I can sometimes forget that people know my name.
I’m in the kitchen, chopping garlic while Rosa stands at the stove pretending she isn’t judging my knife skills.
“You’re going to lose a finger,” she says, not looking up from the pan.
“I tour internationally,” I reply. “I can handle garlic.”
“That’s not how that works,” she mutters.
Rosa’s been here three days already, and the apartment feels different with her in it. Warmer and louder. Like my life didn’t shrink to the size of stage lights and hotel rooms somewhere along the way.
She moves through my kitchen while watching me a little too closely, dark hair pulled into a bun, glasses sliding down her nose every time she leans over something. She pushes them back absently with her knuckle, exactly like our mamá does.
