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“No,” Ello interrupts, voice strong. “This will work. You will be free. I promise.”

Nodding, he places a chaste kiss on my temple before leaving me to my thoughts. I bury myself in my mother’s old memories, seeking her comfort.

More photos of her dancing lay across my white comforter. Some of when she was young, struggling to stand on her toes. Others where she’s much older, back straight. There’s one of an elderly woman, stout and with a curved back. She’s helping my mother’s core, gnarled fingers curling around her sides. I assume she was the studio owner.

I pull it closer, finger tracing my mother’s face. She’s close to my age in this, and we look strikingly similar. We don’t have the same attributes—different hair and eye color—but we could pass as mirror images. For a moment, I can sense her presence.

At the bottom of the chest are pieces of folded pink paper, edges ripped and yellowed from age. There’s a simple piece of white thread wrapped around them, with a lock of dark hair.

Lifting it, my fingers rub the ends. It’s soft. I sniff it and sneeze. It smells spicy. It’s not Mama’s—I wear her perfume.

Could this be the man she loved? It’s a small piece of him, kept close as a reminder of their love.

Unraveling the notes, I read the top one. It’s short, in heavy masculine handwriting.

I can’t stand to see him touch you.

Crumpling it, I toss the note, heart pounding.

These are love notes—but not from the past.

Notes exchanged between her and the man she loved, in Boston. He must have witnessed her and my father together. Does that mean she fell in love with someone here?

This is too much.

I stuff the note and the rest of the photos back into the chest and hide it under my bed. This is private, and I’m not ready to dive into my mother’s torrid love affair. There is a part of me that begs for more; more of who she was, who she loved. I want to know if her longing mirrors the one in my soul.

Hers, from unfair life choices. Mine from the man in the mask.

Opening my phone, I stare at the text exchanges. He’s been silent since yesterday, when I teased him in the restaurant. Maiming men might take more focus than not.

Biting my thumb, I send a quick message.

Have you ever been in love before?

I don’t know why I started that. But my fingers act of their own accord. Three dots appear and vanish in rapid succession, as if he’s trying to figure out what to say.

Stalker: I thought I was once. When I was younger.

It’s one of the most vulnerable admissions he’s sent. Before, we’ve teased or argued. I’ve snapped at him or ignored his inquiries. We’ve played twenty questions where he asks superficial questions to get to know me. I’ve hardly replied.

This, though, feels real.

What was she like?

Stalker: He.

He pauses, waiting for my judgment.

There isn’t any.

What was he like?

Stalker. He was beautiful. Smart. A little quiet, but fun.

Why do you think you were in love? Do you not know?

There’s a pause, and thoughtfulness floats through the connection. He’s touched me, seen me in my most vulnerable state, but this is true intimacy. Sharing of thoughts, feelings, fears, and giving power to someone who could potentially crush you with it.