▪️Monday, March 22nd, 2018▪️

▪️Chicago, IL▪️

The lights of Chicago sparkle in the darkness underneath as the plane leans to take me to the airport. Ten days in France with Amelie flew by. The moment we saw each other, it was as if the three and a half months apart didn't happen. The walls of the friendship we built over the years are strong enough to withstand much harsher conditions. My heart swells with the love for and from my friend-the antidote to loneliness that I relied on for the most difficult period in my life.

Celebrating her father's one-year death anniversary reinforced my decision to allow myself to imagine a future, to not be scared anymore. Amelie's dad was one of those pivotal people in my life who directed me away from the ledge, from the abyss of despair I was about to jump off. He pushed and pulled and showed me that I loved more than the piano. That I loved the music. That I have music inside, and my job, my duty to this world is to get it out and share.

I take a selfie and capture the view from my window. Even after I announced that I'm not going to be performing in any foreseeable future after I finished my tour with The Whats the number of my followers didn't go down. People still wanted to hear from me and learn about my songwriting journey. The snippets of my songs get more views every day, and my calendar for the year is mostly full.

I might be the new it girl in the songwriting business. While I was eating cheese and stuffing myself with every type of bread and pastry I could lay my hands on, the single for the new album I wrote with The Whats hit number one. Many doors opened and Jason has been in nonstop meetings accepting and declining offers to write for other artists.

Passport control takes no time at all. We're probably one of the last flights to arrive this late in the evening. I collect my suitcases, and the sliding doors to the arrival area open. Mike waves with the hand that is not holding a giant sign screaming "Kiss Your Boyfriend" with an arrow pointing his way. I run over to him before anyone else decides to follow the instructions on the board and claim him.

The suitcases wobble behind me and fall the moment I let go to wrap my hand around Mike's neck. "Hi, boyfriend."

He hoists me closer to his mouth, and I pretend we are in the romantic movie where an extra-long lingering kiss is exactly what the audience wants, because that's exactly what I want. The link between us withstood the separation by the ocean, even though I had to hide in Amelie's bathroom when I needed to have the hotter versions of our conversations.

"You can get more of it when we get out of here," Mike whispers. "A lot more."

I let go of his neck, grab his arm, and tug him forward.

"Suitcases," he protests. He tries to let go of me to pick them up.

"One each?" I don't let him escape me, and we walk down the hallways like a giant staple taking up too much of the walking space and not caring in the slightest.

Mike loads my luggage into his mom's minivan. I need to thank Chrissy for it and for letting me stay at their house until I find a place of my own.

"Did you see the apartment I sent you yesterday? The one with the little den that has no doors?"

Mike's been more into apartment hunting than I am. Instead of renting I've decided to spend the money I've saved up on the down payment for my own place in Chicago, which means I have to either compromise on the location or the size.

"It has to be a two bedroom. I'll be soundproofing one of them, and how do I soundproof something without doors?"

"Doors. You're talking like a person who can afford extra doors."

"I'm a globe-trotting songwriter. I demand doors."

Mike laughs and the frigid air in the car warms and wraps around me. Or maybe it's the heat that's kicking in. The radio plays on low. Mike grows quiet as he maneuvers us out of the garage and onto the highway. My brain picks up on the familiar notes. I turn the volume up and hold my breath.

'I don't bleed, I don't cry, every drop's a low or a high.

Rushing through, pooling in-it's a note or a word that's been trapped in between.

Feelings bring the essence out, never ever can I live without.

Song water: I'm always thirsty

Song water: It never hurts me.

Song water: I live life through ya

Song water:

My hallelujah.'

Oliver and Travis belt the chorus to the Song Water I wrote for The Whats. I've seen its video on their YouTube. I've played it to Amelie one too many times.

Hearing it on the radio as if it's a normal thing to listen to my song on the radio electrifies every cell of my body. I vibrate with every note.

What if I made a mistake by focusing on the songwriting? I could've played through the pain if I had to. Loads of athletes do it. What if this is a fluke? My skin's on fire. What if I can write only when I'm in pain? My head's on fire. What if I'll never be free of the darkness inside me? I can't regulate my breathing properly. My hands shake. What if there's no future for me, only the past? The ache burns its way from my skin into my skull. It spreads its fiery tendrils along my veins. My body begs me for relief. I palm the pocket for the familiar box of mints.

Two months ago, I would've popped a triple doze of my meds and rode the buzz, but today I pop an actual mint and put my head down, acknowledging the source of the pain. It's not coming from my hand. It's an anxiety attack. My therapist walked me through recognizing the difference many times, and I don't need pain pills to curtail it. I clutch at the fabric of my jeans and focus on the textures under my fingers.

How rough the ridges are.

I breathe.

I take hold of my jacket and slide my palm along the smooth material.

I let my lungs expand and contract, let more air out with every exhale.

I hold on to the pull on the zipper of my boots and let the metal circle imprint into the pad of my thumb.

The tremors subside, and the chords of the song, my song, don't make me want to puke anymore.

"Do you need me to pull over?" Mike puts his hand on my back and rubs it up and down, bringing my focus out, away from the anchor of spikes that would like to pull me under again.

"I'm good. But keep rubbing my back: that's helping."

He does, and the next song comes on and it's someone's else's song, and I can look at the glove compartment in front of me, then the red rear lights of the cars ahead of us. I'm in control again. I turn off the radio, because I don't want a repeat of this, and I would much rather spend time obsessing how incredibly good Mike looks with his new haircut than the doubts of potential future failure that rush into my head when I hear my current success.

Thinking about the future is still not the easiest thing for me to do, but I keep practicing it. My therapist suggests exercises we do together and apart that are forming that positive neural path and make me think good things and not disaster scenarios when the topic of a future anything comes up. I'm a work in progress. I'll keep on doing it until I don't have to put my head between my knees to keep the hurt from overtaking me.

Though I've visited the house Mike shares with his brother and Mom before, I've never stayed overnight. Hotels worked well enough for the two-day visits. But I'm here for the next several months, and until I find a place and buy it, this is what I'll be calling home. My parents offered to join them on the bunk bed in their RV as they travel up the West Coast into Canada. They're having the best time of their lives, and I've promised to visit them soon, but I have a plan and a future here in Chicago.

I follow Mike through the hallway. The living-room and kitchen are aglow with lights and full of the aromas of food that make my mouth water.

"Angie." Chrissy gives me a quick side hug that I've come to know is her signature move to share her affection. "I have the moussaka you love on warm in the oven. Mikey, I made you the marinated beef you asked for, but Louka ate more than half before I noticed. I'll make more tomorrow. Wash your hands, kids, and eat before it's tomorrow."

Mike and I dart into the bathroom. We do wash our hands, but we also make out. We leave the bathroom with a lot more fingerprints on the mirror than it had when we came in. The meal settles the icky feeling I get from the airport food, and Chrissy has no more excuses to keep us downstairs. At almost midnight Chicago time and seven a.m. in France, I've officially been up for twenty-four hours. We climb the stairs to Mike's room.

"Are you ready?" He grins like he has something special to share with me.

"What is it?"

"Close your eyes." I do. I hear the door squeak open.

"Ta-da," Mike says.

I open my eyes and the room looks exactly the same as before.

No.

Yes.

I squeal.

Mike ushers me into the bedroom and closes the door behind us. The twin bed he had there before-another reason staying here did not make sense on previous visits-is no longer there. The desk Mike had against the wall is gone, and a queen or king size bed is taking up the space of the twin bed and the desk.

"OMG!" I squeal again.

"You like it?"

I sprint across the room and launch myself onto the bed. The headboard hits the wall, and I giggle.

"We should leave the headboard banging to the times we can't help it. Mom has no illusions of what we'll be doing here, but I won't hear the end of it from Louka if we are not careful."

I pat the place next to me, summoning Mike to my side.

"Mr. Spontaneous," I say. He stretches across the bed, just the right amount of close after the days and miles that forced the space between us: shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, toes-to-toes, leaving no more distance. I exhale the apprehension and melt into the freshly made covers, my pulse mellowing into its resting state. "It better fit into the bedroom of whatever apartment I end up buying. Plus, your mom better be ready to be an empty nester when you move in with me."

"She'll survive." Mike hides his smiling eyes behind the fingers. "You were right. She just wants me to be happy, and I'm happiest with you."

"I'm happiest with you too." I perch my chin on his shoulder. "I love you, Mike Stavros, you know that, right?"

"I know it. And-"

"You love me too, I know it."

"Good." He nudges his nose with mine. "But let me say it." He lets out the readying sigh. "I love you so much I want to make all your wishes come true. Wherever you need me, whatever you do, I'm forever attached to you. This thing between us, the strings that connect our hearts are love strings. I don't ever want them to tear. You are my love."

His mouth hovers over mine.

"And you're mine, not a poet," I whisper my truth against his.

Our foreheads touch first-our lips second. The lightness of the kisses doesn't drive me to strip his shirt or test the springs on the new bed. I pause in the sweetness of this certainty. What we have is fragile and new. What we have is old and everlasting. What we have is what songs are made out of. And I'm ready to write them all.

"There's more," he says as he pulls away.

"More?" I prop myself on my elbows and look around the room again.

Mike points at the bolt latch on the upper part of the door. "Privacy."

Right. The third reason we didn't want to stay in his room before. Louka wouldn't pass up the opportunity to sneak in to draw toothpaste mustaches on us while we sleep. Their bickering and pranks are too cute, though. Maybe having a sibling isn't all that bad.

"Use it." I wiggle my eyebrows at him.

Mike latches the door and sprawls on his back next to me. I glance up and see the poster of Bruce Lee in exact same spot it was before. "I guess we'll have to let Bruce watch."

"I couldn't take him down. Didn't feel right."

Like the desk at the dojang, the poster of Bruce Lee isn't going anywhere.

"Are the enrollments still going up?" Since the opening and the bump the Grand opening got after several local stations picked up the story of The Whats performing at the event, Mike's been busy hiring help and teaching as many classes as he can after his work at the office.

"I started a waiting list. The evening classes Ben and I have been covering, but the morning classes during the week are harder to staff."

"You'll figure it out. I can help with any social media duties or I can be your administrative assistant." I move my hand until I find Mike's and feel his knuckles, the phalanges of his fingers, the straight edges of his nails.

"We will figure it out." He breathes evenly and slowly.

We are not in a rush anymore.

We have a future ahead of us.