Epilogue | Walk Me Home
♫ Walk Me Home by Searows

The golden candle light dances on Milo's chiseled face, shadowed on his jaw. His brown hair is shorter than what I've last seen on him, but it's thick and it glistens even now, a testament to the growing he's done in more ways than one these last few months.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. I wonder if it also changes your perception of a person, because I can't remember this delicate form of his and the way the light cautiously swims in his eyes and settles in the way he stands there, clad in dark slacks and a blazer over a white button-up.

"I—" I stammer, my voice betraying my astonishment. "What are you doing here? Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I could've—" I abruptly cut myself off, my words tumbling out without a thought.

Milo takes a cautious step closer. "It was meant to be a surprise, you know? The thrill of not spilling the beans and all that."

"But you're supposed to be in Italy," I offer. I'm not entirely sure which stance I'm taking, what I'm defending or trying to get out of him, but the words come to me in the moment.

"I am," Milo confirms, "but then I got this call about your speech, and there was no way in hell I was gonna miss that, Nova."

"A call?" I wrack my brain, trying to think of who could deem his presence necessary. There are too many options. Atlas, maybe, or Liz and Kaitlyn. I don't think Maxwell would dare.

"You're not going to believe me, but it was Ramona. The she-devil actually threatened me with death if I didn't show. Not that it was necessary." I watch him breathlessly, lifting another foot, taking another step. He continues carefully like that, crossing the distance but keeping his eyes on me. "You know I would've come. I would've helped you prepare or... keep calm. Why do I feel like you've been trying to make me forget you?"

"I haven't. But it was Italy, and I was happy for you." All of a sudden, I fully realize that he's standing before me, nearer than he's been in months. We're face to face as if he never left.

But he did.

I can see it in the slight change of his skin tone, a testament to the places he's been. I can see it in the depths of his eyes, filled with experiences I couldn't fathom. And I can see it in the way he takes his slow, deliberate steps, unknowingly stirring up a whirlwind of emotions within me.

"Were you there for my speech? Did you hear everything?"

He nods. "Yes. I was. I did."

"So, when are you flying back?" I look around us, franticness tugging at my trembling limbs like bolts of energy running through my muscles. The others should be here, after all. We were going to have dinner together. Am I just going to abandon all that to be with Milo when he's about to leave again? I'm going to have to go through all of it again. The airport goodbye, the key to his apartment, the frustrating video calls with terrible connections and his constant jet lag. I just can't believe that's going to be today, when I was having such a great time.

"I'm not," Milo says, cutting through my train of thought. "At least, not for a while."

He ends up in front of me. There's nowhere to look but at him — the white collared shirt he's wearing underneath his blazer, the warmth in his familiar eyes, the rise and fall of his chest as his gaze searches my own.

I can tell there are a million things he wants to say, but I don't let him. "I watched you cry with nerves over going," I remind him. "I watched you bid farewell to Maxwell at JFK, as if you'd never see each other again. I let you go and I support your decision. I know nothing in New York has been kind to you. I know you were living the dream with your mother and your family. Why would you fly all the way back for some stupid speech and say something about staying after all of that?"

"That's not true," he says vaguely. "The part about nothing in New York being kind to me. That's not true."

I nod my head, unsure of how to respond. "Okay. It still doesn't make sense to me. I appreciate that you're here, I do, I just don't think a speech is something to come back for."

"Maybe not, but you are."

I'm so overcome by the absurdity of it all, so frantic in my rambling, that my eyes are starting to sting. I'm not even sure what he means, or how I'm supposed to take it. "What are you saying—"

"I'm saying I'm in love with you, Nova."

He says it so loudly, so surely, that his voice rings in my ears even after he's said it. He scoffs, not in annoyance, but something else. Disbelief. Relief. Still, his eyes don't waver from mine.

"I love you so damn much that I hightailed it across the freaking world, thinking I could escape these feelings. But even six timezones away, they hit me just as hard," Milo says, his voice trembling with desperation as he moves closer once again. "Remember when I told you that I had a crush on you? That was a pathetic understatement. I was head over heels in love with you from the moment I laid eyes on you. I loved you when you were dating Atlas. I loved you while we were checking out apartments and at the big unveiling event and during Halloween and in my apartment, and even on my damn rooftop when we smashed those dishes in Ziplock bags. I loved you when I met your parents, and I loved you when I sat in the audience, spellbound, watching your presentation. Through all of it, through everything, I have loved you. No matter what I do or where I run, that's a constant. I love you. The only thing I know for sure is that I love you."

The words echo in my mind. I love you. He has said them before, back during Thanksgiving, and even then, they hit me like a tidal wave.

But this is different. It's a seismic shift, so all-consuming that I can't fully comprehend it. My body tenses with the realization, unsure of how to respond.

Milo Macarevich, ever perceptive, notices my inner turmoil. His gaze flickers to my quivering hands, clenching and unclenching. He doesn't seem bothered by my silence. Stepping closer, his eyes fixated on my trembling hands, he reaches out and gently takes them in his own.

"You don't have to say anything," he says, his voice soft as a whisper.

It's all too much. I'm overcome by emotion and by fear, by disbelief and excitement, by insecurity and hesitation. It reflects in the way I stand there unmoving, except for the trembling in my body and the spasms running all throughout my arms, increasing until my hands slip from his.

I take a step away from him for both of our sakes, but it's not what he was hoping for. It's not what I was hoping for, either.

"Nova—" he goes, taking a step closer.

"I'm sorry," I say, looking at my hands. The trembling increases and my words come out warped. Warmth rushes to my cheeks, humiliated by my body's reaction. I take another step back, turn away and push my way outside again.

But he refuses to let me go.

He runs faster than I walk and manages to take my hands again, squeezing them in his own. It's tight enough to stop the trembling, but he presses them to his chest just in case, pulling me closer in the process.

"I've got you," he whispers, holding on through all of the spasms. He doesn't say anything else. He just stands there for however long it takes. People have to walk around us, but it's getting late and the sidewalks are emptier than usual.

Part of me wants to tug and pull away and reject him. But it's overcome by the greater part of me: the part that wants to step even closer, the part that wants to thank him profusely, and hold on, and not let go.

He brings his chin to his hands, clasped around mine, and rests it there.

"Milo?"

"Hm?"

The silence is comfortable. Comfortable enough for me to look at him as I say it. "I'm in love with you, too."

And then I take a chance. I catch a glimpse of his astonished gaze when he looks up, before I surrender to the moment and kiss him.

I know nothing about kissing, but I know plenty about Milo — enough for my body to respond when I move closer. The trembles and the spasms subside within his tentative touch. He's unresponsive for just a moment, until he isn't.

He raises a hand to my face, cupping my jaw in the gentlest of touches. He's the one trembling this time.

It is delicate and electrifying all the same. All of the fears I harbored within me before gather in my stomach, where they lose their weight and start to flutter, and my heart beats heavily against my ribcage as if it's hoping to leap to his.

It's making me think that maybe I've known all this time, when I met him at this exact dining hall a year ago. I'm used to loving Milo Macarevich. So much that even my spasms, my trembles, my ugliest parts and heaviest pains, lie down and cower before him. None of this is new.

Except for kissing him. Kissing him is new.

We pull apart at the same time, our eyes meeting with our faces so near that I can see the specks of gold in his.

All of a sudden, he breaks out into a grin. "Who would've thought?"

"What?" I ask, blinking up at him, still reeling from everything that just happened.

"That I'd be back in New York so soon. That I'd be acting like a fool over a girl. Take your pick."

I find myself genuinely smiling at him as he pulls me in again, one hand on the back of my head as he leads it to his shoulder and embraces me tightly.

But it's a question I must ask. "My hands..." I trail off. "Are you... are you okay with this?" I bury my face deeper into him, hiding myself away like I could disappear if I try hard enough.

Milo tightens his grip around me. "Didn't you catch the part where my feelings for you are a constant?" He asks. "I'm okay with everything. I love all of you."

"I know," I reply, my voice softer now. "But I also know how much you're deserving of."

"Then you should agree that I'm deserving of the girl I love, who loves me back." He pulls back again, purely to stare at my face. He even kisses me once more, a shy peck on my lips, before he reaches for my hand and tugs me in the direction of the dining hall. "Don't run away. I'm Feeding Nova tonight."

I follow him with a sense of wonder, back to the dining hall and the flickering candles. There's a long table in the middle of the space — every other table shoved to the side — that I didn't see before, with a white sheet on top and candles on there, too, between a buffet of foods.

But the very best part of it are the people seated around it.

Flynn and Elle, even though he said they had date night and couldn't join for dinner. Atlas and Ramona, Liz and Kaitlyn and Maxwell. Doctor Hyde and Jo, and Suvi and their four other kids, all boys. Olivia and Logan. The entire group from our little BLSA student association: Josh, Isla and Zahara in wheelchairs and Anita resting her head on her cane as she talks to Emmy and Rashad.

Someone clears their throat when I walk in, and they turn to me like they did earlier today. Hyde's the one to stand from where he was seated, clasping his hands together as if he's about to give grace.

But he doesn't give grace. He doesn't even give a speech. He momentarily clamps his lips together, then takes his glass of iced tea and raises it in the air. "To Nova and her speech," he starts.

"To Nova and her speech," the group echoes, following his example.

"To the birth of the Beyond Limits Student Association, and to a year at NYU, survived."

It's for me and it's for all of us, holding our breaths, forging new friendships, forgiving and finding peace. It's for the hand I'm holding and the lips I've kissed. It's for all of the people who entered that confessional today and told me their stories, and the strength it took them.

It's for who I used to be. A piece of her still lingers, after all, inside of my muscles and each of my spasms, like an endlessly shivering ghost who keeps wanting to remind me it's going to rain soon and that I should hide myself away.

When you spend an entire life being too occupied wishing you were someone else, nobody can really blame you for missing out on who you've been all along.

I don't want to miss out anymore. I've loved passionately. I love all of these people passionately. And now I must make place for myself in this loving heart I carry.

I'll try to love me until I do.

You have six push notifications.