Jay: Sorry. Proud of you, though. Keep up the hard work.
Tia: I love you.
Talon: You’re welcome.
He follows that up with a giant, exaggerated winking emoji.
My brain doesn’t even have time to whir to life to start telling me they all obviously got sick of me—it’s a bit slower with those types of thoughts these days—because there’s a knock on my door.
Slow. Measured. Steadfast.
I know exactly who it belongs to before I even open the door.
Golden-brown hair, a bit darker than usual because the sun’s only just started to shine again, pushed back off his forehead, the faded pink scar snaking across his temple on display for the world to see. A light dusting of stubble he doesn’t usually have carving across the planes of his face. Grey eyes like an early-morning sky when the day hasn’t started yet so it can be anything at all. Navy long-sleeved shirt pushed up his forearms, ropes and cords of muscles traipsing across them, and theSat the precipice of his left elbow, a bit faded from time but still there.
Permanent.
My heart stirs in my chest, very much awake. It sits, beating a bit too fast at the sight of him, protected by ribs and cartilage of my own making and gifts from the people who love me.
“Got your carrier pigeon.” Bohdan cocks his head, tossing his phone in the air once and catching it.
“Oh.” I breathe, running a palm across my chest. “They move a lot faster than they used to, what with modern technology and all.”
“They do.” He nods thoughtfully before tipping his chin over my shoulder to my kitchen, visible just down the hallway. “Fridge is looking pretty plain, Zlatícko.”
“I don’t have any art worth hanging up yet.”
His full lips slant into a frown. “Can I interest you in some?”
“Yes, please,” I whisper.
He pulls it from his back pocket—I know what it is by the size and shape of it—but it’s wrapped in something.
Paper that’s been folded time and time again, frayed a bit around the edges just like the Polaroid.
My fingers tremble, and I’m not sure if it’s from his eyes on me after months and months, or if it’s this new, blooming feeling in my chest.
Happiness. Excitement. A bit of trepidation, but there’s really nothing to be afraid of anymore.
The picture of me, smudged and blurred now, almost worn through, sits in the middle of a certificate.
Certificate of Qualification
This is to verify that Bohdan Novotnak has satisfactorily communicated about his thoughts, feelings, needs, and wants in accordance with the Statutes of the Province of Ontario.
“Did you make this?” Laughter bubbles in my throat, I try to angle my shoulder to wipe the tears away. But Bohdan beats me to it, a singular thumb swiping across my cheek.
“No.” He presses his thumb against each of my freckles before he reaches forward, tapping a stamp on the corner of the certificate. “My psychiatrist did. He wasn’t super keen on the idea because he says it’s lifelong work, but I won in the end.”
“You always do,” I murmur fondly, my eyes finding the stamp. It’s from the university hospital. My heart plummets, but not into nothing. Not into this pit of despair that used to live in my stomach. Into every good feeling I think there’s ever been. “This says—”
“I moved here six months ago.” He keeps his eyes on me when he says it.
“You came.”
“I said I would. There are psychiatrists and neurologists all over the world. There’s only one you.” The left corner of hismouth lifts with his brows. “Been to your class a few times. No one’s ever looked more beautiful holding up an ugly, misshapen pot that was used for bloodletting back in the day.”
My chest constricts. “I never noticed you.”
