And somehow, together, it worked.
I looked at the screen and felt something settle low in my chest. That quiet apartment I’d imagined earlier flickered in my mind again—but now it felt colder. Thinner.
Because standing there, her arm around me, the gold light wrapping us both in the same frame, I didn’t want to figure out who I was alone.
I wantedthis.
When we went back upstairs, it was late. Paris quieted in that way that felt intimate, but like New York, it wasn’t too quiet. We had taped some paint swatches to the wall to try and decide what looked best. Frankie sat on the floor with her back against the couch, wine glass balanced on her knee. I sat beside her. Our shoulders touched.
For a second—just a second—I wondered what would happen if I leaned in. If I said something I’d buried years ago. If I told her I’d loved her in a way that had nothing to do with friendship and everything to do with timing and fear and the kind of wanting that doesn’t ask for permission.
But I didn’t. I’d learned that lesson already. It wasn’t fair to her and it wouldn’t be fair to me. Frankie knew my history.
I used to think I was only a lesbian, full stop, proud and sure. Turns out identity isn’t a door you walk through once. It’sa hallway. With mirrors, and really fuckingbadlighting. That’s why sometimes, you don’t recognize yourself right away.
Frankie rested her head briefly against mine. A casual thing. A familiar thing. My chest tightened anyway.
“You’re going to be okay,” she said.
I nodded. “I know.”
That wasn’t a lie. I was going to be okay. I would survive. No offense to Gloria Gaynor, but I’d long since mastered survival. I didn’t need an encore. Still, I would be fine. That wasn’t a question I had. How would I do it? Well, that was a different story. But for right now, in this apartment, with garlic on my hands and wine on my breath and the weight of goodbye pressing softly against my ribs, IknewI would be okay.
I had no other choice. The beginning of the story never feels clean, or at least, it shouldn’t. If it was tidy, settled, and without any messes to fix, then—well, what story would there be to tell.
So, beginnings felt like this moment—disorganized.
“I think I like the passion plum one,” Frankie murmured, gesturing with her wine glass. There was a lazy warmth to her. We both tilted our heads.
Beginnings were often littered with choices.
“I thought you liked the Aubergine,” I teased her, really emphasizing the mouthy word.
Beginnings featured crossroads at every corner.
She snorted and bumped my shoulder with hers. “Too dark. It’s dramatic though, and if you only did a feature wall and went super bright on your furniture choices…”
Beginnings wereheavy.
I laughed. “I don’t know if I want to go with any of the purples, to be honest. Maybe I’ll do something sassy and dark red. Dramatic. Powerful.”
Beginnings could be bright in places.
“Sounds like you,” she murmured and I heard the compliment beneath the words. “I can’t wait to see what you choose.”
Beginnings could also be dark, uncharted, and a little lonely—even when you sat next to your best friend.
“I’m going to miss you, Frankie,” I said, drifting close to the edge of that goodbye I didn’t want to say. The one I’d known was coming since the day I confessed that I wanted to move. That I needed to. That I had to.
“That’s because you love me,” she said, then turned her head to look at me. That gleam of tears was right there in her eyes. She blinked them back, thank fuck, cause if she started crying—well I would be a wreck.
No, better to save our tears for later.
“Maybe,” I said, almost thoughtfully, as I pushed up from the floor to carry our empty wine glasses into the kitchen.
I made it three whole steps before my response seemed to register with her.
“Wait—what do you meanmaybe?” The playful outrage hit the right note and we both laughed. If I swiped away an escapee tear, well, no photo no crime.
