“Do you promise?” Anam asks, reaching up to hold one of my hands, clutching it tightly enough to cut off circulation. Both of us let out another weak sob at the touch.

“I swear,” I say and rest my forehead against hers. “It’s always going to be you and me, Anam. That’s never going to change, no matter how far apart we are.”

Anam lets out a shaky breath. “Then we’ll get through it.”

I close my eyes, trying to hold on to those words. “Then we’ll get through it,” I echo.

I lie in bed that weekend, cocooned in blankets, trying to stifle the heartbreak in my chest. Even with Anam’s tentative forgiveness, I feel lost, untethered. As if I’m at risk of drifting, and there’s no rope left to anchor me. There used to be so many things tying me to California, but they’ve all disappeared.

I don’t know what I want anymore. I don’t know where I’m flying to.

Sunday morning, I flip open my laptop, looking for a comfort movie. I’m about to type in Matilda (1996) when I notice that I have a tab open to the website for Emmitt’s photography contest.

I hesitate, but my curiosity gets the best of me, and I click into the rankings, scanning for Emmitt’s username.

#2: ramostomorrows.

He didn’t win.

I exhale a heavy breath, sinking into my sheets. He lost. God, this is so fucking awful. He worked so hard, and he was going to tell his mother, and...

I press my lips together, moving to text him, because even if I’m mad, even if I’m upset, it doesn’t change that this was something he cared about. And he’s someone I care about.

As I move, though, my elbow accidentally clicks on his username, pulling up his entire collection of photos.

And staring back at me on the screen is my own face.

My mouth falls open, my gaze dropping to the caption. Home is where the heart is. Taken in Queens, New York.

Then I look back at the photo. It’s me with a bright smile on my face, my brown skin rosy with color, my dark eyes brighter than the night sky. The Manhattan skyline is visible behind me, but the focus of the photo is undeniably me.

I know he said the picture of me was the perfect photo for the prompt, but I didn’t think he meant it.

The longer I stare at it, me set against New York City, the more I start to realize I’m wrong. I’ve been wrong this whole time.

My heart climbs up my throat, the beat growing louder and louder until it’s all I can hear, echoing in my ears. How could I have missed it? Why did it take Emmitt saying it for me to realize the truth?