Emmitt’s eyes are locked on his phone as the chorus of the song starts to play. I rise to my feet, slowly walking toward him, as if I’m caught in a fever dream.

I wonder if he understands what I’m trying to say: that I don’t want to lose him, that I don’t want this to end, that every street of this city will remind me of him, no matter how much time passes.

I keep walking closer and closer, but he still hasn’t looked up, his lips parted as he stares at his phone screen.

It’s only when I start to reach out that Emmitt lifts his chin, meeting my eyes. My hand falters, standing still in the space between us, a mirror of the last time we were together.

The moment stretches, long beats of silence, as he studies my expression, as I study his. The music fades to a hum, until all I hear is the sound of my own heart beating in my chest.

“Emmitt,” I say, and it comes out as a whisper. “Hi.”

He blinks once, twice, and then he murmurs, “Hello, Mina.”

A small hope starts to rise within me. Emmitt doesn’t sound upset. Maybe what I said wasn’t unforgivable. Maybe we can find the fine line and walk across it, finding a way to be together despite everything that’s happened.

“You came back?” I ask, the words hesitant.

Emmitt looks down, examining the hand outstretched between us, and then he reaches out with ringed fingers, slowly intertwining them.

Butterflies burst to life in my stomach, flapping insistently, flying into my chest and swarming my heart. The hope in me is growing and growing and growing.

“I’m sorry I took so long, but I’m here,” Emmitt says, lifting my hand until he can brush his lips against my knuckles. “I came home to you.”

The hold on my heart releases, the butterflies turning into flurries of gold—of light, of warmth, of happiness and everything good in the world. This is what it feels like to be home.

I move forward until I’m so close that I have to tilt my head up to look at him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says, pressing his forehead against mine, our noses bumping gently. “I’m the one who’s sorry. You were right.”

“No, you were right,” I say, offering him a shaky smile. “This city is my home. My friends are my home. You are my home. And I am my own home.”

Emmitt’s mouth curves in a soft, sweet smile. My free hand rises to poke the dimple in his cheek, and his smile only widens. “You were right, too. I told Mum the truth about my love for photography. I shouldn’t have let my fears stand in the way of my dreams.”