“You’re refreshing.” He told me. “I never have to guess what you’re thinking. You’ll just tell me.”

A few months prior to this summer fling, I had met up with Jesse at The Oxley, about 3 years after our first date in 2017. And I, of course, had to make it known to him that summer, that I had started seeing someone. I had to tell him he was going to take me on actual, real dates. We were going golfing, to which I received many passive aggressive messages from him, which included: “A driving range isn’t golfing.”

But I will always remember the end of that summer, because to me, it felt like a perpetual 3 am playlist. Jesse would drunk call. Things started to slow fade with that guy. I published my first and semi-viral piece about Jesse. There was desire and melancholy, someone was always regretting something, and someone else was always staring at the ceiling. Lost in thought, always saying the opposite of what they actually mean.

-

I treated myself with an evening massage on Friday and an acupuncture session on Sunday afternoon. My body needed something. 3 cups of bone broth and echinacea and 2 packets of Emergen-C relieved 98% of my end-of-summer cold symptoms - so much so that I was able to meet friends for martinis on Saturday evening.

“Would you ever move back to Rome?” One of them asks.

“Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve never felt more objectified in my life than I did when I was living there. You always feel like you’re fighting against something.”

“Listen - as someone who was born and raised in Europe - I can confirm this. The foreigner…” another girl shakes her head.

“It’s a different experience for us.”

-

I first got into acupuncture during the end of last summer. Mid-July to the end of August was my first experience with depression, and the first time I felt like my mind was physically sick and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

I don’t know where I got the idea to do acupuncture. I don’t like needles, I don’t like bloodwork, I don’t like doctor’s office visits - so I’m not exactly how the thought of lying on a table with tiny needles poking out of me sounded appealing. But when I first burst into tears on that heated bed, I knew that something inside me was healing.

This past Sunday, I sit on the chair beside the heated bed. I haven’t seen my acupuncturist since last fall, and she asks me how I’m feeling.

“I’m…good actually.” That sentence even surprises me. “A bit of stress because I’ll probably be moving again soon, but I’m actually good.” I tell her I’m a bit anxious about the needles today, so she does a gua sha facial and only uses small needles around my toes and in the centre of my forehead. She closes the door, and I fall fast asleep.

The first time I laid on this bed last summer, my acupuncturist told me that I was beautiful on the outside but felt broken on the inside. Tears streamed down my face as I nodded. “We store so much emotion in our muscles, in our tissues. So when the needle pokes the muscle - there’s a release.” I learned that the tears were good.

We did a total of 4 bi-weekly sessions. And by the end of the fourth, she tells me how proud she is of me. “I used bigger needles on you, too.”

At the end of this Sunday’s session, my acupuncturist tells me it’s her last day at this clinic. “So I found it really interesting when I saw your name on the schedule.”

I smile. “The universe.”

-

I wake up at 3 am the night prior to Sunday’s session. My mother, my grandmother, and my ex-boyfriend’s grandfather are standing in a room. They’re looking at me with soft smiles on their aged faces. I fall into my grandmother’s arms and start to cry. La Vie En Rose plays in the background. She holds me and we start to sway. She tells me, “We have to take care of each other, because it shows when we do.”

A white door appears. And I stand in front of the door in my navy blue polka dotted dress and white Zara kitten heals. I’m about to meet someone, I tell them. I think it’s his mother on the other side of the door, but I’m not sure.

All I know is that I still hear music playing, and I find comfort in the release.

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Then the confirmation happens - your co-workers start complaining about their sinuses. The craving for bone broth begins. Appetite dwindles. You stand in front of the pasta aisle at Farmboy and almost burst into tears because you can’t decide on any pasta, even though, this week, you can afford every pasta - but nothing looks appetizing to you. So you walk out with a carton of eggs and take yourself to the closest food court for Chinese food.

I do a load of laundry before taking a Saturday morning walk. No matter how groggy I feel, I need a coffee. I try to stop every intrusive thought on this walk - I remind myself, “I am human. I am unwell. I do not need to solve everything.”

My roommate gives me echinacea drops and a teaspoon of manuka honey.

“You need a chase for the echinacea.” She pops a cherry tomato into my hand.

My body is asking to be taken care of. And I’m good with her. I’m really good with her. Regular massages and bi-weekly acupuncture has started again, and I can’t wait for the release that happens when those tiny needles poke into my muscles.

We walked in a new area this week, me and her. Visited a friend in the east end for a manicure. The manicurist glued tiny pearls onto each one of my nails. I took myself out for happy hour martini(s) and a little dinner at an “upscale” pub after. I say “upscale” because they basically serve a deconstructed sheppard’s pie and mash potatoes and it truly was one of the best meals I’ve ever had.

It’s my old routine. I ask for a spot for one, the bartenders are cute and conversational and brag about their dirty martini making skills. One tells me that I need to start ordering an “upside down martini with gin” because “more than 2 dirty vodka martinis get you into trouble”. I tell him I hate gin, but I’ll take his suggestion because I’ve been actively avoiding trouble all summer. And I like it this way.

I realize there was a time where I could have, and would have, taken these conversations with bartenders further. But I don’t. Instead, I pull up old newsletters to read and realize: wow, if I was the reader, I’d want Jesse and Emily to get together, too.

“But do you really want him?” My manager asks me a few weeks ago. She’s unconvinced.

I shake my head. “No, I don’t.” I tell her. “Not like this.”

There’s always been magic in midtown. I tell this to my friend back in May. I don’t know if I’m biased because I grew up here, or because my mom’s ashes are in the cemetery close by, but there is something about being in this area that gives me something downtown won’t: peace.

—

I pulled a Gone Girl this week. Packed my robin’s egg blue suitcase with tiny dresses and one grey oversized crew and went to visit my sister. She’s outside of the city, very outside of the city, which is perfect for when things feel like they’re too much.

I was never married to the idea of living in a city’s downtown core. But there is a romance to the recklessness, there is always something to do and there is always someone around to do something with. You can walk everywhere and anywhere and not feel bored. The city’s food scene is one of the best - even a “bad” meal is still technically a good one.

But for me, it lacks a sense of warmth. I never feel like I can exhale. I am always bracing for something. There’s fragments of the past everywhere, and even though I’ve done a great job at creating my own community - there is a part of me that doesn’t feel like this is my place to make a morning coffee anymore.

With my sister, we sit on the couch and watch Love Island UK and order McDonald’s at midnight. She’s picked up a bag of sour cream and onion chips for me that I will happily eat as a dinner. Two stuffed animals sit beside me. I can’t wait to walk to the neighbourhood coffee shop in the morning, be unknown, and sit by the window and drink my coffee.

The two hour train rides there and back are my favourite. I balance a coffee and a tote bag on my lap, while my suitcase touches my knees. I cross my legs in a mini dress, and forget how much I love the escape and becoming unknown. It’s a running towards, not a running from.

When I get back to the city, I take the subway to midtown. The movement doesn’t stop, and I love it this way. Somewhere along the way of me balancing my coffee and tote bag and robin’s egg blue suitcase - I realize that this is what he was scared of. Knowing that there is a pull, and listening to that pull, wherever it will take me.

—

Dear Jesse,

My mom chose her own plaque in the cemetery wall. It’s outside, right beside the fountain that sparkles when the sun hits. It’s about a 20 minute walk from my childhood home, and I know she chose this spot because she wanted us to visit, but she also wanted to be right near the water. When you stand in front of her plaque, the sun will shine directly on you. You feel lucky because you feel both warmth and light, and you realize how beautiful it is to visit the dead. Because they are not really dead, they are very much still alive.

In 2017, I would come here weekly. When I had nothing to do, I would bring a coffee and just sit in front of her name that was engraved into a marble wall and just talk.

“Mais, Rose.”

I would talk to those letters. And in one sunny day in September, I sat in front of the marble wall and told her that I met someone. I told her that I was scared, because if something happened - I wouldn’t be able to go to her to help me. My friend told me that you sounded so perfect that she thought you were sent directly to me from her. And I think, at 24 years old, I believed that.

I can remain as blindly optimistic as I can, and I can force myself to see the lesson and the beauty in every little thing that crosses my path. But I do know this: I am at a disadvantage in this life because I do not have the earthly benefits of having a mother who is physically present.

I am lucky, but I know that there are people out there who are luckier.

A few months ago, I was in my little pink dress, having a happy hour dirty martini with Jenn.

Halfway through, I started to cry and asked her if she thought I was going to be okay.

She looked at me and said, “Emily, you are. You are going to be more than just okay. You are the one who is writing an ending to this story.”

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I recognize the white duvet. The shelves in his bedroom are mostly empty, except one that holds a single blue Powerade bottle and another with about ten hats.

We never undress each other. I think the reasoning is that it takes too long for me to figure out a man’s belt buckle, and I’d rather let whatever dress I’m wearing fall to the floor instead of having him pull it over my head and messing up my hair. There is rarely any foreplay, and I think the reasoning is that we both just want to feel as close to each other as quickly as possible.

Afterwards, we lay there.

“You know I was thinking about the first time we had sex the other day.”

“You were?”

I nod. “I was so nervous because I liked you. And I realize that the more you like the other person, the more you’re in your own head about it. And all I could think about was how I looked to you. And then, I don’t know, time went on and I realized you couldn’t care less if I waxed or shaved or how my stomach looked that day - you…just wanted me.”

There’s silence between us before he says, “I can never explain us to anyone.”

“I know.” Sometimes, if a stranger asks - I will resort to something less complicated, along the lines of - “Have you seen Sex and the City? It’s kind of like Carrie and Big…but like. Not.”

—

“What do you think he’s running from?” My friend asks me.

I roll my eyes, down the last of my second dirty martini and contemplate ordering a third.

“I can make a list.”

“Well - I think you’re in there too. The way he feels about you. He thinks about you a lot more than you know.”

—

I start to feel the nausea creeping in after the second time. I lay on my back next to him, make sure there are parts of us that are still touching, but I stare directly at the ceiling.

“I feel sick.” I tell him.

“You need water? I don’t feel that great, either.”

“Really?” It’s usually just me with the sensitive stomach.

“Ya. I’ve been out every night for the past month. And then I run into you, and there’s all of these emotions.”

I smile before walking over to the bathroom. I close the door, grab my hair, and kneel on the cold tiled floor before throwing up.

—

Maybe I will always wonder. Maybe I will always hope. What is the ending, what is the tragedy here?

Change, and everything I did, I broadcasted. When I started my fashion blog, he was there. When my fashion blog turned into poetry, he was there. When I started Every Little Thing, he was there. The first week into my first (and last) corporate job, he was there. When I started to land big freelancing clients on my own, he was there. He was there when I first came back from Rome in 2021. And he was there when I first came back from Rome in 2024.

When I met my dad’s first girlfriend after my mom died in 2017, he was there. He was, in fact, the topic of conversation at our brunch.

“I’m seeing this guy and I think he tricked me into going on an impromptu group date to meet his friends…” I’m recounting our infamous Terroni night to my dad and to this new woman.

“Ah.” My dad smiles. “He wanted the friend approvals.”

—

“I feel like you would just get married instantly. To whoever you met. If it was some guy in Florence, and if it felt right - you would just do it.”

“One million percent. If I felt that it was right, I totally would.”

I know this isn’t what he wants to hear. He wants the calculation, he wants the years of certainty. He wants me to say, “No. I want the years that prove that something matters.” versus: I felt like doing this, so I did this. That, ultimately, is what scares him.

But there is a difference between impulse and intuition. Impulse says: I’m incomplete and need to latch on to anything to stabilize me. Intuition says: I know that what I’m doing right now, in this moment, is right for me and is meant for me. No matter how it turns out, I won’t regret this decision.

“Jesse, I realized something. How it would have been difficult to be with me when I came back from Rome. I didn’t know where I wanted to be…I didn’t feel stable. And I didn’t realize that men could pick up on that.”

He nods. “They can. But I feel like … you’ll always be someone that - if they feel a pull to go somewhere, if they feel a calling - then they’ll just go. They’ll just do it.”

“But isn’t that beautiful? To be able to say, “Hey - I want to go write in Portugal for a month.” And the right person will be like - absolutely. Let’s go together, or we’ll figure something out…”

He doesn’t reply.

—

“He told me he’d have an affair with me.”

“Wait. Who’s having the affair? You or him?” My friend makes a face.

“Me, apparently. He thinks I’d cheat on my husband with him.”

“Would you, though?”

“No. I told him I’m not getting married to just have an affair. He knows that I’m loyal. If I like a guy, I’m all in.”

“What did he say to that?”

“That it is admirable.”

—

He’s snoring when I decide to wake him up for a third time.

“Do you hate me?” I kiss his arms, his shoulders, his neck.

He rolls over and positions himself on top of me.

“I don’t think I could ever hate you, Emily Mais.”

—

“You’re so…calm about all of this.”

“I feel like I reached this point, maybe at the end of last year where I realized I can’t control any of it anymore. If it’s good, he’ll find a reason to run. If it’s bad, he’ll definitely find a reason to run.”

“Well. You have your nights with him. You leave in the morning. And you get out. Scott free.”

—

“I think you are someone who men fall in love with quickly, and you are also someone who can easily be romanticized.”

It was a compliment. And immediately, I took it for the beauty. Because there was beauty in there. But there was also impermanence. And here both of us were, nine years later. Both of us, naked. Both of us, lying underneath his white duvet.

And I couldn’t find any other words, other than, “thank you.”

—

The light starts to peak through the curtains. I hear people outside.

“What is that?”

“Basketball courts.”

“Ah.”

I’ve let myself close my eyes in his arms. I’m using one of his biceps as a pillow.

On our fourth time, the word baby slips out once. Then twice. And then once more.

—

He walks back in from taking a shower and tosses his towel on the bed. I stretch my arms out and he lets himself lie on top of me. I run my nails up and down his shoulder blades and upper back. I kiss his forehead. He tells me he could fall asleep again.

But the sun is up. The world begins to move again and I am reminded that the dream is over. He gets up to check his phone and I get up to find my navy blue polka dotted dress in the far corner. I pull it over my head as he strips the bed.

“I always find your hair everywhere. For days on end.”

“I know. And I purposely don’t clean it up. So the other girls can see it and wonder.”

He rolls his eyes and that mischievous grin appears. “She always does like to leave a mark. Want me to get you an Uber?”

I smile. “Yes, please.”

“And I’ll make sure you don’t get into an unmarked van. Due to your blindness and what not.”

I start laughing and slide my bare feet into my white Zara heels. I topple over and he grabs me before I trip over myself.

“She’s a bit of a mess this morning.” I tell him.

He smiles and kisses me. Once, and then again. And again. I’m tempted to pull away and say, “have a good rest of your summer”, or “have a good weekend” - but I can’t find the words. I am reaching for closure, but it never feels final.

It always marks the beginning of something else, a new chapter entirely.

“Next time, we can sit on the couch. It’ll be unwrapped by then.”

—

I get scared sometimes. That this was a gift from the universe and I’m doing something wrong by not being able to hold on to it. To keep it. Is it punishment for something that I’ve done in a past life?

When you close your eyes at night, where do you go? What do you dream of doing, what do you dream of being? What do you see? What do you find?

There’s a little girl in my world. I don’t know who she is yet, but I know she recognizes me.

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There is very little hesitation before he says, “I’m scared.”

“Of what exactly?”

“That you don’t fully know what you’re getting with me.”

-

It’s a long weekend in August. It’s almost 7 pm and the sun hits my barely there dress and the sparkles in my new body oil. My hair is reaching a length where everyone is complimenting me on it, but there’s a part of me that knows it needs to be cut.

I can count magic on my fingers. It’s one of my superpowers. I start with the free products I’ve accumulated at work - a new self tanner and a pink shimmery nail polish. My bedroom and bathroom are an extension of my workplace - 2 beauty closets that are filled with endless serums and masks and creams and oils. I’ve shortened my summer skincare routine to three key products, but my body routine will always remain extensive.

Dry brushing in the morning. A gentle exfoliation every second or third day. A bar of oatmeal soap to soothe redness. Followed by a body butter and body oil to finish it all off.

I order a sparkling lemonade with extra ice on this patio. A book is half open on my lap. I’m trying my best to focus on something else, on anything else. My hangover from happy hour the night before is slowly leaving.

“Guess who I ran into on Friday.”

“Stop.” My friend’s face drops. “Are you serious?” He looks around the restaurant that we’re in. I’ve already downed my first dirty martini.

“Does he have an AirTag on you?”

-

Friday Evening

It’s our usual routine. I throw my arms around his neck and we hug tightly once, then once again. I’m happy to see him.

“You’re so smiley.” He tells me.

“I’m so drunk.” I tell him.

“And you’re published.” And he’s proud. He pours us two shots. We cheers. He downs his, I sip mine, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re going to nurse that?”

“I’ve been drinking since 5.” It’s my roommate’s birthday. A red, then a sparkling red, a white was thrown in there somewhere, as well as a few drunken cigarettes.

I haven’t felt this drunk and this carefree in a while. I had a massage in the morning, which always makes the alcohol hit quicker. I let him spin me around in my navy blue polka-dotted dress. Not even five minutes in to our run-in, and he is kissing me in front of everybody.

His dad dance moves make me laugh. He goes to pick me up, I shriek from both laughter and from embarrassment. He immediately puts me down and we kiss instead.

His best friend puts his hand out to shake mine. I’ve met him a handful of times, back in 2017.

“Heard you’re a writer.”

Jesse rolls his eyes. “You know exactly who she is.”

He takes out his card to pay, then tells me he wants to show me his new house.

I give my roommate a hug before taking Jesse’s hand and leaving.

“You know she told me you had a beautiful mind.”

“And?”

“I have to agree with her.”

I like holding Jesse’s hand. I feel proud to be next to him. I like how safe I feel and I like how he towers over me and I like how we fit together. We always have dopey grins plastered all over our faces, and I also like to imagine that people stare at us and wish they had whatever it is that me and him have.

He hails a cab and opens the car door for me. I slide in, he follows, and I drape my legs across his lap.

“The last conversation we had…”

“When you told me to tell you that we’re never going to be together?”

“Ya. It didn’t really feel over though, did it?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t know, Em. The problem is - it always feels fated.”

“Do you really want me with another guy?”

“No.” It’s an immediate hard and clear no.

I rest my head on the glass. The city lights are blurry and everything is dizzying. I focus on the way Jesse’s hand feels on my leg.

“Do you want to get married?” He asks.

“I mean, generally speaking - ya. Silk dress, candles instead of flowers for the ceremony.”

We turn down a street corner and pull up to his new house.

“Well. I think it’s cute that you have our wedding planned out.”

I roll my eyes. He taps his card and opens the cab door. I slide out, he continues. “It has to be in a church though.”

I open my mouth and then close it. I always question the contradictions of us searching for closure and ending up at a point where we’re questioning a life long commitment instead. Case in point: our last conversation that ended up with me asking if we should just co-parent a child.

I look up at the cream coloured brownstone in front of me.

“Jesse…” I tilt my head to the side and smile. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

He’s proud. He opens the door, and I walk into a foyer with a staircase. He shows me the first floor - a laundry room, a bathroom, his office, his bedroom. We then go to the second floor.

“I haven’t even seen the kitchen yet. They finished the reno’s and the painting today. You would have loved the woman who picked out the paint for my cupboards - very witchy.”

The cabinets are painted a blue-grey. The rest of the living room is white, with a beautiful bookshelf and a fireplace in the middle. There’s a massive white sofa that’s still wrapped in plastic.

I’m quiet as he shows me around. “And a farmhouse sink. I always said I wanted a farmhouse sink.”

I smile. My mom always loved a farmhouse sink. There is something so European about them. It’s an art form, what they do - holding bowls of fresh vegetables and fruits and stacks of breakfast dishes and plates and coffee cups.

We go to the third floor. Two bedrooms and two bathrooms. One of the bedrooms has a terrace.

I still don’t say anything, but I think about my daily walks. I think of how there was one year in Italy that I moved about 14 different times. The AirBnB’s, the cities, the experiences, and how the Man at the Front asked me what I really wanted - because what if someone wants to build something with me?

I also think about how I can routinely stretch $1.28 for three days. How there isn’t the money in my bank account that allows me to do what Jesse and his circle does.

But I can walk for hours. And I am recognized in my community. The baristas who routinely give me free coffee. My friends who insist on covering every single happy hour. It’s the way I can wander through this world, with no purpose at all. And yet, somehow, I have found fulfillment.

There is an art to having nothing.

“I think I want to make one of the bathrooms into a sauna.”

He lifts me on top of one of the bathroom counters and starts to kiss me. This moment reminds me of Plan B night, and I immediately start mentally preparing myself. I do the calculations in my head - my period is almost done, am I in that window? I’m back on my St. John’s, which means 1 pill isn’t effective, I’d have to double my dose…

And as if reading my mind, he pulls away. I can’t read his expression. “Maybe we should move to a bed.”

“Well. There are many options in this place.”

We go back down the two sets of stairs. The house still smells like fresh paint.

To be continued <3

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—

In the morning, I walk to the coffee shop beside me. I’m not as much of a regular here, but the barista did remember when I lost my keys on my birthday, and found them in a rain puddle outside the door. He knows I take my coffee black, and when payday hits every second Friday, I will always treat myself to a pain au chocolat. I order my coffee, thank him, and eye the pastries before heading out. Payday can’t come soon enough.

Rain was in today’s forecast, but it ended up being sunny and clear. My friend texts to tell me that the universe knows I have a day off, so my mom must have done something to hold back the rain. I tell her it’s supposed to be clear skies for the rest of the week, so she must be telling me to go live out there.

I text another one of my friends to see if she’s around.

“Walking by our old apartment! You free for a walk?”

“Yes! Give me 20.”

I sit in the park across from my old building. I didn’t move very far, which also made me laugh because I felt like it was the universe telling me something, again.

My dreams have been lighter, lately. I keep dreaming that Jesse and I are back together, except in the dreams, I don’t think that it’s him.

In Sunday’s dream, we’re in a dark room, and I’m situated in between one of his friends, and my first boyfriend’s little sister. He’s on the phone and tells whoever is on the other end that we’re back together, we’re throwing a party to celebrate, and it’s the first of many parties. I look to his friend beside me and ask if I’m getting engaged, because that’s what it feels like. The friend sits there with a smirk, and my first boyfriend’s little sister asks if I need to borrow an outfit.

Then, we then go upstairs, and I am in my childhood home. My mom and dad are decorating the home in white glitter. The walls sparkle from the ceiling to the floor. There’s a snow globe on the table. I tell Jesse the house looks beautiful, and he looks at me and says, “The house has always been beautiful.” There’s a bar cart holding a tray with wine glasses and champagne, and one wine glass that’s rose colored has tipped over, fallen, and broken. But the rest stand straight up.

Jesse shrugs. “We’ll just call the guy to get us new ones.”

Maybe the dream represented my eternal optimism. The sparkle lists from the winter that helped to heal me. The rose colored glasses that can break, but can also easily be repaired and replaced. There was a celebratory feeling to the dream, but also a sense of safety. I felt calm beside him, I felt stable. He felt stable.

My friend and I do our usual routine. We walk through the park, past the bar where we were regulars at, and past Jesse’s old apartment.

“Where’d he move?” My spiritual healer asked me a few weeks ago.

“He bought a house in the same area, essentially.”

“Hm.” She replies. “That’s…interesting.”

But there’s a freedom to him not being directly here, not directly beside me. My stomach doesn’t drop at the sight of his balcony, my heart doesn’t race. I don’t brace myself for impact.

Instead, I walk. I breathe. I carry on. My friend and I walk around the grocery store, picking out fresh produce for the recipe she’s making tonight. There’s a jalepeño, a bright yellow pepper, and so much other bright coloured produce in her basket. I get excited when I see my favorite brand of pasta on sale.

“It’s my new favourite.” She tells me.

“Ugh. I love making people BioItalia converts!”

We get to the wine section, and she offers to pick me up a can of sparkling red sangria.

“Girl.” I put an appreciative hand over my heart. “You understand. It’s me being able to make $1.28 last until payday.”

She laughs. “It’s seriously no problem.”

We go to the cashier to check out. My friend pops the can of sangria into my tote.

We walk out of the grocery store and go back down our usual route.

“You know - I was thinking about Jesse’s apartment. And how it must have felt like - a landing point for you two.”

“Exactly.” I nod. “You know me - I’ve bopped around everywhere. He had been to an Airbnb I was staying at - maybe once, and my old apartment - maybe twice. But I had been going to that same apartment since I was 26 years old. That’s a long time.”

There’s empathy in her nod. “That’s a really long time. It was almost like a container.”

“Totally. And I think the apartment always made it feel - more real. The whole relationship always felt like a fever dream. It was so intense and passionate and quick to start, and then - just as quick to end. But that apartment - it held on to everything, you know?”

And I think of our fights, and I think of what those walls saw. I think they saw a girl who was desperately trying to hold on to something she thought was going to give her some semblance of stability. And when she didn’t feel like she was getting it, she bit. Her words were venom, and she knew exactly what to say and she knew exactly how it was going to make him feel. Because she wanted him to feel her pain. The pain of not having somewhere safe to fall into, or not feeling like she deserved to have somewhere safe to fall into. Maybe if he knew how much he was hurting her, he could be the one to make it stop, too.

So, yes, he was right on that Yorkville night. Yes, he had major communication issues. But he had his finger right in the wound. The wound, not created by him. But irritated by him.

“It’s interesting, though. When I think about everything. And I look back, and see how I was acting from a place of instability. I looked at the guys I was attracting - like Stefan and Trevor. Not that they were necessarily bad, but they were also all over the place - in their own way. And I think, whoever I meet now, or whoever I meet next, they’re going to meet someone who feels more…rooted. I’m not trying to be anywhere else but here. And I think that’s the healthiest place to meet someone at.”

“Emily.” She pauses and smiles. “Absolutely.”

—

Dear Jesse,

I told my therapist that I think to be loved is to be seen. For better or for worse. She asked me why I loved you, and I said - “Because he sees me. The good and the bad. And he loves me for it. For all of it.”

She told me she agrees. She alluded to the vows two people make in a marriage contract. “For better or for worse. In sickness and in health.” She then said, “And I think you got that with him, Emily. I do. But I don’t think you got that with him all of the time.”

Jesse, I used to think that love was enough. That love would be enough, for any and all causes. But it’s not. And I wish it was. I wish I could snap my fingers, back when I was 24 and it was winter and we first laid in bed together in my apartment. The first time with someone you like is always awkward. I am always in my head because I want them to think that I am perfect and beautiful and all of the best things, meanwhile - all I can think of is how my body looks and if this angle is better for them or if I shaved or waxed or if they can they tell if I’ve missed a spot.

We held on to each other for a while in the dark. And it was quiet until you said, “I like you. But like…in a more than just friends type of way.”

I smiled and told you that I liked you, too. “Also in a more than just friends type of way.”

You were relieved. Then you asked, “So you’re not going to ghost me then?”

“No.” I replied. “Are you going to ghost me?”

You quickly shook your head no, and reminded me that we had a date the following Tuesday. You were taking me to the hockey game. I bought a new outfit. And it was the best date that I had ever been on. I knew nothing about hockey. And you didn’t even bother explaining anything to me. You were just happy to have me there. And I was just happy to be there, next to you.

I felt lucky. I stopped caring about angles, or if I missed a spot shaving. Because I knew you didn’t care. You just wanted me.

Jesse, I am 33 now. You were 28, and now you are 37. And in these 9 years, so much has changed.

I lost a parent. You lost your best friend. I moved across the world. You stayed here. I built something that resembles a starving artist’s lifestyle. You built something material. But no matter how much time has passed, it will always feel like the first time.

In the last dream I had of you, you are picking me up from a friend’s house. I jump into your arms and wrap my legs around your waist. Then, you disappear. Snow keeps falling and it’s piling up and I can hear your voice but I can’t tell where it’s coming from. A group of violets appear on top of a snowbank, and so I brush them away and start digging underneath the snow, and there you are. You’re still talking to me, and I’m trying with all of my might to pull you out from under.

Then, I wake up.

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An aside: I wrote this and promptly packed my bags and left for Rome very shortly after. Lol. That Aries Moon.

-

I eat watermelon and wear nothing but an old white t-shirt

And write about the people I’ve grown out of.

I don’t usually remember my Friday nights,

But I love it when I do.

-

There’s a pair of last night’s heels beside my bed,

And a thank you note inside of a bouquet.

I think we’re growing up now.

-

I used to wear glasses and wear a tiny jar of fairy dust around my neck,

I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I was older

But I knew I wanted to be something.

And now you would give anything just to feel something.

-

He brings me breakfast and I start to cry

And I wonder why people save the best parts of themselves for someone else.

-

I used to think that I gave away my power when we first met

And to think that August was when you stopped existing in the margins

But you’re still one of my favorite adventures to revisit.

-

This is a Sunday in August

And I think I’m just melancholic about the days that were promised to us.

-

I’ve realized everyone likes to talk, without saying anything in particular.

And I swore I would never tell you about the tattoo.

But when he told me that we were all misunderstood,

I’d cover myself in a rose garden if I could.

-

I think I give away my power to August

More easily than I’ve ever given anything to anyone else

There are so many things that I want

And I think August might love me.

-

Every Sunday in August feels the longest,

And the end of every summer is never what it was promised to be

But it always leaves me missing something.

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I smile. I’m in a grey cotton spaghetti strap tank top, high waisted denim shorts, and white sandals. I’m out for my morning walk.

And he’s not wrong, it has. I spend as much time as I can walking in the sun with a touch of SPF, but I feel like my skin has gotten to the point in the late summer where it turns golden instead of red.

I tell him that the words are hard to come by, but I’m giving myself grace as I wait for them to return.

I haven’t talked to the angels in a while. Or maybe I do. I like to think they can read whatever I haven’t written down.

There’s a line that keeps popping up in my head from Frances Mayes’ A Place In This World. She finds a picture of her mother in a locket and feels her saying, “Go. Do all the things I wasn’t able to do.”

Well, I was published. For starters.

And in moments like these, I remember her more. Because when something that bears so much weight and joy and magnitude and importance comes in - the first person you want to call is someone that you love. She would be proud. I know she would be. He tells me this, too.

“It’s a different type of wealth - knowing that people want to hear your stories and opinions on things.”

People ask me all the time if I would move back to Europe. If the right opportunity presented itself - then I absolutely would. If it was in my fate, if it was in my destiny. But I am always a firm believer in - wherever you go, there you are. And the amount of inner peace that I’ve experienced this summer was something I never experienced in Rome. Rome was about bracing. Bracing for the next move. Bracing for the next step, the next hurdle. Not to say that I haven’t faced hurdles here, in the city - I have. But there’s an exhale here that I’m experiencing.

I’ve stopped searching. Stopped proving. Started believing. Started surrendering. And I know there is a reason for everything.

My white sheets are hanging in the kitchen to dry. The balcony door is open so I can feel the tiniest breeze. I woke up with the sun again. I meditated. I put dishes away. I showered and shaved and washed my hair. I walked to the park to take a photo of my magazine. A lady bug landed on me.

Luck.

Tomatoes and cucumbers from the grocery store. The summer heat excuses a bag of Miss Vickie’s for lunch. I tell him goodbye. I walk back to my apartment to unload groceries, to hydrate, and to close my eyes for a tiny bit.

There’s another walk in me for this evening, I can feel it. I want to see those cotton candy skies, and record the things only I seem to notice.

I am proud. I am proud. I am proud.

And I know she is, too.

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Currently: drinking a French-Vanilla instant coffee. Eating red pepper and garlic pita chips. Finishing off the leftover pasta my roommate left me in the fridge. The rain is falling and the thunder kept me up last night, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t love it.

I’ll be receiving a copy of my first big magazine publication tomorrow. It’s featuring an article about my Nonno and his tomato garden, and I cannot stop thinking about how it is his birthday tomorrow, and how they published the piece on their website on his birthday, four years ago.

It’s full circle of something. A moment, maybe. Or, it could be him telling me to talk to him more. As I grow, I realize how similar my inner world is to his. We’re not impressed with 98% of people, we desperately need our alone time, and I think, at the end of every day, we just want a big bowl of pasta and a glass of red wine and endless amounts of cherry tomatoes.

I have one of my favourite grey crewnecks on. It’s covering July’s tan lines, but I don’t mind. I can hide from the sun, just for one day. I want to attempt a rainy walk. I want to go to a grocery store that’s further away and in a different neighborhood than mine. I want to list out all of the signs and synchronicities that I see. A bunny, a dime, or the dandelion that floated right between my friend and I during our happy hour martinis yesterday. I closed my eyes and made a wish before blowing on it. Love.

It lingered in the air before floating on, off to somewhere else in the ether.

Order your copy of Italy Segreta’s Le Generazioni here

Love you,

Emily

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I wave to my old neighbour who’s out walking her German Sheppard.

“I see you more now that I moved out.”

“I know!” She smiles. “How are you?”

We are regulars at the same coffee shop, and we are also friends with both baristas who work there. I do my usual routine - showing everyone my most recent manicure.

“Uh-oh.” One barista says as she examines my signature merlot colour. “Red nail theory. Me and Emily both believe that every time we paint our nails red, our love lives implode.”

“Classic.” The other barista laughs as he pours a cold brew into a plastic cup.

“No, I know.” I start to laugh, too. “But it’s a different shade of red. It’s more subdued.”

-

“Your one year is coming up. You got a little shout out in the last meeting.” My manager tells me as I walk into work. I put my oversized Chloés inside my purse and close the closet door.

“I was thinking about this place…and how when I started - I didn’t think I was going to be here for long. I was like, “oh, this is all temporary!”

“And look at you now. I feel like you didn’t know why you were here, but it was also like - you knew you had to be here.”

I nod. “Exactly. I didn’t realize how much I needed it. And what would you do without me?”

“Many things, actually. Solve world peace. World hunger.”

We’re both laughing. “The list goes on and on and on.”

-

I’m currently on step 5 of my 8 step evening skincare routine when my roommate pokes her head in to my bathroom.

“How’s Hinge?”

I roll my eyes. “Ugh. Honestly - I don’t feel like I’m in that mindset to date. You know what I mean? I’m just like…living this summer.”

“I agree. I feel like you’re just in this summer of healing.”

A few nights prior, we are sharing a bottle of wine.

“You could tell he really cared about you. Like, he really cared about you a lot.”

We’re re-hashing the Yorkville night. “You went to the bathroom and all he could talk about was you and how we needed to go find you.”

I smile. I pour us more rosé.

“Maybe it’s not right now.” She continues. “I don’t know what the future holds. But you both are in a good place. That’s what matters.”

-

I feel like I’m getting a re-do this summer. A second chance. “Your mind lies to you, but your body does not.” I come across this quote on a Substack scroll. I have a tan from walking everywhere and anywhere, and a clear complexion from an extensive skincare ritual and tomato based diet. I feel bloated when my period is near, but 98% of the time - I am very comfortable in my own skin and body. Long walks, longer showers, energetic boundaries, and a sense of peace.

I start to write a sentence, but then I stop. There are no more unanswered questions.

On one of my many walks home, I see a few letters that have melted into the pavement. I squint. I can’t tell if it says “J ❤️ E” or JOE.

I don’t stare long enough to take it in, but I know I’ll eventually circle back to that same spot.

-

It was. I write those two words into my notes app.

Not an unanswered question. Just a phrase.

It was, it was, it was.

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If there was a god. What would you ask him?

Your heart still breaks for him. You don’t know why. The brokenness has lessened from him, but it still breaks for him. This is what empathy teaches you. You look at the love notes you keep on your dresser from your friends. A note from your roommate, a silly poem from your manager. Tiny objects of affection, a physical remembrance. And you wonder if he has those, too.

Were you one of the only ones to truly love and to truly see? The soles of your feet have turned black from wandering everywhere - but you need to wander. You need to feel that summer light, you need to feel that summer magic.

These moments are yours. They are just yours, and they are only yours. “Sparkle Lists”. You sit in the sun and list out everything that found you exactly when you needed it.

Your hair falls down your back. It’s long and dark and thick and healthy and has grown out almost past your elbows. You wake up excited, and you wake up before anyone else.

White feathers, dimes, bunnies. Overgrown flower gardens. Running into neighbours. Angel numbers.

The air is sticky in July, but it’s not unbearable. You know how to handle heatwaves. Sunscreen on your face and collarbone, and bring a water bottle wherever you go. Walk everywhere before noon, and walk everywhere after 4 pm. You’ll still tan.

It breaks for, not because.

The smell of white lilies in the morning. A complexion that glows. A day of nothingness.

You felt god in the way you let yourself be held.

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It’s 7:45 on a Monday morning at the end of June. I’m wearing my favourite white Brandy Melville dress from Rome, and have my little brown leather bag with my beloved Fendi scarf attached sitting beside me. There’s also a black coffee, because who are we without caffeine first thing in the morning?

The summer days are ordinary, but they feel extraordinary when I compare them to last summer. I’m taking advantage of the four hours of sunshine that I have before I begin to work.

I’m lucky with my work. Work doesn’t feel like work. It feels like hanging out with a best friend in a skincare closet for 6 hours, while getting paid for it. I feel even luckier with my life choices when customers come in and tell them that the highlight of their day is walking around this store on their lunch break.

“Looks like a great place to work.”

“Best job I’ve ever had.”

My notes app makes me laugh. One note is a list of “debts” - and even the numbers make me laugh. $30 here, $30 there. The perk of not having a lot of money is that you also don’t really have a lot of debt. You don’t owe a lot in recurring debts because you don’t have the money to even get approved for a loan or line of credit in the first place.

This isn’t to say that more financial abundance wouldn’t be appreciated - but it circles a larger theme. The main difference between last summer and this - is that I’ve realized I’ve built a life that I don’t need to run from.

-

My friend takes me out for birthday martinis. I give him the spark notes version of the Jesse run-in.

“First time he ever told me he loves me.”

“And do you love him?”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh my god. Look at your smile. So what are you going to do?”

I shrug. “Nothing. Keep living.”

-

The sun is still warm at 6 pm. I decide to go for an early summer evening walk. My headphones are dead, which helps me to get out of my own head and more into wherever else the universe is calling me into. I write down everything I love and everything I currently notice in my notes app:

Summer in the city:

• Walking by someone in the park and getting a whiff of coconut perfume

• Realizing my dress is completely sheer when the light hits and not caring

• The hunt for the perfect $1 tomato (just bought one for $1.55 but I tell myself it’s okay because 55 is my lucky number)

• Blasting Italian music at 10 am with your roomie while you make your 3 egg omelette

• 30,000 steps on any given day

• I left my blow drier at a man’s house and I am comfortable in never seeing that blow drier again - which leaves me to embrace mermaid waves

• Walking is working out, working out is walking

• Asking for signs and realizing that the whole universe is one.

I get home and google Jesse’s old apartment to see if it’s listed. I’m looking for something, I think. Photographs.

But to my dismay, there are no photographs of the interior of the unit. Only a floor plan. So I trace footsteps in my memory. The hallway. The foyer. The mirror. The kitchen. The living room. The balcony. The bedroom. The walk in closet. The bathroom.

Footprints. Retracing steps that lead us to the same place. Thinking of how many times I’ve been in that apartment over the past five years. I wonder if there is some celestial significance in him moving out a few days before my birthday, while I was settling into a new routine in my new apartment. Beginnings can’t coincide without endings. Not exactly the endings of love. But the endings of who we were.

Does he still remember? I wonder. We can’t be reduced to a floor plan.

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Then, I wake up.

-

Monday

“He described it perfectly. He hates how much he loves you.”

My best friend and I are having lunch the day after my birthday.

“Then he kept going on about how people who love each other fight dirty because they know what buttons to press.”

“It’s interesting though. The last few times you’ve seen him - the more open he’s becoming. Or, the more honest you two are being with each other.”

“Jenn said the same thing - about him being more open. She’s like, “Even last summer when he said - “Me and Emily Mais have been off and on in love for eight years.” It’s so obvious he loves you, seeing it from a third party perspective. But it’s different when you’re in it.” I told her I really just needed to hear him say it.”

“Almost like - that was enough closure in itself.”

We look at each other and start laughing. We both know that real closure with Jesse is a fairy tale. A fantasy. What is real closure, anyway?

“He also told me that he will never let me have the last word.”

-

Tuesday

In the morning, I wake up with the sun. My roommate thinks that I am crazy for sleeping with the blinds wide open - but I tell her that I think it’s romantic.

“You don’t understand - I missed the sky so much. In my last apartment - I couldn’t see anything.” I was in one of those typical Toronto one-bedrooms with a sliding door. It was pitch black, which does help if you need help with sleep. I never knew what time it was when I woke up. But nothing will ever feel more magical than waking up with the sun and see how life happens around you.

Me and my friend with a baby have gotten into a new routine. She texts me to meet her at a new cafe at 10:45. I’m up at 7:45, so this is perfect. I utilize the extra hour to self-tan.

I’ve realized there is a softness to this summer. There’s a mix of romanticism and closure, but also of freedom. There’s a lightness to the days that I want to hold on to. The compliments on my nails and the free coffee that seemingly comes out of nowhere. How my work feels like home, and how the girls feel like family.

My manager texts me to ask if they can film me talking about SPF tomorrow. She bribes me with 2 samosas and 2 spring rolls. It’s an obvious yes for me.

“You look so cute.” My friend tells me from the bench she’s sitting on. I wave to her and her son from a few feet away. I’m wearing a tiny navy blue dress with white polka dots.

“I self-tanned too. So hopefully no streaks in an hour.”

She buys me an iced mocha for my birthday. It’s a beautiful cafe with white marble everywhere. Chairs and tables face the sidewalk.

“Guess what’s in this bag?” There’s a white tote with towels beside her.

“Towels for me?”

“Your mom’s china. I figured you were staying in the city for good now.”

I had dropped off my mom’s china before I moved to Rome. That china housed many special memories of the summer of 2020. Pasta dishes with friends in my old backyard, served on my mom’s beautiful porcelain plates with gold edges and tiny floral detailing.

“Oh my god. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“I wrapped them up in dish towels that you can keep, too.”

-

Wednesday

I’ve fallen in love with a new type of coffee. Vanilla syrup, an espresso shot, homemade nut milk, and marine collagen. It’s running me about $10 - but I have a gift card, so technically, it’s free. I put my hair up in a messy pony, throw on a white t-shirt and leggings, and walk to pick up my coffee.

One of the perks of not having a coffee machine yet is this. A daily coffee walk. Nothing feels as sacred to me, or as holy to me, as this. The sun is shining, the city is still sleeping. The barista remembers my name, as I have been utilizing that gift card every day this week.

“Hi Emily.” He gives me a little wink.

“Hi!”

It’s a slow walk back home. I’m the tiniest bit wine hungover - I lost track of how many bottles me and my roommate shared last night, listening to Lana and Lykke. There’s a few people standing by the elevator. I notice a young girl petting a dog who is so quiet and still. The owner is smiling, and there is a man holding a long pole. I think it’s a lampshade at first, but then I see he’s also holding a white bag with a medical hazard logo on it. I put two and two together and realize it must be an IV drip.

The three of us and the dog pile on to the elevator.

“I love your nails.” The young girl says as she moves to stand beside me.

“Thank you so much.” I smile. “They’re little cherry blossoms.”

The elevator doors open and she gives one last pet to the dog. “Thank you for letting me pet him.” She tells the owner.

“Oh - it’s not a problem. He loves the attention!”

The young girl gets off the elevator and gives us one final wave.

“Lymphoma.” The owner continues. “He had it 9 years ago and now it’s come back.” She shakes her head. “It’s one day at a time.”

“My wife has it, too. Cancer. Really bad. And that’s what we say to each other: one day at a time.” The old man carrying the IV drip says.

I am never one to remove my headphones in an elevator, but I find myself taking them off. It’s silent between all three of us. But not an uncomfortable silence, more like - something has shifted. Something has been said, and something has fallen into place.

The woman with the dog leaves, and it is just me and the man with the IV drip.

“Where do you get a good cup of coffee around here? My wife and I just moved in. I’m from the days where I could just ask for a cup of Joe. Now they add all of these milks and all types of things.”

I am embarrassed to tell him how much I’ve paid for my cup of coffee, let alone that I like paying $2 extra for marine collagen. “There is nothing better than a black drip.” I am my mother’s daughter, and I tell him a few of my neighborhood favorites.

The elevator doors open, and now it’s my turn to get off.

“You must be able to see the lake from your apartment.”

I nod. “Sometimes it’s hiding behind a few buildings - but it’s always there. Peaking out.”

An image of him and his wife staring out at the lake comes into my mind, and my eyes immediately begin to water. The tears fall as I shut the door to my apartment. I think of the simplicity of that moment, and of all of these moments. What do they all mean? What does it all mean?

In sickness and in health, you promise this to each other. The black coffee in the morning. But the chemo that follows. Something tells me he loves when his wife has energy. Maybe they go for walks together. But does he leave her while she is sleeping?

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I choose a cafe around the corner and order a macchiato. I roll my eyes at the price: $6 for a tiny cup. But something about the shot of espresso does the trick. I know that I will start to feel like my normal self again.

I am never one to get bored, but I am one to get restless. My daily affirmations remind me that I don’t need drama to live a meaningful life. I haven’t strolled or had nothing on the agenda or had nothing to unpack or something to figure out. Nothing requires my attention.

Nothing requires my attention.

The only thing on my agenda on the day after my birthday is a lunch with my best friend.

When do I create just for the sake of creation? To tell a story for the art of it - not to try to solve or put something inside of a box. Not speaking with authority over a situation that you’re witnessing.

There’s a shift in my birthday this year. I’m not trying to prove to or convince an audience that someone loves me.

Instead, I have come to a conclusion that he did.

It’s a new moon on my birthday. So I light a candle on Sunday evening in the living room and let the skyline do the rest of the work. Everything is luminous, but everything is calm.

Family. I speak this intention out loud. It is, something that I realize - is beginning to scare me a lot less and less. Thinking about having a child was once the most terrifying thing in the world, but now that I am more “clear on what I want” - having a family isn’t something that I want to shy away from anymore. My rationale has become this: I have watched someone I love leave this earth - which means I can watch someone I love enter this earth. Maybe it was the pregnancy scare. Or the brief cohabitation with a man, or Jesse finally buying a house. Watching these men, who matched some sort of level of emotional unavailability - open up their home, or create a home of their own, might have undid something in me.

Maybe we are all just searching for something.

And maybe we are all just searching for the same thing.

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“Absolutely.”

He takes my hand and we walk down Yorkville Avenue.

“Remember our first date?” I ask.

“Terroni night?”

“Oh my god. Not Terroni night. The Oxley.”

“Ah. Right right.”

“And I lived right there.” I point to a condo building that was just past Bay.

He smiles. “I remember that address. I remember walking you home. And purposely not coming up.”

“Yup. Made out in front of my building. Then you were like, “‘Merry Christmas, Emily Mais.”

He starts laughing. “And you were like ‘what was that’.”

“Thrown. I was thrown.”

We get to a street corner. His tone switches.

“Emily - it bothers me. That you think that I don’t have your back.”

“Jesse -

“I have terrible communication skills. I do. But when you’re getting mad at me, I feel like you’re actually mad at someone else.”

“My dad.”

“He betrayed you, Emily. I didn’t.”

There’s a bench on a street corner. I seat myself down.

“You’re not wrong. I probably shouldn’t be projecting my trauma onto you.”

I don’t want to get into the logistics. I don’t want to map out their actions side by side. Jesse knows enough, and I know enough not to argue with him in this state.

“I just…if you ever needed me. If you were ever with a guy and you were in trouble or you didn’t feel safe - I would be there for you. I would drop everything for you.”

I am tempted to respond with “how would that work if my number is blocked” - but I don’t. Because this is Jesse at his most honest.

“I need you to tell me something. And I need to hear it from your mouth directly. Do you ever see us being together? Because I’m not doing this again. I’m not having another night like this, and then agreeing to “try again.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t know…look at the pattern.”

“It’s not great.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“I do. I want someone who gets just as excited about life as I do. And I don’t want to have to train someone on how to teach me.”

“You shouldn’t have to. And you’ll get that. It’s crazy, Em.” He shakes his head. “Because I know if I needed to bury a body - you’d be the first person I’d call.”

Neither of us say anything else for a while.

He continues. “But I think both of us are at a turning point. I just bought a house. You’re more clear on what you want…”

I nod. “I…I just have so much love for you. And I think I always will. I just get frustrated because I have all of this love and it doesn’t go anywhere. But I’m grateful for it, you know?” My eyes start to water and I feel his hand stroking my back.

“You’re a blueprint.” I continue. I look up at my old apartment building. “Almost a decade. And I still feel the exact same way. You can do whatever you want and we can say whatever we want to each other and I…I feel like I still look at you with like, stars in my eyes.”

“It’s both of us, Emily. Both of us feel that way.”

“Should we just like - have a kid? It solves a lot of problems - we’d be in each other’s lives forever.”

“Emily - I’m not having a child out of wedlock. I also don’t think you’re thinking about this clearly.”

“You know - some of the best relationships I see are when two people are co-parenting.”

He starts laughing. “I’d worry about that kid. Too smart for their own good. And an extremely dark sense of humor. We’d have to watch him.”

“And they’d probably have to parent us. Are mom and dad fighting again -”

“Or are they having another kid?”

I lean my head against his shoulder. He kisses the top of my head. We stay like this for a while.

“You guys are really cute.” One of the girls from the bar slurs as she walks by. “And she looks great. Like - she looks really great.”

“Thanks! We’re not dating.”

He starts laughing. “Jesus Christ.You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“No.” But I turn to face him, and we kiss. We continue to kiss on this park bench on this street corner in Yorkville until he pulls out his phone and says “I’m calling an Uber.”

“To where?”

“My place?”

I nod. I expected him to tell me that he’ll drop me off at mine. I think about how if he wanted to actually end it, to actually have real closure - he probably would have suggested that instead.

We climb into the backseat of the car. In between us making out - he pauses.

“Can I ask you something?”

I nod.

“I need you to tell me if I ever put you down. Or treated you terribly while we were dating. Or if I ever made you feel small.”

“Jesse - you treating me poorly while we were dating was never the issue. You treated me like I was a princess. And you were my biggest fan. I never…you would never put me down.”

Relief washes over his face. “Ok. Good. I needed to hear that.”

-

Dear Jesse,

Life is dizzying. Maybe I am the way I am and I believe in what I believe in because of us. Because nothing is ever planned or linear. It is circular and doesn’t have an expiration date. It is special and it just is.

Are we together somewhere? I hope so. I hope I’m lucky enough to put this mystery to bed and finally visit that world someday. I wonder what it’s like. Are you writing? Are we writing?

You bought a house in a neighborhood nearby. You did it. You fulfilled that dream. And selfishly, I’m relieved about the high probability of a run-in.

Jesse, we are a “...”. Not a period, not a question mark, not an ending nor are we a beginning. We are two people who know each other well. Two people who see each other clearly.

-

It’s a pattern, what we do. We will take the elevator up to the third floor. We will walk into his apartment and I will leave my white Zara kitten heels at the door. I will then leave my purse on his kitchen island. He will shut the door to his bedroom and I don’t ever wait for him to undress me, I will undress myself. He will watch and then we’ll end up on top of his sheets. And I will fight back every “I love you” that I want to say.

In the morning, the sun peaks through his blinds. He’ll be out of this apartment by the end of the month, which makes me realize it will probably be my last morning here.

He starts talking about one of his friends. “It’s wild - she just watches as her fiancé shmoozes with everyone. Especially women. I think it like, weirdly turns her on to watch him flirt with other girls.”

“I can’t with your world.” I tell him. “We lead very different lives. And I’m not sitting here saying one is better or one is worse, all I’m saying is that it’s different.”

“I don’t know. I just feel like, if I have to impress someone - I would want my fiancé to impress them with me. Like we’re on the same team. Don’t you? What do you think?”

“Well - I won’t have the role of being your fiancé so I don’t feel the need to answer that question.” It rolls off my tongue so quickly and sharply, it surprises even myself.

He opens his mouth and then closes it. The air feels tighter.

I turn to face him.

“Jesse - listen. If you still feel like you need to keep my number blocked - then that’s fine. I just like - don’t want this to be the last time we speak. It doesn’t need to be a regular thing…”

“You are never just a regular thing, Emily Mais.”

It’s unusually warm for early June. I zip up my vintage Levi’s and pull my black strapless top over my head. I take one last look in his bathroom mirror. Mascara is smudged. Hair desperately needs to be washed. I’ve looked better.

He throws on a blue t-shirt and shorts. “I’ll call you an Uber. Let’s walk down together?”

I nod. I don’t think I have time to say goodbye to this apartment. It was a setting. And I’ve learned that settings change quickly and rapidly. But other things don’t.

We walk out of his apartment and into the elevator.

“45 minutes of sleep.” I tell him.

“Same. I think I just started to doze off at 7. How’s your vision?”

“Contacts came out in record timing. But you’re still blurry.”

He’s laughing. “You’re cute when you can’t see. I always like watching how you hold your phone a centimetre away from your face. And how you find your way back to bed. It’s like a bat using echolocation.”

I’m still laughing when we get outside. The Uber is around the corner.

The sun shines, he pulls me in for a kiss.

“Well. Have a good summer, Jesse.” It’s me trying to end things in the best way I know how.

He opens the car door for me, I slide into the back. Before he closes it, he shows me his phone.

“Unblocked your number, Emily Mais.”

But some things never really end at all.

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“It’s around the corner. We can just walk by.”

But I am a writer, I remind myself. What would my mom want me to do? She would want me to get dressed up. She would want me to do my makeup, she would want me to pick out a cute heel and bag and walk in like I own the place.

I’ll have one drink, I tell myself. One drink.

We last a total of 15 minutes before my roommate decides to Uber us to a bar in Yorkville. And it takes less than 15 seconds for me to recognize a man who is holding court amongst a group of women.

“Jesse.” I tell my roommate.

“Seriously?”

I nod. I walk up to him and tap him on the shoulder. My first thought is: free drinks.

I can’t read his expression when he stands up to hug me. The last time we spoke was me telling him that he was a liar and to go fuck himself back in March, in as many different ways as I could.

“We were due for a run-in.” I tell him as we do our usual: one hug, then one again.

“It’s a work event.” He nods towards the women. “One of my clients…”

He’s with another man I recognize, who is sitting on a couch, also surrounded by a separate group of women. It definitely is a post work event. Client drinks, a client dinner. A world that I have never desired to be a part of.

“You don’t have to explain anything.”

“No, I know. I just…you look great, Emily.”

He pulls up 2 seats for me and my roommate. I take a shot from another random man in a suit while Jesse whispers something to his friend on the couch. I catch his eye and smile.

“I feel like you’re talking about me.” I mouth.

“Come here.” He mouths.

I shake my head. “No. You come here.”

“You look great.” He mouths back. His friend watches this miming discourse with a very entertained smile.

The sea of women are clamouring for something from him. He is magnetic, and he is charming. But I also know he won’t be going home with any of them.

In this dimly lit bar, we eventually find ourselves separated from the Thursday evening crowd. Away from the suits and the harrowing conversations that begin with “So, are you in the industry too?” We’ve moved to a different table, closer to a window.

In my vintage Levi’s, a black strapless top, and a messy ponytail with tattoos proudly showing - I personally find it pretty obvious that I am not in “the industry.” I am actually very out of place, which I have learned is my superpower.

“Emily, I love you so fucking hard but I can also hate you so fucking hard.”

“Wait.” I put my hand over my heart. I know he’s trying to air his grievances, but this is a moment. “You love me?”

“Well - yeah. Isn’t this what this is?”

I nod. “Yeah.” But now I’m smiling ear to ear and I’ve probably ruined the attempt of a serious moment.

“Your words. You cut. And you know exactly where to get me. The way you speak to me - I would never speak to you that way. And I don’t. And I let you. I let you say whatever you want and write whatever you want. And I would never stop you.”

I catch my roommates eye. She’s standing at the bar and mouths “Are you okay?” I nod.

“You have to understand why I was upset with you. I cried in front of you, I told you I literally did not know where I was going to live or how I was going to afford rent the next month. And you looked at me and you repeatedly said, “I got you Emily. I got you.” And where exactly did you go?”

He looks down and keeps shaking his head. It is almost as if he is arguing with himself. “But I do, Emily. I do have you. I do have your back. I’ll always have your back.” His eyes are glazing over. I am watching Jesse vs. Jesse.

He tells me he blocked my number after our fight in March. I roll my eyes. “So now I’m blocked on two different platforms. And your plan was to never speak to me again?”

“I just…I wanted to say so much to you that day. But I knew it was going to be things that I didn’t mean. And then you would never speak to me again. Because I wouldn’t be able to take what I wanted to say back. So I blocked you to stop myself.”

“Well. Here I am. Speaking to you again.”

And here we are, side by side, with both of us reaching for the other’s hands. I do want to tell him that I lived with a man for four days out of spite, but I decide not to.

Thank god for the loud music. Thank god for the crowd. Thank god for the people. Thank god for the tequila. Thank god for the free shots.

“Hey - I want to introduce you to one of my most important clients.”

He introduces me to the man on the couch. The man on the couch shakes my hand.

He looks at Jesse, then looks at me.

“You hanging in there?” He asks me.

I smile. “Barely.”

The tequila hits and it doesn’t take long for us to fall into the usual. He does not acknowledge the other women again. We don’t leave each other’s side all night. We kiss. We make out. He tells me it’s unfair how good I smell. “All of those different oils you use.”

I tell him I still have a crush on him. I meet more of his friends. I go to the bathroom and panic when I come back and can’t find him. “He’s looking for you, too.” One of his friends tells me. We then catch each other’s eyes from across the room. “I was worried you left.” I let myself fall into his arms.

“What? Where would I have gone?” He’s laughing and he’s holding me and he’s kissing me.

To Be Continued.

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My body is not in its usual routine. I only just started my 3 eggs and black coffee breakfast this morning. For the past week and a half, it’s been whatever carb I could get my hands on. Today was the first day where I didn’t have to hop into an Uber, or hop on to the subway, or take the train to get to and from somewhere. So I wake up with the sun, text my friend with a baby, and decide to meet her and her son at the park at 11.

I’m wearing my favourite blue Zara dress and leopard print slides. I took an everything shower and layered on a body cream and oil, and the tiniest bit of SPF 50.

“You look tanned.” My friend tells me. “It looks good. Usually you’re scared of the sun.”

“Well - half of it’s fake, but half of it’s real. I’ve been outside every day.” She’s also not wrong of me being scared of the sun. One bought of Roman heatstroke will make you rethink ever leaving the house without being hydrated and layered with SPF 50 +.

“How was the move?”

“Perfect, honestly. I’ve been taking my time with everything, but I love being able to display my beauty products in my home.”

My last apartment had very minimal bathroom storage, hence why my primary decor was skincare and makeup. I’ve lined up my current skincare products behind the mirror in my bathroom, and nothing makes me happier than opening up the cabinet to see my collection.

We watch her son become mesmerized by a little girl dumping sand onto the playground. She’s wearing pink shorts with tiny pink bows on them and matching shoes.

“I like your outfit.” My friend tells the little girl. She smiles, and her mom comes up beside me.

“I saw you from over there.” Her mom tells me. “We’re almost wearing the same thing - you’re like my doppelganger. But probably the more rested one”

This woman is also in a tiny blue summer dress but instead of leopard print slides, she’s wearing leopard print sneakers. She also has dark brown hair, a great tan, and is balancing sunglasses on her head.

“Oh my god, we do look the same.” Down to the leopard print shoe choice.

She then tells us how her daughter is an Aries. “She is 2 and has a lot of…energy.” Her daughter is now beating a little boy in a race to climb up the jungle gym.

“I love that. We need more Aries women.” She then leaves to keep a closer eye on her daughter.

I look at my friend. “Can I tell you something?”

“Do I need to cover his ears?” She jokes.

“My body’s been doing something weird. I think my period is late. I thought it came last Friday morning, but then it disappeared by the afternoon.”

She looks at me. “Has that ever happened to you before?”

“No. Never. But I also have lived in three different apartments over the last week. And apparently, when you change sexual partners, it can throw your entire cycle off.”

“That’s a thing?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Okay I need to Google that. But wait, do you think -”

Both of us are completely calm.

“I mean, the chances are slim but -”

“Well they’re never entirely slim.”

“No they’re not. And I’m like, okay, I’m going to be 33 in 2 weeks. It’s not like I’m 16. It’s not such a scary thought.”

“No exactly, like - you two are both adults. You know what happens.”

“I don’t know - he made some comment, too. He was like “I wonder if you’ll get pregnant by the end of this week.”

“Oh my god. He put it into the universe.”

“And the weird thing was - neither of us had a strong reaction to it. He said it so casually and in passing, and I didn’t even really react to it either. I think I said, “Ya. I was thinking about that too.” Which, I was. And then we both fell asleep.”

She’s laughing but shaking her head. “I don’t know how you’re so relaxed about this. Like I would want to take a test immediately and know.”

“I’m waiting until Friday. Giving it a few more days for my body to settle into a new routine. Also, then I get paid. So then I can buy myself a pregnancy test.”

“Good idea. Those things are expensive.”

“You know what else I was thinking? It’s 2026. You don’t have to marry your baby daddy.”

“Nope. You absolutely do not. And sometimes, I think that’s better.”

“Exactly. You co-parent. You remain friends. You have your individual lives. And I just think - how fun it would be to raise a child with the girly pops - you know?”

We make our way back to her place. She makes a cute omelette to give her son.

“Motherhood teaches you so much. Like - I only just learned how to boil vegetables because of him.”

I start laughing. “I know. We’re still figuring it out, too.”

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“Hey.”

“Hi. Can I talk to you about something?”

I seat myself cross legged on the couch across from him.

“Yeah - what’s up?”

“Last night. The sex toy comment. It’s…degrading to hear that as a woman.”

“Fuck.” He shakes his head. “That’s on me. I was drunk. I shouldn’t have said that. I was trying to dirty talk or whatever and it definitely did not land.”

“No, it’s disrespectful. And I don’t believe that was your intention-“

“Emily - I respect you. I do. I wouldn’t have offered to have you stay here if I didn’t respect you.”

“No and I believe you do - I just feel like there’s some sort of disconnect. Where like - actions aren’t aligning with words.”

The interesting thing about this dynamic was that the actions were doing more of the talking than anything else. It wasn’t as if he was proposing these huge romantic dinners - but he was showing that he cared. Opening up your house to someone you barely know shows and must mean something. Letting yourself fall asleep in someone else’s arms must mean something, too.

“I think this also has to do with me not being here.”

He’s not wrong.

“This is a one-off. I’m usually never this busy, but this weekend I was booked.” He starts listing out his Friday and Saturday night plans one by one.

I interrupt. “Listen - we’re both independent people with our own lives and I’m not one to be like, “you need to be here with me everyday.”

“You’re welcome here. And you’re not being a burden. I don’t want you to think that.”

I soften. I’m across the room from him and hope he doesn’t ask about the packed suitcases because now I’m starting to reconsider.

“Come here?”

I roll my eyes with a smile and make my way to the couch. I go for a hug and he pulls me in for a kiss. I make sure it’s quick. He’s now rolling his eyes. “Can I have a real one?”

So I press my lips up against his for a while. On our first (and only) date - he told me I was a good kisser. And I told him he was too, then he told me his bottom lip is bigger than his upper lip -

“So the bottom does all the heavy lifting” I interrupt.

He starts laughing. “Exactly.”

I’ve made myself comfortable, sitting here on his lap. I tell him I might go to my aunt’s. I’m undecided.

“It’s up to you. Like I said - you’re welcome here. It’s a landing space for you.”

He doesn’t look fazed, he doesn’t look fussed. We proceed to have sex on the couch.

From the couch, I move to the bed. He tells me he’ll meet me there. I try to sleep, but I keep tossing and turning.

Reader - I used to take offence when a man didn’t want anything serious from me. But I guess, innately, there is a desire to be chosen that I will always find myself at war with. For almost a decade, it’s been me. I take myself out for coffee. I sit and observe and watch everyone from the bar. I go for walks and buy my own bouquets and meet friends for drinks on sunny patios and make friends with everyone in my neighbourhood. I never once look at an empty seat beside me and think to myself, “I wish a man was here to enjoy this with me. A man is what is missing.”

It’s not the idea of having a man choose me that makes me toss and turn. But it’s the thought of - is there someone out there who will get just as excited about life and it’s possibilities as I do? Is there someone who won’t take my beauty for their gain? Who will meet me in my depth and desire to understand and know more about the world?

A few hours later, I feel his arms around me again.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks.

“Not really.”

“I know. I heard you tossing and turning from the living room.”

I turn my body towards him and kiss him. My spiritual healer tells me that she thinks I’ve been met with a mirror. So I pull my black tank top over my head and ask him why his clothes are still on. A grin appears.

Afterwards, we fall asleep into our usual position. Foreheads pressed together, limbs wrapped around each other. It’s close to 5 in the morning. I’ve had a realization.

“Did you ever watch Tell Me Lies?”

“Ya. Great show. Are you re-watching?”

“No. I watched it when it was airing. But you know what this reminds me of? When Lucy hates herself and she keeps having sex with Alex and their sex gets more and more intense the more she realizes she hates herself.”

He doesn’t respond for a few moments. In my head, the reference was lighter. Funny, even. “I…thanks? He was my favourite character…the only normal one I guess…”

“Ya. I liked Wrigley’s character arc too.”

“Ya.” He responds.

His alarm goes off a few hours later. We’re still holding on to each other.

“Thank you for last night.” I murmur this into his chest.

“For what?”

“The conversation.”

“You don’t have to thank me. All I had to do was listen.”

I look up at him. We hold each other’s gaze for a while, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel something.

“Still thinking about going to your aunt’s?”

“Playing it by ear.”

“Ok.”

He gets up to leave. I text my aunt that I will see her soon. I realize that I never unpacked my suitcases.

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“I feel it. I think I just needed to feel like myself again. I don’t have to pack or perform, or think about being somewhere else. I think I just needed to feel like I can just be me.”

-

Reader, I’ll tell you about the past week and a half. It has consisted with me packing up a year and a half’s worth of belongings - and dividing suitcases and boxes and tote bags into 3 separate apartments. I had a little over a week until my new lease (yay!) started and really was committing to being in one apartment with one man for this eight day period.

I’ll be brief in my explanation - I’ve never loved writing about my casual dating life - and it’s not something I do often. Jesse is Jesse, because Jesse has and will always mean something. MFB meant something because I was a regular at his bar. The men in Italy were the men in Italy - I risked nothing by writing about them because it felt like a fairy tale / soap opera, anyway.

But I’ve been casually dating more. Casual as in - a cute Hinge date here and there. Nothing moves past the first date, which is kind of how I like it. I’m retraining my nervous system to be comfortable with receiving, and am trying to reconfigure my brain to believe that there are men who follow through on their word.

And (as I always believe) fate and the universe have it - a very cute man happened to slide into my DM’s about a month ago. We did the usual love language - story likes back and forth until one day I woke up from a nap to him asking what I was up to and me asking him if he wanted to go for a coffee.

An afternoon coffee turned into an instant crush, and by 5 pm he was in my apartment with a bottle of wine. The physical chemistry, dare I say, rivalled me and Jesse’s - but I would never let him know this. I could never let him know this.

“I know it’s early in…” he trails off before finishing his sentence. “But if you need a place to stay in between leases, you could always stay with me.”

I didn’t know how serious he was, but I’m trying to re-learn. I’m trying to re-train. So I smiled and said, “Okay” and was shocked when he messaged me goodnight and asked when he could see me again.

Reader, I am learning that I am hard to read. Which is ironic because I pride myself in nothing but telling the truth and nothing but writing the truth. But with men, I always feel like I am playing chess. I am weary and I am calculated and I know all the right things to say to ensure they’ll have a good time (just ask them a million and one questions about themselves) - because I never know their true intentions. And by doing this, I realize that I never really know mine.

I never took his follow ups in seeing me that seriously. I think it was my intuition telling me that this situation was going to lead into the more physical route, so I kept my expectations light. I posted to my stories that I needed a place to stay from May 22nd to June 1st, and within a minute of posting that - he messaged me with a “Hi roommate.”

I squealed. I threw my phone somewhere and squealed some more, then immediately went on Close Friends and gave them the update.

Here’s the thing: I could have somehow finessed an Airbnb. I could have divided up my time at different friend’s houses. I could have figured out something - but that something wasn’t as enticing as sleeping over at this cute man from TikTok’s apartment for a week.

Regular sex = check

Cute coffee shop dates = check

Cute Toronto summer walks = check

Check. Check. Check. He didn’t have to be my husband, but it was the promise of something new that was exciting.

On my final day of my lease, my friend sends me off in an Uber to his place. 3 suitcases (-1 that he came to pick up the night before) and 3 tote bags. I left a box of girly pop trinkets and a vase to babysit on her kitchen table.

“Why do I feel like I’m Carrie and you’re Big closing the cab door?” I tell her as I slide into the leather seats as she waves outside the car’s window. We’re laughing. It’s a bittersweet goodbye, and I always marvel at how me and her met through my newsletter whilst I was in my Rome era, and then realized we both live on the same floor of the same building when I came back to Toronto.

“Went upstairs and immediately burst into tears.” She texts me. I feel a mixture of both heaviness and gratitude as the Uber drives me out of the area.

-

Upon arrival, I immediately take myself out for dinner. I can’t remember the last time I sat in a corner spot and ordered a glass of wine and margarita pizza (thank you to my tax refund) without flinching, and I realize this is all cause for celebration. He texts me that he isn’t going to be around until later, so I enjoy my time alone. I like that he does his own thing, and I like that I do mine.

He comes home around 1 in the morning. I’ve taken an everything shower, and am half asleep when he walks into his room.

“Hi.” He says.

“Hi.” I sleepily reply.

It’s immediate. It’s instant. And I don’t have to close my eyes and pretend he’s someone else to enjoy it. I fall asleep in his arms. I never get too hot, or too uncomfortable, or feel like I need to get up and sleep on the couch. In fact, it shocks me at how quickly I felt at home in his apartment. How clean it was, how boy it was. There was a can of Lysol on the counter, which made me smile because I knew the effort he took to cleaning it before I arrived.

His alarm goes off at 6 in the morning. He tells me his friend is picking him up and they’re going somewhere for soccer - he’s vague and seems detached and I don’t press. I tell him I’m going to work in a few hours.

“See ya.” He says.

“Bye.” I reply. I turn over and fall back asleep.

It’s pouring rain before my shift, and I make my way over to an Italian bakery. I sit with the nonni at the counter and pretend I’m back in Santa Margarita Ligure with my cappuccino and cornetto. I always feel like this breakfast order impresses the Italians who work at the Toronto bakeries. It is the standard Italian breakfast - nothing more. Nothing less.

I go to work. I give the girls an update. Everyone is a mix of intrigued, invested, but also weary.

“Has he asked you to hang out or go for coffee?”

“No. He doesn’t even know where I work. I haven’t told him and he hasn’t asked.”

I get home in the evening. There’s a pit in my stomach. He texted me at 2 to ask where I was, I told him I’m at work. He didn’t respond, and a few hours later, he starts posting that he’s out at a concert.

I do my usual routine. An everything shower. A face mask. I make fish and a cucumber and avocado salad for dinner. My anxiety is spiking so I double my dose of L-Theanine. It’s a mixture of wanting more, not knowing how to articulate it, and feeling stupid for asking. I really just wanted to go for coffee with him.

He stumbles in at 2 AM.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

He climbs into bed.

“I’m drunk. We shouldn’t hook up.”

I start laughing. “Ok.”

A few hours later, I feel some sort of relief of him pulling me in closer towards him. We had been sleeping apart, and his arms felt like reprieve.

“You’re like…my little sex toy.”

My back immediately straightens. And I am transported back to Rome, where I’m having a conversation with a friend about a similar situation: “They think that it’s a compliment, to have someone to want to sleep with you. But it’s hard for them to understand the emotional implications of feeling like an object.”

“That’s objectifying.” I respond to him.

“So I shouldn’t have said that?”

He’s drunk. I need to remind myself of this.

“I’m falling asleep.” I mumble.

In the morning, we have sex. I then decide to take one of his jackets. Fortunately for me, he has a great wardrobe. “I’m wearing this today.” It’s a vintage forest green bomber. He’s hungover on the couch and doesn’t put up a fight.

“See ya!”

I close the door, pick up a cappuccino and cornetto at my new favourite bakery, and then promptly burst into tears on the streetcar. I then burst into tears at work while retelling the story. The girls get it. It’s a day for chips and gummies and a make-up application from my friend.

“You need to get out of there.” The girly pops agree. It’s a unanimous decision.

He’s not home (again), when I get home - so I treat myself to two dirty martinis. I decide to barely eat all day (besides chips and gummies) so that the alcohol will hit me, and I hope to be very numb by the time he gets back. My tax refund went to good use this week.

I pull out my laptop and start writing.

Dear Jesse,

Do you ever feel like you just…failed?

I google “can you mix L-Theanine with alchohol?” It’s advised not to. My anti anxiety supplement intake will have to wait until my martini tipsiness subsides.

I am broke, and I feel trapped. I want more than this, than all of this - but I can’t communicate that. I’ve never felt like I could communicate that, because I don’t believe these men have the capacity to give me what I want. To give me what I supposedly deserve, but have so many conflicting doubts on what I do believe I deserve versus what I take. When a man that I went on a date with a few months ago told me that I could call him, I looked at him like he had 3 heads. Call you? Why would I call you?

And it’s not this man’s fault. He’s not solely responsible for the way I see the world. The way I view things, the way I feel things. He’s here and he’s there, he’s a mirror.

Close to midnight, he walks through the door. I’m sitting beside my packed suitcases. I’m in my Fendi glasses. My hair is in a top knot. I’m in sweats.

“Hey.” He looks sleepy and confused.

“Hi. Can I talk to you about something?”

I seat myself cross legged across from him.

To Be Continued

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When I signed that year lease in the city - I felt something unfamiliar. It was almost as if someone put up a road block and said “not yet”. And admittingly, there was this feeling of trappedness. I was in a weird spot with my finances, freelancing had become incredibly slow, meaning I had to become financially reliant on family members. I didn’t know what to do next. I has been so used to living a European lifestyle on a North American salary (the biggest life hack) - and now I was calculating how to make a dozen eggs last for one week.

Rituals. Habits. Remembering who you are when you’re sitting on a pile of unpaid credit card bills and rejection letters from jobs you don’t want. Who are you at your core? Who was I without the Roman hedonism and escapism?

My apartment in the city was grey, but it was still beautiful. It was a one bedroom, but one of those bedrooms with sliding doors and no windows. I had a balcony I never used, and spent the majority of my time trying to figure out where to store my beauty products on the liminal counter space I had.

Sitting on my living room floor was my dedicated space of Figuring Things Out. Phone calls to the bank. To the accountant. To my sister. When my friends would come over for a debrief, I would pour us whatever was left of the wine from the night before.

I’m making my way to my third landing pad of the week, holding on to a navy suitcase that’s balancing my brown vintage purse, and I feel something. And I turn up Olivia. This isn’t a new feeling to me. Being untethered.

It’s exciting. My skin glows from a new self tanner. My beach waves are more prominent from a sea salt mist. I’m wearing a navy off the shoulder top and an old pair of Zara denim shorts from my first trip to Rome at the end of August in 2021. My toes are painted coral and peak out from my cheetah print slides. I can’t remember the last time I’ve taken public transit so often, but it makes me feel like a city girl again.

“We all need a little bit of Emily in us.” My manager tells me as I tell her about my week. How 7 suitcases and 4 boxes are spread out at friend’s apartments across the city.

Thank you. I write a note to the universe.

Thank you.

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