---
I met Isla in the park.
It was windy. The trees swayed like they were listening.
She looked different—like someone who had been holding something too heavy for too long.
"Why do I feel like you're about to undo every stitch I've sewn back together?" I asked.
She didn't smile.
Instead, she handed me a brown envelope.
"This wasn't supposed to reach you," she said. "But after everything… you deserve the truth."
I opened it slowly.
Inside was a medical file.
At first, it didn't register.
But then I saw his name—Luca Mbele—printed across the top.
Then: Diagnosis: Early-onset neurological disorder. Degenerative.
And then: Six to eight years projected progression. Decline already observed.
I looked up at her, hands trembling. "What is this?"
"He found out right before he left," Isla whispered. "He started forgetting lyrics. Then people's names. Then he got lost on his way home one night after a gig."
I dropped to the bench.
"I don't understand," I said. "Why didn't he tell me?"
"Because Luca didn't want you to watch him fade. He said it would be easier if you hated him than if you loved him through that."
---
The wind howled.
Something inside me cracked so wide, I thought I might collapse into it.
All this time, I thought he left to protect me from the world.
But really…
He was trying to protect me from himself.
---
"Where is he now?" I asked.
Isla shook her head. "Last I heard, he was living outside of Durban. Alone. Quiet. He cut off everyone. Even me."
I swallowed. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because you deserve to stop bleeding over a half-truth."
---
That night, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
"Six to eight years," I whispered. "And he used one of them to disappear."
I didn't cry.
I couldn't.
Instead, I walked to my canvas.
And I painted.
This time, a man made of fog—fading into the arms of a woman made of fire.
And she didn't chase him.
She just burned brighter.
---
The next day, I called my mother.
It had been weeks.
She picked up on the third ring.
"Amaya?" she asked.
"I'm okay," I said softly.
"I know you're not," she replied. "But I'm glad you called."
---
Later, I found Josh sitting outside my apartment building again, sketching something in a notebook.
He handed me the page.
It was me—painted in charcoal.
Only not as I was now.
As I'd become.
Back straight.
Eyes forward.
Strong.
"You saw that in me?" I asked.
He nodded. "You were never broken, Amaya. Just buried."
---
That night, I stood on my balcony.
And for the first time, I didn't look back at the past with pain.
I looked ahead.
And whispered, "Even if he disappears forever… I won't."
---