unfinished canvases lined the walls, and scattered music sheets covered a small table. The sounds of a record player flowed softly in the background, an undercurrent beneath the quiet.

ile and each sketch and each song was a gift I would have to give back. It was always quick to remember, though. The cough was always there, hovering in my chest. I resisted the urge to cover my hand with my scarf, to will it into submission. Alex reemerged through the doorway, holding a tatter

my hand, pulling it and the map closer to him. "And I will play the guitar, right on the street, for money, and we will be true bohemians, living off of croissants and coffee." I chuckled. "You make it sound so easy." "Because it is," he said, his voice suddenly soft, and I looked up at him. There was an expression in his face – hope, regret – I could not recognize. But I ignored it. There was no roo

g happens? What if you need a doctor? Or a hospital?" My voice shook a little as I replied, "I'll take my pills, Lila. I'll rest when I can. Alex will be with me, he will help me." "Alex does not know about..." her voice turned cold all of a sudden, "he doesn't know about your condition, does he?" I looked down, my fingers twisting my scarf as I whispered, "Not yet. But I will tell him. I swear I will." "When? Before you are a thousand miles away? E

d you'll tell him. Alex – Alex needs to know. You both do." I swallowed, though it was like eating glass. Still, I promised, "I will. I'm so sorry." She stood then, and I was enveloped in her hug. "I love you, Em," she said softly. "I just want you to be okay." I held her against me. "I love you too. And I will be." For as long as I can. After she left, I sat in the studio, twirling my pencil around the edge of the m