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I don’t hear her feet on the grass. I don’t hear the click of the ball pinging between the edges of her basket as she cradles. I don’t even hear my own breath. Everything is silent as I watch her. She hasn’t met my eye in weeks, but now she doesn’t look away even for a second.

I can’t think. Everything has faded to black—everything except her.

She’s the beginning.

The words come from the same part of me that recognized her before I even really knew what I was recognizing. Hope is the beginning of so much for me, and if we make it through this moment, it might be the beginning of us.

My muscle memory kicks in as she prepares to toss me the ball. I’m still clutching the letter, but I manoeuvre things around to grip my stick with both hands and catch the ball like I’ve done thousands of times. I feel the impact travel down the stick into my hands. I start cradling on instinct, but after a moment, I lower my stick so it’s crossing my body and then bend to set it down with the ball still in my basket.

I look down to settle the stick on the turf, and when I stand back up, I notice Hope’s eyes are shining. She’s opening and closing her mouth like she wants to speak, and for a second, I almost let her. I’m aching to hear what she has to say, but I need to finish this letter first.

She needs to hear everything.

I straighten out the papers in my hands and flip to the right page. The typed black letters are jumping around, too blurry for me to read, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s because my hands are shaking.

I try to start, but my jaw is clamped shut. A wave of icy panic hits, freezing my muscles even more. This is exactly how I felt when she was standing on my porch that night, demanding an answer I couldn’t find the words to give.

Not again. Not again. Not again.

I stare down at the trembling paper, but the words are still shaking too much for me to read, like I’m trying to decipher a billboard I’m flying past on a highway. I’m going to crash.

“Becca.”

Hope’s hand is warm where it grips mine, steadying me. The paper stops shaking. I still can’t look up from the words.

“Becca, it’s okay.”

I shake my head. It’s not okay. My jaw is still locked tight, and I’m breathing so fast through my nose I doubt I could talk even with my mouth open. The tips of her shoes are only a few inches from mine. Her thumb brushes my wrist, and all I want is to look at her, pull her closer, tell her everything, but I don’t. I can’t.

“It’s okay,” Hope murmurs. “One step at a time. Just breathe with me. In. Out. In. Out.”

I do what she says, and it only takes a few rounds before we’re both chuckling even as I cling to her instructions like a lifeline.

“There we go,” she says. “Much better.”

“I...” I stop to swallow down the hoarseness in my voice and force myself to go on. “I have more to read to you.”

“You do?”

I nod. I’m still staring at the paper. “I just...I don’t know why I’m such a wreck right now. I—I—”

I cut myself off and focus on breathing again. Hope’s grip on me tightens.

“It’s okay,” she says again. “Kala...Kala talked to me. On Halloween. She told me what happened.”

That makes me look up. Hope’s eyes get wide at what I’m sure must be the extreme shock written all over my face, but she softens and lifts the corner of her mouth after a second.

“Yeah. I’ve been...I’ve been trying to figure out what to say to you ever since.”

I blink several times. “O-oh?”

I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

“Yes.” Her smile gets wider. “Looks like you beat me to it. I definitely wasn’t planning anything as impressive as this.”

“I just—I just—”

In. Out. In. Out.