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Ethan at what looks like a Sotheby’s auction, holding a small golden item and the same journal in his hand.

Him leaning against a wall of books in a vintage bookshop.

Ethan releasing a paper lantern to join the thousands of floating fireballs in the deep navy sky.

There’s something inscribed on the lantern—but it’s too small. I can only make out one letter. An “N.”

Then, heat coils around me, sinking into my skin.

I know it’s him without turning around.

“Your routines. Traveling must throw them off.” I squint, still trying to make out the words on the lantern.

“One trip a year. It’s part of my schedule,” he murmurs before stepping next to me. “Have you thought about traveling?”

I smile. This, I have an answer for. “Yes. I’m making a list of places I want to go. A bucket list of some sort. I lost almost a decade of my life and I won’t waste a single minute of it. I have a motto. Don’t wait to live, because the clock keeps ticking.”

He lets out a heavy sigh and doesn’t reply. I turn toward him, finding him staring at the lantern photo with the same wistfulness I saw during the interview.

“They say if you write wishes on the lanterns, they’ll come true.”

“Did yours come true?”

He swallows, his corded throat rippling. “Yes.” His voice is hoarse, unused.

“Then why don’t you seem happy?”

Ethan stills—I don’t think he’s even breathing. Then he slowly turns toward me, his bottomless gaze once again speaking to me in that foreign tongue.

“What makes you think I’m not happy?” he whispers.

Unable to help myself, I trail a finger over his cheek. Electricity courses through that tiny point of contact, and he shudders.

Closing his eyes, he leans into my touch.

My heart riots—wanting to escape, to flee from the sudden onslaught of unidentifiable sensations burning through me.

“Your smile. I’ve never seen a genuine one. Your dimples don’t show.”

Ethan keeps his eyes closed and swallows, and I swear I see a hint of moisture at the corner of his eyes and my own eyes burn.

Something squeezes my lungs in a vise, so much, I can’t breathe.

He’s in pain. He’s hurtingdesperately.

I want to hold him. I can’t explain it. But I want to draw him into my arms and tell him everything will be okay because I’m here. He doesn’t have to be sad anymore.

Who am I to him?

This question has been in the back of my mind, a whisper that’s now a bellow.

We can’t be mere acquaintances.

But I’m afraid to ask. Somewhere along the way, whenever I think of him, I’ve associated it with pain. Like there’s something my mind is dreading, and that’s why I can’t remember.

But the headaches have lessened over time.

It feels like permission.