Amara

It’s been weeks since our first date, and everything between me and Dorian feels easier now. The hesitation I used to feel around him has settled into something warm that feels so right to me. We’ve spent late nights studying, eating takeout on my dorm floor, and laughing over random things that should’ve never been that funny. I still catch myself watching him sometimes, wondering how I got here — how something this kind found me.

He’s been everything I didn’t know I was allowed to want. And maybe that’s why a small part of me keeps waiting for him to vanish. Every time something feels safe, I start worrying that life will find a way to take it back. I don’t ever want to know what losing him feels like.

The zipper on my suitcase catches on the corner of a hoodie. I tug it loose, then take the hoodie out altogether and stare at the half-packed pile of clothes on my bed. Finals are finally over, and my brain feels like it’s been running on fumes and iced coffee. Aunt Dawn is supposed to pick me up tomorrow morning, and the thought of a few quiet weeks at home sounds like heaven.

My phone is propped against a pillow with Dorian on FaceTime. He’s in his dorm, folding a T-shirt, with a pair of tube socks draped over his shoulder. Our buildings are only a short walk apart, but FaceTime makes things easier; we can pack and still see each other.

“My dad’s grabbing me and David tomorrow,” he says, folding another shirt. “Guaranteed he’s going to complain the whole ride about how much stuff we bring.”

I laugh under my breath. “He probably just misses you at home.”

“Well, if that’s the case, fussing’s his love language,” he says, smiling. “What about you? Aunt Dawn still coming early?”

“Yup. She wants to beat traffic.”

“Good. That means we’re officially one day closer to enjoying winter break together.”

I pause, pretending to fold something, mostly to hide my smile. “You really have this whole break planned out, don’t you?”

“Oh, I do.” He takes a seat in his desk chair, leaning closer to the camera. “First, I’m taking you to the Montiwood Christmas lights exhibit. They added a whole new section this year with more lights and music. You’re going to love it.”

I arch a brow. “Confident, aren’t you?”

“Only when it comes to you,” he says, his grin slow and certain. “Then Christmas Day, I want you to meet my parents, and I want to meet your aunt. My mom’s already talking about making her sweet potato casserole. She swears nobody does it better.”

The way he says it makes my chest tighten in the best way. “You’ve really thought this through. I’ll have to ask my aunt, but I don’t think it’ll be a problem.” 

He grins softly. “And then there’s New Year’s Eve. My cousin is throwing a big party this year. I want you there with me. We can do the countdown together.”

My voice slips quieter. “That sounds nice.”

“And,” he adds, his tone dropping lower, steady but careful, “I want our first kiss of the New Year to be our first kiss as a couple.”

My hands freeze over the suitcase zipper. “As a couple?”

He nods, that half-smile that always disarms me, tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. There’s no way I could wait any longer for you to be my girlfriend, Amara. I need you now. . . if that’s okay with you.”

It takes me a second to breathe. “It’s more than okay,” I say, my voice catching on the edges of a smile.

His grin deepens, dimples cutting through.

I tilt my head. “You really think you can wait until New Year’s for another kiss?”

“It’ll be hard,” he says, his voice low and teasing, “but for you, I’d wait a year if I had to. Your hugs will have to hold me over until the countdown.”

My heart flips, unsteady and light. “You’re really not making it easy to focus right now.”

He chuckles softly. "I just like seeing you smile."

“Well, you’ve given me plenty of reasons to. You’ve been there for most of my firsts.”

He tilts his head, curious. “Like what?”

I try to laugh it off, “My first date ever. My first college party. My first drink.”

He grins wider. “Yeah, I knew that was your first time drinking. Lightweight.” 

I roll my eyes, smiling. “Shut up.” 

“No, really,” he says, still grinning. “It’s kind of nice being there for all those firsts. Makes me feel… lucky, I guess.” 

 I hesitate, my pulse quickening. “My first kiss,” I say quietly. “My first boyfriend.”

His face softens, but he doesn’t say anything right away. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and careful. “That means a lot to me, Amara. I don’t take that lightly.” 

It gets silent again, long enough that I start to wonder if I’ve said too much.

“Is that bad?” I ask. “That I never had a boyfriend or kissed anyone before you?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Not bad at all.” He leans closer to the screen. “It makes me really happy, actually. That you wanted to share that with me.”

I nod, still unsure, but his words settle the doubt inside me.

The quiet comes back again, slower and heavier this time. His gaze drops for a second, then comes back. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Yeah.”

His voice dips even lower. “Are you. . . a virgin too?”

I freeze and hesitate to answer, "I. . . Uh. . . " I just nod.

He lets out a small breath and rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Okay. I just. . .  I wanted to know." He stops and takes a breath. He smiles at me faintly, not teasing, just gentle. Then he starts again, “I’m glad you told me. And I need you to know. . .  there’s no rush. I’d never want you to feel pressured to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“I know,” I say softly.

“Good,” he says, still smiling. "Because I’m not going anywhere. And if I get to be your first for all those things. . .” His voice trails off for a moment. “I kind of hope I get to be your last too.”

My heart nearly stops. To cover it, I grab a pile of clothes from my suitcase and start folding them, except I’m unfolding everything instead. 

Dorian laughs. “Amara. . .  you’re literally unfolding clothes to refold them.” 

“No, I’m not,” I say too fast. Then I look down. “Okay, maybe I am.” 

He shakes his head, still smiling. “No need to be nervous. We’ll take our time.”

We both start laughing. The kind of laugh that takes the tension out of the air.

Before I can say anything else, there’s a knock at my door — three quick, impatient raps.

“Hold on,” I tell him, glancing toward the door.

He smirks. “Go see who that is. But FaceTime me when you’re free later, okay? I don’t want the night to end without hearing your voice and seeing your face again.”

The way he says it leaves my heart fluttering. “Okay,” I whisper.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

His grin lingers for a heartbeat before the FaceTime call ends.

I cross the room and open the door. Naomi stands there with a scarf looped high and her cheeks flushed from the cold. She doesn’t live in this building — she’s usually across campus with Constanza. A friend waits behind her, shifting from foot to foot.

“Hey,” Naomi says, her voice quick, a little out of breath.“Sorry to bother you. I was walking by, and there’s a woman on the bench outside asking people if they know you. Like actually stopping students and asking if they know ‘Amara Olson.’”

My stomach lifts and drops at the same time. “What? Who?”

“I asked her name and she just smiled,” Naomi says, lowering her voice on that last word. “She looks like you, same eyes and everything. I didn’t let her in — she’s still outside.”

“Oh, that’s my aunt,” I say quickly, already reaching for my coat. “She probably came early to surprise me.”

Naomi nods. “Figured it might be. I can wait if you want me to walk with you.”

“It’s okay,” I say, slipping my arms into my sleeves. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Text me if you need me,” she says, and her friend tugs her toward the elevator.

***

I take the stairs. The lobby doors pull in a thin slice of winter air, sharp with salt and pine. Outside, the sky is that cold, deep blue that comes just before dark. The bench sits across the sidewalk from the residence hall entrance, under a decorative streetlight. A small bronze placard glints along the backrest, and the concrete around it is dusted with a thin film of deicer. My aunt sits with her ankles crossed, gloved hands folded over a small purse, a large tote beside her on the bench. Her hair looks darker than usual, maybe from the lighting.

I walk toward her.

She looks up.

Everything in me stops.

My brain reaches for Aunt Dawn because that’s the face I know, the one that’s always been there when it mattered. But the features realign into something so familiar and yet so unfamiliar at the same time — the same eyes, the same mouth, pieces of me reflected on someone I can barely remember. She and Aunt Dawn always favored each other so closely that, from a distance, anyone could mistake one for the other. But here, now, I don’t.

My throat closes hot and dry. “Mom?” It comes out hoarse, a whisper that barely makes it into the air.

The woman smiles, slow and unsure, as if she’s waiting to see how I’ll react. “Amara,” she says, rising to stand, voice soft and careful. “Look at you.”

I don’t move. The distance between us feels measured and necessary. My hands hang at my sides because I don’t know what else to do with them.

“I’m sorry for just popping up, but I wasn’t sure how else to contact you,” she says, glancing away for a second before meeting my eyes again. “There’s this little Italian place — Forno Antico. We can get pizza. Would you talk with me there, just for a bit? It’s walking distance.”

I nod because nodding is easier than speaking. We walk. She stays a few steps to the side as if she’s not sure she’s allowed to walk next to me.

Forno Antico glows softly through its front windows, golden light spilling onto the sidewalk. Inside, the oven is a rounded brick mouth with orange flame licking at its edges. A chalkboard announces a special in looping letters. The hostess seats us near the back. It’s warm inside, but I still feel cold.

She unwinds her scarf with careful hands and orders hot tea. I ask for water. The menus sit between us like small shields.

“I have thought about this moment for years,” she says, looking down at the table. “There’s no good first sentence.”

“Why now,” I ask, and my voice surprises me. It’s not sharp; it’s steady. The tone I use when anger is too heavy to lift.

“Because I never stopped,” she says, and it doesn’t make sense until she reaches into a tote at her feet and sets a shoe box–sized cardboard box on the table. It’s tied with twine that’s been retied so many times the edges have worn soft. “Birthdays, holidays, first days of school — I wrote to you,” she says. “Your aunt sent every single one of them back, unopened.” She pushes the box toward me like proof.

The server returns, and we both order a margherita — safe and simple. When he leaves, I look at the box, then at her face.

“You wrote to me?” I ask, because it’s too heavy to hold inside my chest.

“Every year,” she says. “I would mail them and wait. I never wanted you to think I didn’t care. I was young and selfish when I left, yes, but I didn’t forget you. Not once.”

Aunt Dawn made my favorite breakfast every first day of school — blueberry pancakes with blueberry syrup, corned beef hash, and scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese. She took me for my first silk press and let me wear her earrings to my first dance. She told me the truth in pieces, careful not to give me more than I could carry. But even with all that love, I still don’t understand how my mother could choose to miss those moments. How she could just walk away from all of it, from me.

“Why would she keep them from me?” I ask. The words are flat and thin. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Her mouth tightens, just slightly. “Families get tangled,” she says. “People make decisions they think are best. I never wanted to fight in front of you, so I stayed away when she told me to. . . for a while.” She folds her napkin, unfolding it again. “I hoped it would ease. I thought, if I keep sending the letters, if I keep trying, one day it will be the right time.”

I hesitate, my throat tightening. “And what about when Grandpa died?” I ask, my voice breaking slightly. “Why didn’t you come back for his funeral?”

Diana’s eyes glisten almost instantly. Her hand lifts toward her mouth before lowering again. “I loved my father,” she says, her voice trembling. “He was everything to me.” She lifts her eyes. “Please don’t tell Dawn I came to you, not yet. Let me talk to her first. If she knows, she’ll make this harder. She’ll make you choose. I don’t want that for you.”

For a moment, I can’t tell what unsettles me more — her words or the ease with which she says them, smooth and practiced. I watch her mouth form the explanations. I can’t tell if my chest is tight because I want to believe her or because I already don’t. I think about Aunt Dawn, about how she would react if she knew Diana was here. Would she be angry? Hurt? I don’t even know what I would say. I’m still trying to understand how I feel, so for now, I'll keep it to myself.

Our pizza arrives, edges blistered and crisp. For a few minutes, we just eat. The silence stretches, heavy like a weighted blanket. The thought of asking Was I a bad child? What made you not want me? presses against my throat, but I bury it deep, afraid of what her answers might be.

Diana clears her throat softly. “I’ve been living in Los Angeles,” she says, her tone growing lighter. “When I first went, I did some modeling — just small things. A few local campaigns, some print work. I was even an extra on a few movie sets,” she adds, a faint smile pulling at her lips. “You probably haven’t seen any of them.”

She straightens a little, dusting crumbs from her fingertips. “These days I work part-time as a stylist for models on photo shoots. I get to help with wardrobes, set looks, all that. It’s actually a lot of fun.”

Her voice carries that careful brightness, like she’s trying to convince us both her life turned out better than it really did. She doesn’t ask about my life or what the last fourteen years have been like for me. The conversation feels one-sided, weighted in her stories.

Nothing she says reaches the place I need it to reach.

“When I saw you outside,” she says softly, “it took my breath away. You look so much like I did at your age.” She gives a small, nervous laugh, like she’s trying to make it sound lighter. “I guess that means I wasn’t too hard on the eyes.”

I glance down, not sure how to answer. Her laugh fades on its own.

“It’s been fourteen years,” I say, and the number lays itself between us like a ruler.

She nods; her eyes shine. “That’s my fault,” she says quickly, like the right answer earns some type of credit. “I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight. I’m asking for a chance. Please. . . Read the letters. We can take it slow. Just. . . give me a chance to be your mother now.”

I look at the box. The twine is tied in a simple knot; the cardboard is smooth where it’s been handled often. I undo the knot and take a look inside. The envelopes are arranged by year and holiday — crisp and neat, each one unopened.

We sit until only crusts remain. She reaches for the check; I let her. Outside, the air has sharpened. She hugs me carefully, her hands light and unsure. I stand there and let it happen, my mind caught somewhere between disbelief and shock. My mother — the woman I haven’t seen or heard from since I was five — is standing right in front of me. A complete stranger.

“Please call me,” she says by the curb, sliding a piece of paper into my hand with a number I don’t know. “Even if it’s to yell. I’ll take yelling.”

I nod because nodding is the only thing I can make my body do. A car pulls up; she gets in, and the door closes with a soft click. The taillights shrink until they’re only red dots at the end of the street.

***

Back in my room, the suitcase sits open and half-packed. I set the box on the bed and sit cross-legged beside it. The twine comes loose with a soft pull. The envelopes are smooth, the handwriting neat but unfamiliar. I pick one at random and open it. Its front smudged where a thumb must have pressed it. The paper inside has a faint, clean scent — nothing distinct, just the kind that comes from being sealed away. The words are careful and rounded, a person trying to be neat. There’s I love you, always, signed at the bottom, followed by the word Mom.

I read another, a birthday card from when I would have turned twelve. Her words talk about how much I must be growing, how my body is probably changing as I start becoming a young woman. I think back to that time — it was Aunt Dawn who sat me down and explained those things, who told me what to expect, who made sure I never felt ashamed of my own body. Not the woman who decided I wasn’t worth staying for.

I read a third, a Valentine’s Day letter, a small heart drawn next to the date. I try to hear a voice in the curves of the letters; I can’t.

Everything inside me keeps tipping back and forth. I want to call Aunt Dawn and ask her to come now; I want to throw the box into the hall and never look at it again.

But something keeps pulling me to keep reading. I’m not sure if it’s curiosity, the need for answers, or something else entirely. The sentences start to blur, turning into lines I can barely follow. My eyes sting, and my body grows heavy the way it does when I’ve pushed too hard for too long. I fall back onto the pillow without meaning to, the letters brushing my thigh. I tell myself I’ll close my eyes for just a minute, that when I open them, the confusion will ease, and maybe then I’ll know how to feel about all of this.

I fall asleep with the light on and my hand resting on an envelope, holding it still.

Morning comes quietly. My head throbs with a dull ache, part from how I slept and part from everything I tried to make sense of last night. My neck is stiff when I shift against the pillow. For a moment, I just stare at the ceiling, unsure what day it is or how long I’ve been lying here. My phone lies half under the pillow, its screen dim until I lift it. A string of missed messages from Dorian fills the display,

Dorian: Are you free right now?

Dorian:  I can swing by.

Dorian: You okay?

And then the last one, sent late: Guess you fell asleep. Good night, Amara😘

But there’s nothing from Aunt Dawn. She hasn’t called, so she and John haven’t hopped on the road yet. The box from last night sits open beside my suitcase, the letters still stacked in neat rows. I don’t have time to think about them, not now. I lift them out carefully, set the box aside, and tuck the letters into my small duffel bag. A folded sweatshirt goes on top before I zip it closed, pressing the fabric flat just to keep my hands busy.

Then I put the rest of my clothes into the suitcase, rolling sweaters and jeans until the bed is clear again. The morning feels heavier than it should.

I drag my suitcase to the floor and head to the bathroom. The mirror catches the faint shadows under my eyes and the crease still pressed into my cheek from sleep. I brush my teeth, wash my face, moving through every small routine with muscle memory. The warm water feels grounding, but it doesn’t lift the heaviness sitting in my chest. By the time I tie my hair back, I realize I don’t feel as excited about winter break anymore.