Chapter Twenty-Nine
The third year teaches us how to hold space.
Not just for each other, but for the people we are still becoming.
Noah’s travel settles into a rhythm—predictable enough to plan around, unpredictable enough to keep us honest. Suitcases come and go. Goodbyes stay gentle. Reunions stay quiet. We learn that love doesn’t have to ache loudly to be real.
Sometimes it’s just waiting with the light on.
I grow into my work in ways I didn’t expect. Invitations arrive—panels, readings, conversations with women who carry pieces of my past in their eyes. I learn how to listen without trying to fix. How to speak without overexplaining.
After one reading, a woman approaches me, hands shaking slightly.
“I didn’t know I was allowed to want peace,” she says.
I don’t offer advice. I
