You: I got offered a residency. For my writing. In Portugal.
Noah: nods slowly That’s amazing. When?
You: Next Friday.
Silence. The city seems louder now.
Noah: So… this ends?
You: I don’t want it to.
Noah: quiet But it will.
You don't respond. Instead, you pull out your phone and type a message. It buzzes in Noah’s pocket. He pulls it out. One line on the screen:
“Are you coming tonight?”
He looks up. You are staring at him with something like hope. Always he whispers
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