Something New | Taraji x Fantasia

Champagne & Shadows

Fantasia POV

The house feels too big without her.
It echoes in ways it didn't before—floorboards creaking like whispers, wind curling through the cracks in the windows like it's looking for someone too. The scent of her still lingers in the air: a soft blend of patchouli, coconut, and that skin-deep sweetness only Taraji carries.

I'm curled up on the couch in our room one of her oversized sweaters, the one she always steals back from me but leaves lying around when she wants to be chased. The fabric still holds the warmth of our last night together. The fireplace flickers low, though it's not really cold. I just needed the movement, the light. Something other than the static silence.

My laptop is open on the table, the soft blue glow reflecting off the half-empty glass of ginger tea I made before the session. Dr. Lynda's face is still on the screen, even though we just ended the call. I haven't closed the tab yet. I just can't move.

Moments before Taraji's Departure...

"You sure you got everything?" I whispered, brushing my fingers through her hair like a rhythm we both knew by heart.

She was stretched across the backseat of the car, her head in my lap, body curled like she wanted to fold into me and never leave. I combed through her thick coils with gentle fingers, dragging them down to her scalp and resting there to rub slow circles.

"Yeah. I think so." Her voice trembled. She was trying to sound excited, but it cracked like wet paper in the middle.

I leaned down and kissed her crown. "What's wrong, baby?"

"I'm scared," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I want this retreat to help me, but... what if it doesn't? What if I come back worse?"

I paused, holding her tighter, letting my other hand rub lazy strokes down her back. "You won't. Even if it's hard, even if it breaks you open a little—you'll come back softer. Braver."

She tilted her head, tears glinting in the corner of her eyes. "But I don't want to leave you."

"You have to get on the plane to get to the healing, Taraji," I said, brushing her tresses gently behind her ear. "You said it yourself—this is for you. That means it's for us too."

She nodded, burying her face in my chest, and I just held her. I held her until it was time to let go.

Back in the present

Dr. Lynda had been gentle, but firm. We were only two sessions in, but she had this way of holding space without trying to fill it with fixes. I told her about my boy—my sweet baby boy—and how not a day goes by without me aching for him.

"He's everywhere and nowhere all at once," I said through the screen.

And she nodded. "That's grief. You're allowed to feel every bit of that, Fantasia."

She asked me how I was handling Taraji being away, too.
I told her the truth: I hate going to bed alone. I hate how I can't call her anytime I want, not with the time difference and spotty service. Her messages are brief, spaced out, like whispers floating across oceans.

Dr. Lynda gave me a few grounding tools—breathing work, tactile calming techniques, even something as simple as naming the objects around me. We practiced them together, and she urged me to keep at it daily.
"Even when it feels silly," she'd said with a smile. "That's often when it's working the most."

Now, alone on the couch, I press my palm flat against the soft knit of the throw pillow and name five things I can touch. The weight of her absence presses down on me like a second skin.