The Half of It (Epilogue)

3 years later...

"Taking a new step, uttering a new word, is what people fear most." Fyodor Dostoevsky

Ellie

The train continues the same rhythmic hum it's been making since I boarded the Amtrak near Grinnell hours ago. People sit quietly in our car, some families with young kids playing card games or passing around plastic bags full of marshmallows. I'm flipping through the pages of a battered copy of White Nights, which seems appropriate for the weather right now. We're only about half an hour away from the station. Glancing out the window, I can see a soft layer of snow underneath a characteristically gray Squahamish sky. It's good to be this close to being home. It sounds sappy, but I can't wait to finally have a home-cooked meal with my dad and go over to the sausage shop where Paul will inevitably have run off to. When I left for college almost three years ago, that ridiculous dog chased after my train until it disappeared. I smile to myself, realizing he's done the same thing every time since then. Someone is watching him for me now though, and I trust her entirely. My stomach lurches for a second, but I'm going to at least remain calm until I arrive. I have my main reason for this trip, but I know it will also be nice to do things like catch up with Mrs. Geselschap, since she's in town, and tell her about my thesis draft on French and Russian existentialism in literature. Without her pestering in high school, I might not have made the leap to go to Grinnell, one of the most important decisions of my life. I'm actually able to start a program next year that could allow me to start on my masters degree a year early. I can't wait to tell Aster about that...and I'm nervous again. I think it's a good kind of nervous though. Just as my thoughts start to settle, I feel a buzzing in my pocket. Without even checking the screen, my heart starts beating faster and when I do lift up my phone to read the text, I take a minute just to stare at the name in my notifications: Aster.

***

Aster

Ellie replies to my text with three hearts saying she'll be arriving in around twenty minutes. I can't believe she actually sends emojis now, and it makes me laugh. I think she picked up the habit in our sophomore year when I explained that long-distance just wasn't going to work if she kept ending every sentence with a period. I'd been stressing about a portfolio due date and she responded with, "good luck." Time can be a funny thing - we don't realize how much it's changed you until we're looking backwards. Glancing down, I see Paul playfully brushing against my jeans, probably trying to keep warm in the snow.

"Just a little longer okay buddy?" Paul might be even more happy to see Ellie than I am. His tail has been wagging since we left the house an hour ago.

I rub my hands together and watch my breathing making spirals in the air. There's something comforting about invisible things like a breath becoming real before your eyes. Maybe I'll paint that later. I really do wish I'd brought my acrylics or something to keep myself distracted from my nerves. It's been over two years since Ellie and I have actually seen each other in person. I know that's a long time to be apart, but honestly for two people who fell in love over handwritten letters and late night texting, long distance wasn't too great of a feat. Still, the thought of having her here, this close, makes me feel like a child about to receive the Christmas present of their dreams. I really hope Ellie still feels the same way...I know she does. I just hope she knows how sure I am about us. The first year we were apart, I didn't want to put a label on anything. We didn't talk quite as much over the summer, which left me with a strangely hollow feeling even as I made friends and settled into the Cornish College of the Arts. But a few weeks into the semester we started talking, and I realized that despite not knowing exactly how I felt, there was no one I'd rather talk to for hours about the art of the universe with or imagine running through the rain to kiss, than Ellie Chu. And I took something into deeper consideration: you're going to be terrified every time you paint a bold stroke, but that fear isn't something to run from. There's a risk in opening yourself up to the possibility of something that exists so far beyond what you pictured your greatest piece would look like. But it's that fear which makes continuing to move forward or choosing to let yourself feel, an act of bravery. And bravery allows you to be sure. At least that's what I told myself when I asked Ellie to be my girlfriend last September. She said yes - actually her exact words were, "took you long enough." And now here we are. I'm watching the silver train that was once so far away moving closer and closer to the platform where I'm waiting for one person to walk down the steps.