I am met every morning with a living painting nestled in my door frame right in front of my bed. It’s hues, textures and minimal movements vary depending on the time and the tides but it is always the same. There sits the little sailboat, peacefully floating on the LaHave River, while the towering trees across the way make me feel like a tiny ant among the moss. My days, like the view I wake to, repeat themselves with indifferent precision. Sometimes, there are brief ruptures, a visit to the market, breakfast at the Rosebay. I had just spent three months in Europe, packing and unpacking my suitcases, crawling from house to house. I felt a sense of relief when I finally put my clothes in the closet knowing that the next time I will pack again will be in at least a few weeks. You’d think I was running away from something, maybe I am.
It had been colder than usual for the month of August in East LaHave, which I didn’t particularly mind after the many heatwaves experienced in Paris, where my shirts clung to me, sweat dribbling down my back as I biked down Boulevard République to meet my friends at Martin Boire et Manger.
The sounds here were what Earth was meant to sound like, a beautiful symphony between the blowing wind, the dancing leaves, the sloshing waves and the buzzing bees. I have seen no planes flying above us, only seagulls and flying among us are the most little hummingbirds feeding off the flowers.
I spend certain mornings soaking myself in the cold water, it feels like a shock at first but slowly a sense of warm calm takes over and there my mind goes numb. Once I get out, I sit still on the sand as the sun slowly loosens up my cold tight skin. I take a moment to myself and think about my eventful summer and how many relationships sprouted and bloomed under the sun. Or the ones that feel like they’d never change that require little to no watering to forever feel like home. Then there were the ones that grew stronger and the ones that slowly wilted away. Of course, there were also the relationships, once a canopy of closeness, stretched gently toward the light. a quiet reaching that, over time, created a little more space than there was before.
I found these different shifts and movements interesting and how intense it had all been, how I was so immersed in it unaware of it all, until I unrooted myself and what felt like a blink of an eye was met with pure isolation.
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Germination
I looked at the back of the Uber driver’s head as I climbed in the car, “he looks hot”, I said to R who surprised me at the airport after I had been away for months. I greeted him, but he didn’t answer, I figured that maybe the sound of my voice was drowned by the French rap music that was blasting. I was delirious from my seventeen hour flight and couldn’t believe I was back in the city I loved most. I was overwhelmed by how happy I was to be back with my best friend. The driver announced that he had to stop and get gas, as he stepped out, I was eager to see how he looked like, I couldn’t see him in the rear view mirror earlier, his cap covered his face. When I finally turned around to see who had been driving us, my heart stopped.
Around 16, I discovered his music on SoundCloud after hours spent scouring the internet for new sounds—a teenager dreaming of life beyond the little island I called home. Listening felt like a form of escape, a way to imagine what kids my age might be hearing all over the world, as if it brought me a little closer to them. I dreamed of Paris and imagined that every teenager lived like the characters in LOL by Lisa Azuelos (the original French version, of course—not the one with Miley Cyrus). I pictured them walking around late at night, smoking cigarettes by historical sights, wearing skinny jeans, and holding hands in the pockets of their winter coats. They’d make out everywhere—girls’ hair plastered to their partners’ faces as the winter wind whipped through some park, or maybe it was a quick boob grab-kiss combo in someone’s kitchen during a house party in the 7th arrondissement, thrown while their wealthy parents were off hiding in the countryside for the weekend.
I just found the idea of teenage years in the city, magical. I also only kissed one boy by then, who also made me give him a handjob in some dodgy abandoned house, I got so icked out, I didn’t speak to him ever again.
I dreamed of teenage romance.
Going to a French school in Bali, some of my classmates were from Paris. They’d talk about their friends back home and show me their social media profiles. It made me fantasise about Parisian boys—they seemed effortlessly cool, handsome, always well-dressed. There was this casual, detached charm about them that I found magnetic—like so many teenage girls probably did.
I only listened to only two of his songs, they were on repeat for a little while. It felt special to me. It felt like I had discovered a little gem—my secret.
A few years later, I cannot recall which year it was but I had already moved to Paris—I found myself at some random house party that spontaneously happened after a rowdy afternoon at Jeannette. I walked to the kitchen to serve myself a drink, and there I recognised him, I didn’t really keep up with his music after high school. “Are you that guy who makes music?” “Yeah, that’s me”, “Sick, I used to listen to you in high school”. It didn’t take long to see he was a character—quick, witty, and effortlessly funny.
I didn’t think of him much at all, I only would run into him occasionally at different bars or parties, with a swift hello and nothing more.
Everything changed when he invited me to the screening of his latest project at the Silencio des Prés cinema last year — a visual accompaniment to his new album. I got the time wrong and showed up too late, completely missing the show. I was bummed as I was very excited to see his evolution as an artist. We passed each other on the staircase, exchanging awkward banter—the foundation of all our past interactions. I told him I missed it all, he told me that there would be no second chances, I asked if he’d play it for me again and he told me that maybe he would. We smiled. I thought he looked handsomely ridiculous—in the best way—with his baseball cap tossed on top of a sharp business suit.
The cinema transformed into a club, with guests dancing between the rows of red chairs. Drinks were flowing, music was blasting, lights dimmed. I had gotten to know one of his close friends over the years as well, who also made music and had asked me to be apart of his music video, which never happened. I never usually like to indulge in lust with men I have not gotten to know privately first, but something took over me that night. His friend and I danced in each other’s arms and sang the lyrics to “Prototype” to each other. When the cinema party ended, we were not ready to call it a night, someone suggested the Pamela, an underground night club.
We made our way to the club, when his friend stopped me from walking letting the group pass us. He asked if he could kiss me, I nodded yes. There he kissed me under the Parisian yellow lights of the quiet streets of Saint Germain Des Près. All I could think about was that I wish it was him instead.
A few months later, I ran into him at a bar and had given him Brookies (a mix of a brownie and a cookie) I carried with me in a ziplock bag. He really liked them and that is how we started having quick conversations through instagram afterwards. I had seen that he was going to DJ at fête de la Musique and announced that he would play Black Eyes Peas, which is arguably one of my most favourite music groups of all time. I responded to the story post and told him that it would be my dream, he told me to come and said that he’d play 7 black eyed peas songs if I wanted to.
The night came, R and I went to his DJ set at 11 PM and as promised he played all the songs I could ever dream of. The rain started pouring—a refreshing relief after hours of dancing in the thick, humid heat. In moments like that, I felt grateful to be young, full of energy, able to feel everything so deeply and let it all out through wild, aimless movement.
Once that was over, still filled with energy he offered to take us to his music studio to keep the party going, R had to work the next day, so we walked her home.
Then he told me to sit on his lime bike, which I firmly declined out of fear we’d crash but he told me to trust him. I guess I was drunk enough to finally agree. I screamed and laughed all the way, as he huffed and puffed behind me trying his best to get us there safely, which he managed. His friends joined us, and there we stayed dancing sloppily to music with me laughing at him most of the time.
Some of his musician friends jumped into impromptu jam sessions, playing whatever instruments were around, while he grabbed the mic and started freestyling—rapping random words, some dedicated to me.
In a blink of an eye it was 7 am and the sun was up. We found out we lived 5 minutes away from each other this whole time. So we decided to walk home. The city stirred awake, last night’s celebration still lingering in the scattered party cups and crumpled trash glinting in the early light. We slipped out before the street cleaners arrived. Paris felt hungover. In true French fashion, he asked me if I wanted a croissant from the bakery, instead I asked for a pain au chocolat please. We walked side by side, and had a banter-less conversation for the first time. I honestly don’t really remember what we talked about and it all felt like haze. When we finally arrived in front his place, he looked at me and asked if I’d like to come in. I told him, I couldn’t because well, a friend of mine had already expressed that she had a crush on him—which was true. And I couldn’t possibly break the bro code. I also felt uneasy about the fact that I went home his friend earlier that year and something about it made me feel weird. I had already categorised him as a no-go for those two reasons despite the undeniable attraction I had for him deep down.
Our friendship bloomed over the months, I would come over sometimes in my pyjamas to play video games and eat snacks and go home. Sometimes we’d meet up at the park and just talk about all sorts of things, from music to our ambitions as future parents. Our butts itching on the grass as we took in the sun rays on a wonderful warm fall day.
He always had a pleasant face—soft eyes framed by thick, baby-cow lashes, and a smile that bordered on movie-star charming. I’m not usually into blond men, but his dirty-blond hair suited him, highlighting the subtle flush of red in his complexion. His voice was comforting, and his laugh had a way of making everything seem funnier. He expressed how it was lovely to be able to have this relationship with me, how we could just talk and do nothing else, I agreed. I think we settled on being friends and were happy with that.
I had made the decision to move back to Bali that fall to start my business and blog and left abruptly, he found this out on social media and asked me if when I’d be back, I told him I didn’t know.
And so I spent the next few months back home, focused on building my new career. We still talked now and then—little story replies, bits of banter. He’d ask if I knew when I’d be back, slipping in jokes that hinted he loved me and missed me, and I’d play along.
He kept asking me when I’d come home and I’d still tell him that I didn’t know. Until one day, I did. He kept asking me about details of my flight which I found odd because it wasn’t like we were close to the point where he’d be interested in that type of information.
It all made sense, when I realised he was the “Uber Driver” filling up the gas tank. I hopped out of the car and gave him a big hug. I was so touched from this kind gesture, especially when I found out that it was initially his idea. I didn’t realise how much he cared for me and this made me question how much I cared for him.
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He took me to the cinema to watch Lilo & Stitch, and somewhere in the dark, I don’t know what came over me—but I reached for his hand. When we stepped outside, the sun was setting and everything was glowing and orange, like the last good day before the end of the world in a dystopian film. We walked past a salsa dance group by the canal. He extended his hand, inviting me to dance. So there we were—dancing clumsily to Latin music in the middle of seasoned pros, as I belly laughed through it all. We shared a beer at a local bar and spoke more about our upbringing and how much it had affected us. I was impressed by his growth and the way he had handled his traumas and how in tune he was with his feelings. Nothing about it was performative, and I know performative when I see it. He was raw and real. We walked home—our favourite activity to do together at this point, sharing earbuds, listening to our favourite songs, dragging our feet in a sleepy Paris. When we finally made it home, I told him yet again that I wouldn’t come up. I saw a little disappointment in his eyes, but as always he remained graceful as I kissed him on the cheek goodbye.
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I had to leave again this time to Italy for a few weeks and barely got to see him before leaving. But when I came back, I had the pleasure to house sit take care of his cat while he left on vacation. I grew to his cat love very much. It was funny to be in his home again without him present. I wondered what he’d be doing in here alone, where he’d write his lyrics. I wondered if he danced alone his boxers like I do. I wondered if he cried a lot listening to his vinyls. He was so tidy as a boy, which I liked.
When he finally came home, we spent more time together and I believe this was all thanks to his fat cat, the reason I’d come visit more often.
He invited me to hang out in this huge apartment he was staying in for a little while. There we laid on the same bed 2 feet apart watching my favourite movie the world “Super Bad”, where he discovered the magical McLovin. Then we ran out to eat chocolate crepes and as usual, he walked me home. The most mundane thing felt like a movie scene when around him because I have come to understand that just like me, he romanticised everything.
I was starting to have these unwanted feelings creep up on me and have found myself almost being a bitch to him at times to counter them. But that never phased him, it almost amused him. He had no ego. Which made me fancy him even more.
A few days before having to leave to North America, I had invited him to dinner at a rooftop restaurant that my old roomy worked at (I can never pass a good discount). I stopped by the studio where he was recording his new project and sat on the couch, listening to the voice I’d known before I ever saw his face—still just as soothing. He kindly listened to my input and asking for my opinion even though I had no knowledge in music whatsoever. Then we rode the metro together, knees innocently touching, in comfortable silence.
We were the goofiest pair in that rooftop restaurant—wide-eyed and excited to try every fancy dish, surrounded by iconic landmarks and a view that felt almost unreal. We didn’t want it to end there, so we walked up the hill searching for ice cream and the first apartment we met. We stood in front of the building recalling that very night, exchanging points of views. We kept climbing until we reached Montmartre, grabbing beers from the iconic épicerie featured in Amélie, before settling onto one of the classic Montmartrois steps, gazing out at the summer funfair lighting up the Tuileries below. There we sat for hours talking. Talking from the children in our families to the deaths of our fathers.
A couple sat on the steps below us, kissing like they’d been holding back all night—eager, almost ravenous. We watched them, amused, laughing at how intense it was but also thinking it was kind of sweet. I turned to him and said, “Our first kiss is going to be so awkward—just like us.” “Like this,” I added, before leaning in and mock-kissing him, playfully pressing my tongue against his lips in the most ridiculous way, then throwing my head back in laughter. He just looked at me for a second, a little caught off guard—then burst out laughing with me.
When our butts eventually couldn’t stand sitting on the cold hard stone, we decided to go home. Mid-way before reaching the bottom. He grabbed me by the arm, then cupped my face before landing a soft kiss on my lips. He drove us home on a little moped, Childish Gambino playing through his iPhone speaker. I pressed my chest against his back, our heads separated only by the helmets. It was cold, but I felt warm.
This time, I went up with him.
Just a couple of days later, I had to say goodbye again—without knowing when I’d be back. “I’m sad,” I said, our fingers laced together in front of my door.
“Why?”
“Because I have to leave again… so soon.”
He smiled gently. “I waited a whole year for you. I’m sure a few months won’t hurt.”
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Anthesis
Jade R and I didn’t get very close until a year and few months ago, but sparks were felt from the moment we sat in some girl’s house talking about astronomy books as the other girls were snorting crushed up pills in the back.
Despite not knowing each other that long, our bond feels like it was written in the stars and it was meant to be. I wonder if I’d ever feel so connected and close to my future partner like I do with her. I wonder if it could ever truly be healthy to become so close so quickly with someone of the opposite gender. Jade R owns a heart of gold and incredibly, traits that are rare, especially in the glamorous world she is apart of.
She is, all at once, the luckiest and unluckiest person I’ve ever met—a living collection of life stories, some gut-wrenching, others almost surreally beautiful. She is a beautiful, walking paradox— warm yet sometimes bitter, soft yet harsh.
She took me into her home, without hesitation, holding my hand through a transition in my life I am internally struggling with, leaving the life I am far too attached to behind. I think about the warmth I feel when she brings me a cold Hojicha in the morning, that she prepared with care, before she lights up a cigarette and serenades me with whatever notes her heart feels like playing on the piano.
The love we had kept growing and growing so seamlessly, it feels like those friendships you make at the hotel pool when you’re seven years old on vacation. Our laughs echoed through the apartment that felt like home to me and tears were shed in her queen sized bed as her husky quietly slept nearby. Her reassurance made me feel strong and uplifted me, making me braver then I had ever been before. I will always remember seeing her small body quietly sleeping beneath the large duvets, like she had been gently washed ashore, as I tiptoed to the kitchen for some water, careful not to wake her. Or I’d come home from running errands and find her in her home studio, creating the most beautiful music—sitting in the centre of towering speakers, like Godzilla among skyscrapers. Her intimate setup makes her music feel deeply personal—like a silent cry, curled up in the corner of a bed. And I wait impatiently for her music to be shared with all the girls in the world, who will soon feel the comfort I have felt through her voice.
I cherish our late night dog walks where we shamelessly spoke about everyone because we believe that gossiping is healthy, as we walked past the home of the former French president. How we treat her gentle giant like our own son, as I wonder what it would be like to be mothers together, if we ever decide to be. We constantly complained about how broke we were but didn’t hesitate to treat ourselves to the strip club because we both have a deep understanding of how fragile life truly is.
Jade is a breath of fresh air, the kind that fills your lungs and makes you feel alive and unburdened.
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Phototropism
His brother was standing by the DJ booth—right in the same spot we’d seen him the year before, same day, one year later. When he noticed us, he greeted me with the big smile they both shared. “He’s around here,” he said. I made a face, jokingly. He shrugged and giggled in response.
When he finally appeared and realised I was standing there, he looked surprised—then suddenly lit up with joy. He pulled me into his arms and told me how glad he was to see me after all this time.
Something about it all felt strangely familiar, like no time had passed. It warmed my heart to see him again.
This was the third year in a row we’d been at this same event, always held on the same day. The first year, we came as a brand-new couple—everything felt fresh and full of promise. The second year, it was post-breakup, with tension still in the air and a flicker of jealousy from him when another man tried to hold my hand.
And now, here we were again.
We stood still in a sea of dancing bodies, yet it felt like we were alone. We reminisced about the days we were in love and all the things we used to do. He took my hand, gently tracing the spade tattoo on my ring finger with his thumb.
“It’s still there,” he said.
“Well, I don’t think it’s going anywhere,” I replied. “It’s pretty permanent.” Unlike us.
There was a time I naively thought he’d be the one to put a ring there someday—maybe even laugh about the slightly botched tattoo as he did. In hindsight, it was silly of me to think so, we had only been together for such a short amount of time, but it felt real and I had never felt so strongly about a boy before. I’ve learned since then that love isn’t enough.
We caught each other up on our love lives. He told me he’d gotten into a relationship after me. I told him I’d stayed single.
“You made it hard for me,” I admitted. “You really raised my standards.”
And it was true. He had treated me like a princess, with all these small, thoughtful gestures. I almost felt fully seen—he understood my taste, my humour and appreciated my quirks and for a young girl who’ve never felt that before, it meant the world. Until he betrayed me out of nowhere on a trip abroad. That didn’t exactly help in the trust department.
“You did too.” He calmly responded.
There were plenty of quiet moments between us, where we simply stood and watched the joyful chaos unfolding in front of us. The flickering lights danced across our skin, staining and unstaining it in turns. We were both deep in thought, unaware of what was passing through the other’s mind.
It’s strange—almost surreal—to be acquaintances with someone who once felt like an extension of myself. At times, it felt like we moved through the world as one, symbiotic, in step with each other.
I’ve spent so much time replaying it all, especially the part where I didn’t realise the last day would be the last. It is truly life-changing to experience that kind of weight when pain and anger come from someone you once felt nothing but love and safety with. So many unanswered questions and even when answered, more eventually keep pouring in until you understand that answers, do not necessarily heal.
How incredible it is to wake up one day and realise—you survived it. Even when it felt impossible, when you were sure you’d never recover, you made it through. Yes, there may still be a pinch in my heart, one that might always linger… but I think I stand taller now.
I’ve come to understand the quiet power of forgiveness and how, in the end, it freed me more than anything. I thanked him for the pain and the betrayal, “it made me grow”, I smiled.
There were moments where I wondered if we could one day be intertwined again and if there could be life growing after Slash-and-Burn. But, like to seedlings once planted side by side, we were now drawn by separate suns, bending and stretching in different directions, silently and peacefully growing. Knowing we couldn’t be growing towards the same sky.
Vahine Blaise, Nova Scotia/New York City, September 2025
