I would like to thank you for being a part of artgirl and of mailboy. thank you for your patience. I will give this book the ending it deserves, because this is their, zico's, story ends. Their ending will be divided in two parts: hers and his, as I wouldn't think it fair for you to not get a goodbye from both Zoey and Nico.

I'm so sorry for my absence. I forgot how to be a writer for a year. I hope you like this, and I know my writing isn't as good as it used to be, but this is all I could come up with. Not that this matters, but I feel like I've had to change quickly, from Artgirl's writer to someone else this past year: and I forgot how to be in touch with my characters, to want to write them. I need to give you the ending Artgirl deserves.

ps. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND re-reading the chapter before, so that all of this makes sense. Or re-read Artgirl. Whatever gets you to be as touched by this ending as I am.

Thank you, with all of my heart. For everything.

btw: la sua is Italian for hers.

ARTGIRL 23: la fine, pt. 1 - per lei

"Don't trust the moon, she's always changing. The shores bend and break for her. And she begs to be loved, but nothing here is as it seems." Halsey

present tense: 1 year after barcelona, 6 years since they have first met

zoey willow hunter: woman, friend, lover, artist who inhales life and exhales art

I AM SO IN LOVE, I thought.

My hands were warm and the dying sunshine seemed to embrace me in its arms. I was always a part of something. The fourth in a family, the third in friendships, the half in a relationship— I never treasured the beauty of living for me. I was whole when it came to my heart, it only beat for me.

In Barcelona, I had laughed like I had gold pent up in my lungs, and watched as Jessie twirled her mother around to music in the cold morning. The gratitude rushed over me like a tide washing over the shore, finally coming home. It was a sense of belonging that I hadn't known I was looking for. I wanted to feel at home in the world, but it never crossed my mind that to do that, I needed to feel safe in my own body. Test its limits, love it, care for it and keep it out of touch but near love.

The warm pastries in my hand were a sweet reminder of winter, but I was living in the prime of summer. I was no longer blooming, no longer caught in the eye of the storms, no longer a neverending snow fall: I was shining bright, mercilessly, carelessly upon myself and upon the world around me.

I loved and danced and cried in that city, it welcomed me as one of its own. Jessie and I leaned on each other to grow from the ashes of our dream, we talked and talked, ate until our stomachs were more than full, drank from the essence of hope.

The past is blurry to me, but that trip is something I will never forget.

We stood by the Font Magica and closed our eyes. The wind blew softly, keeping the city in place. According to Jessie, this was strange for the season. Maybe I felt so soft because my body working harder, relentlessly to keep me warm. I needed it more than ever, with more scars than clear skin.

"Make a wish, Red," Jessie sighed and opened her arms. People stared at her, as she did so: but I like to think it was because of how beautiful she looked, right there and then. She was angelic, the halo of pain and growth glowing around. "This is where magic happens."

I want to be happy, please. I want to be happy. I want to heal.

Maybe it was Jessie's magic, or the raining lights around us: but as soon as I opened my eyes, I felt the wish come true. Just enough to give me hope.

Jessie was the first to speak up. "Red, are you abandoning me and moving to New York?" I glanced at her. Her eyes were glassy and her smile was a little sad.

"I don't know, Jess. I don't think— I don't know yet."

"Do you love him enough?"

"I think he is everything I will ever want and need. I think he's right for me. I don't think I know how to love anyone else. I don't want to know how to love anyone else."

Jessie let out a heavy breath. "Do you know how to love yourself?"

Pause.

"Yes, of course," I answered out of habit. My friend searched for another answer in my eyes, and my wall faltered. "I-I don't think so. I've been heartbroken by myself for a while now. I haven't forgiven myself," I gasped softly, a whisper of realization. "I've forgotten how to love myself."

I don't think it was the heartbreak that broke me; nor the loss of my hand's full function; nor the fire that singed my hair— it was the loss of hope. There is nothing more heartbreaking than losing hope for a life that has not given up on you. I did not know what I wanted out of life, I followed it blindly and let it lead me. I thought I had control of my life, I thought I was taking all of the right steps, but I was lying to myself.

I am not decisive— I have always had trouble knowing what I want out of life. Growing up in a small town, I was always going with everyone's flow, dreaming their dreams and blossoming in my own. I was a kid with limitless hopes: an eye for the passion that brews in every day. I grew up with wings that did not fully extend, afraid of flying and falling: in love, in heartbreak, into a failed career.

When this outlook on life went away, I started seeing myself in others' eyes, falling for their hope in me. It was, in some ways, Nico who saved me from crumbling to the point of no return. Nicolas Forrest was always an escape to love, a step out of reality and into a world of love. He loved me with all of his heart and trusted me with it, he treated me as if I was always whole.

I was not whole when I met him: I became whole when I started living for my own sake, loving the way my body greets the world, appreciating and shaping my own outlook towards the world.

He knew I did not need him. I could survive without him, I could prosper without him, I could succeed without him. This man, grown out of the angry teenager, was not a necessity in my life, rather a wish come true. He was, is, my crutches, even if I have never broken a leg.

"I know what it feels like to let him go. I don't want to feel that again," I had told Jessie last year.

Since then he has moved to New York, I've moved to Ottawa and we've done our best to stay in contact. He is busy with work in the architecture firm, and I have focused on art school and another job, but we have seen each other once. I had gone to Silvercrest for two weeks during the holidays, and he came on Christmas eve for his dad's sake.

I remember asking if he had met anyone. He smiled and shook his head and said: "I've met lots of people, love." I rolled my eyes and poked him with my glass. His eyes met mine and he said: "No one will ever be you. You are everything."

I could not agree with him more: I do not know if I will find a love that makes my heart want to synchronize its mouvement with another.

-

A cloud of chatter floated in the room, slowly overflowing with conversation and laughter. Paint covered more than canvases: it spilled on fingertips, on old shirts, on unnecessarily expensive art smocks and on the eager hearts of children with too much to give.

I survey the room with a smile and as soon as my head appears behind my own canvas, the room is quiet again. Guilty, but focused smiles appear on the students' faces and they turn their heads back to their art. I have finally mastered the art of keeping an eye on them and painting simultaneously: they were too old to be cautiously surveyed, but too young for my attention towards them to be disregarded completely.

"MISS HUNTER! Excuse me! Miss Hunter! Miss Zoey!" The frantic whispering comes from an upset girl, her braid flowing along with her hand.

I walk towards her quickly, knowing her persistence by heart. "Yes, Tala. What is it?"

"What do you think?" Her face changes and she shows me a toothy smile, pointing proudly to her painting. I shift my focus from her missing front tooth to her art.

This month's project is: "If you were a superhero, what would you be?" Most of them had already made their sketches and gotten them approved, it was a matter of filling in the idea with color. With only one class of art a week, a project that would normally take a week to complete needed four full weeks, four full uninterrupted hours of work. They had shown me the picture of the superhero they wanted, outlined the main shape and features they wanted to include, then modified it to make it their own.

Tala's work is simple and breathtaking: she is one of the students who did not want to show me her sketch until the end. She chose Wonderwoman, but without knowing this originally, I wouldn't have been able to recognize her. Instead of big black hair, Tala added a long, thick braid resting on the hero's shoulder. It was a much longer copy of Tala's own hair. She put stars on a dark background. Wonder woman's eyes resemble Tala's: almond-shaped and twinkling with power.

"My mommy told me that Tala is the goddess of the stars in Tagalog stories. I made Wonderwoman into Wonder Tala. What do you think, Miss?" Her voice reminds me of honey.

I pat her back, seeing a sun-like glow around her features. "It's beautiful, Tala. You're so talented. I think I like Wonder Tala more than Wonderwoman."

"Really?"

"Absolutely, love. You've done an amazing job. I'd put a little bit of dark blue into the hair, just to give it a little bit of a glow."

She eagerly nods. "Thank you, Miss Zoey. I'm happy you like it, this is going to be me one day."

"A superhero?"

"Kinda. Superheroes don't really exist, you know," her nose is in the air, "but I want to be saving people. I don't know how, yet."

"Okay," I see the strength from her painting in her and admire it. "When you figure it out, tell me, won't you? I want to see Wonder Tala in action."

Tala beams. "I won't forget."

And for just a moment, I see a girl with long brown hair and hazel eyes, holding a paintbrush as if it is her only weapon to fight a war with the world. She is strong, as much as a kid can be. I blink and Tala's dark eyes observe me curiously, with an expression that took me forever to understand. She looks at me with admiration. Tala, who, in her first class with me, told me that she hates to paint and knows that she's terrible at it, is looking up at me with raw appreciation.

Soon, the bell rings and I am standing in an empty room, with twenty-five superhero paintings hanging up to dry. My heart is full, I am full, I feel like I've finally done it.

I am doing something good.

And more than the self-care, more than smiling at the thought of who I am today, more than not being so mad at the world anymore: I am doing something to change people, I am spreading all I know as love to kids, teaching them how I love, how I make something beautiful out of all my eyes can see.

I feel like I am floating. I see a Superman with a big, red Afro, a Batman with crooked teeth, a Superwoman with a blonde bob and freckles all over her face. It is not the diversity in the paintings that touches me the most, it is the utmost care they are done with, like I am surrounded by kids' passions and visions of themselves.

I am finally doing something good: for my heartbroken self last year, who thought that she could never see light in art again, for Harold Walters, who always believed in me, for my mom, who told me she was proud even when I felt like a failure, for Nicolas Forrest, who loved me when I saw no reason to, for myself and for kids who might lose themselves for a moment in the magic of art.

Finally.

-

Sharing a building with my two married best friends has three major perks and three major flaws.

Perks: I get to see them all the time, I always have someone to talk to and I never have to eat alone if I don't want to.

Flaws: Their annoying habits only evolve with time, I have become the mediator in their fights and, worst of all, they, despite having a spacey apartment, like to randomly appear in mine.

So, when I walked into my apartment and found Diana in my bathroom, I only jumped a little. Partly, because she was talking out loud to me and shouted: "Zo! I'm here! It's an emergency."

I knock on my bathroom door, confused at it being locked. "Diana, what's going on? Are you okay? Are you bleeding or something?"

"I'm definitely not okay. I'm not dying, though," her voice is shaky and a little sarcastic, so I know she is physically fine.

"Unlock the door, then."

A few grumbles later, she opens the door and goes back to what I assume is her original spot. She sits down on my bathroom floor, holding something in her hands. Her completely disheveled hair and blotchy red face throws me off, but I stay as calm as she is. I sit down beside her, and stare at the stick. It is a pregnancy test, with two lines.

She is taking shallow breaths, crying. I take the test from her hands, touching it at the same place she is— and I let a small gasp fill the small bathroom.

"Diana?"

"Zo."

"You're pregnant."

Slight whimper.

"I'm pregnant," she says it as if it is a catastrophe.

"You're pregnant from the love of your life and your husband. Can you elaborate on why you're here, as if this is the end of the world?"

"No."

I wait thirty seconds and give her back the pregnancy test. "You're still pregnant, whether you tell me or not. Talk, Diana."

And she explodes, much like a volcano with lava of love made of sadness and worry and pain— I haven't heard her this worried since Joel proposed.

"Zoey. He's in his first year of internship at the hospital. Kids are supposed to happen during his third or fourth year of residency: we decided this together. He can't be a dad now! I can't be a mom yet! We're too young, right? And he does night shifts, like we'll see each other even less than before. I'm going to be a pregnant, grumpy burden that he won't want to come home to. Oh my God. He's going to leave me and my red-haired blue-eyed baby girl alone, that's how sick of me he'll be. I'm pregnant and alone. Zoey, I'm moving in with you."

I fight the smile instinctively forming on my face and hold her hand. "He loves you, D. He'll be the happiest man ever. He's been talking about having your kids since he liked you when we were seventeen."

"Really?" Her tears are freely falling now, and blotchy red splatters over her delicate features. "B-but, he's an intern. And he's always so tired."

"He'll make time for you. It'll be okay. Talk it out with him, love. I promise you everything will be much better than you think," I push her hair away from her face and give her toilet paper to wipe her cheeks. "Joel loves you and will love your baby."

Just then, a loud banging on my door makes us both jump. Undoubtedly, Joel is standing outside, knocking repeatedly with impatience. "ZOEY! I know you're home, can I use your keys for the apartment? Diana isn't here and I forgot my keys inside. I'm hungry and I'm tired. Please."

Diana's jitters have faded, but her anxiety of telling him grows in her eyes. She clutches my arm with a tight grip. "I can't tell him now. I'm not here."

"You are not hiding from your husband in here. I need to shower."

"Zoey! Is your hygiene more important than me?"

"Absolutely," I grin. Getting up, I watch as Diana's eyes widen and her pout is in full force. "All right. Stay here. You don't have to tell him now if you don't want to. I'll just give him my set of keys."

"Thank you. Love you." she hugs my legs. "My baby loves you too." Her grip on me loosens. "Oh my God. I'm pregnant."

I let her realize it all over again and shut the bathroom door behind me. I grab the keys from my table and open the door for Joel, giving him a big smile. "Hi, Jo. Here are the keys."

"Where's Diana?" His eyes narrow, assessing me carefully.

"Um. I don't know?"

"Let me rephrase that. Your smile is too big for it to be innocent. Diana's inside and I brought food for both her and I."

I clear my throat. "No food for me?"

"None if you don't let me in. I haven't slept in 24 hours, Zoey Hunter. Let me see my wife."

The deathly glare in his eyes, the smell of shawarma and the dark circles around his eyes force me to open the door wide. He drops the food on my table and walks around, calling out for Diana. Considering that the apartment is small, it doesn't take much time for him to figure out that she's in the bathroom.

"Diana?" He knocks on the bathroom door. "My beautiful wife. Are you peeing or showering or something? I can't hear anything."

I shake my head silently. He sighs. "Diana. Open the door, please. What's wrong?" Exhaustion reeks from his clothes— or sweat, one or the other.

"I swear to— Diana! Please, open up. You're scaring me. What is it?" His voice rises. "Please, Diana. Open up. I'm so tired. I just want to hold you and eat and sleep. Please, sweetheart. I'll break the door if you don't—"

The door unlocks and Diana steps out, holding the pregnancy test up to his face.

Joel gapes. He looks from her to the test over and over, mumbling "Oh my God". He grabs her waist and lifts her up. It is as if spring has come upon the entire apartment. He looks at her as if she's made a field of daisies bloom. Her hair turns as he twirls her around, making her a rose in my living room.

"You're pregnant?" He puts her down. "This is real?"

"Yeah. I know we said no kids until—"

He cries and laughs at once, his tears are ones of fatigue and pure joy. "Screw what we said. We're going to be parents," he crouches down and kisses her stomach. "I'm going to be a dad."

I am the queen of thirdwheeling.

Right there, as my eyes well up with tears for my closest friends and their growing family, I think of myself. As selfish as it may be, I think of myself holding someone so closely to my heart that they mold into it. I think of pregnancy tests and of positive results, I think of having a child with my forever person. Not my maybe person, not my almost-lover: my forever love. As I did when I watched Joel and Diana get married, I think of myself in their shoes. Not only loving someone unconditionally, but actually choosing to carve out a place for them in my life and growing old with them.

I think of green eyes and kind smiles and Italian curse words.

Worst of all: I think of how he'd say "this will be us one day, love."

Considering that he hasn't returned my calls, answered my texts or even bothered to give me sign of him being alive in two months, I wonder if he and I will ever be again. Loving him is like drinking warm coffee on a rainy day: it is effortless and unforgettable. Whether he loves me or not, whether we meet again, there won't be anyone like him.

-

Two weeks later, after finding out she was two months pregnant, Diana knocks on my door. It is only five in the afternoon, but I have already showered, eaten and started searching for new art concepts and ideas for school: all with a pang of nostalgia and fizzled-out happiness sitting in my heart.

I let her in with a smile, "you? Knocking? Who are you? Am I dead?" I clutch my chest.

She laughs and shakes her head. A lovely aura of mystery shines in her eyes. "You're about to die a little on the inside. In a good way." Her phone is held closely to her heart.

"What? I've gotten my dose of dying of happiness for the month, Di," I point to her stomach.

"Listen to me. Joel called a whole bunch of people to tell them about the pregnancy. And he called James to ask him to be the godfather. I hope that doesn't make things weird, by the way," I'm about to cut in, but she raises a finger to my face. "Listen. Nico called him. He said that the firm he's been working in is opening an office in Ottawa. Downtown. Twenty minutes from here."

My mind goes blank. Her words connect slowly, as if taking their time to meet. I can't think of saying anything. She watches me with love in her eyes, one in the form of relief.

Ottawa. Nico. Moving. Here.

"He's landing in an hour. He wanted to surprise you. Shit, I've ruined your big romantic moment! Sorry, babe. I just wanted to ask you something."

"What?" I breathe out, feeling my heartbeat rise with every second.

What more than this? I want to say.

She takes my face in her hands and her smile doesn't fade, just as the fire that she is never will die. "When he tells you he loves you, will you say it back?"

And that's when our deep talks flash before my eyes, the lonely moments in the apartment when I tell Diana how I think Nico is the only one for me. How much I miss being with him, but being away from him solidifies my feelings for him. How I think what I feel is love. How I never told him I loved him in London, not when I hugged him before he left for New York, not when he ran back to kiss me one last time, not when he told me that the only thing he never wants me to forget is that I love you, Hunter.

"I hope so."

"Okay," she pats my cheeks as if I am a child. "I give you my full blessing to be happy."

That means more to me than she will ever know.

"Thank you," I give her a hug. "What do I do now, though? Do I wait for him to call?"

Diana's shoulders drop. "Are you serious?"

"What?"

"Zoey Willow Hunter. After all you've been through with this Brit, you're going to wait for him to call you? Are you serious? Do I need to name all of the things you've gone through? All of the shit you've gone through to finally be with him?"

I frown. "No. But—"

"No buts. You know what to do."

-

And that's how I ended up standing in the airport, wearing my favorite dress and prettiest lipstick, waiting for the love of my life with a rose in my hand. The rose was Diana's idea, she thought that I couldn't stand there empty-handed. So, I'm standing here, watching people reunite with their loved ones: a girl who smells of roses, with short, red hair and a glowing, red spot on her shirt from the debris of her heart.

It is so messy, my heart. Be still, I tell it.

I think of the last time he and I met in this airport. Six years ago, when I thought everything about the world could be fixed and that I should curse whenever I could to express myself. When I learned to love for the first time and got my heart broken.

"I don't love you, Hunter. I'll forget about you. This is nothing to me. I'll forget about you as soon as I set foot in London. You'll be a memory, nothing more. Heard me? I don't love you. I never have."

"Fuck you," I said, feeling my cheeks get wet by tears. I wiped my face with my sleeves, "you're lying."

"I'm not," he said stiffly, eyes flickering away from mine. The light in them was almost gone. "I don't lie."

I tap my leg on the floor, pushing away the seventeen year old in my thoughts. She is so miserable, so heartbroken, so unaware of what the future holds for her. I think of how I ran in James's arms, feeling unable to walk, realizing how much I loved and lost. Back then, I wished I could never love at all.

The rose is so fragile in my hands. I don't know what I'll say to him: there is so much to say, a river of thoughts and of love that I've waited to give. And he is willing to give, to receive my love, at last. Or at least, I hope so.

Should I walk away? Is there anything for me to stay for? My doubts grow with every passing second, I am in a world of flashbacks and shaky thoughts. I suddenly feel silly, standing here, holding a rose in my hand and wishing for a man to want to love me.

Then, he is there.

And all of my thoughts walk away. My heart and mind are here to stay, pushing me to run towards him. He looks lovely: the epitome of handsome. I stand in my spot, rooted in it, like a statue. I watch him tug on his suitcases and look around. I want to speak up, to shout.

I wait a few more moments, and our eyes meet again. They welcome each other like old friends, like lovers, like everything good in the world. He gapes and slows down, walking towards me.

There's no rush; we've got all the time in the world.

He stands in front of me, and I forget all of the pain he has ever caused. I forget the heartbreak, the sleepless nights and my words.

"Hunter," he says, and he breaks into the biggest smile I've ever seen. He looks at me with love.

I can't help but smile. "Forrest. I got you a rose. It's supposed to be a big romantic gesture."

He takes a deep breath and laughs. "My God. Give me the rose, then."

I snap the stem of the rose and put it behind his ear, my hands shaking. "There. Now, you look beautiful."

"Huh," he says. "I didn't think you'd be here."

"Well, you thought wrong. You told Joel, what did you expect? And also, by the way," I can't—won't hold it in anymore. "I love you with all of my heart, too. You are everything my heart will ever want out of love."

He is all of my paintings come to life.

and that is how Zoey Willow Hunter finds her love for the world in herself, in a man, in her art.

La Fine, part 1.
-

THOUGHTS? QUESTIONS?

love, yas