By the time we make it through the front door, I'm out of breath. Adrenaline pulses through my veins at hypersonic speed and I'm on a whole different kind of high than anything I've experienced before. It's like every functioning part of my body has been cranked into high-octane overdrive and my brain is trying its best to catch up to the rest.

Zachariah closes the door behind us and listens for an echo. When nothing returns, he deduces my roommate isn't home.

I'm left standing there as he disappears into the bathroom to grab the first aid kit. There's nothing to care for except a small cut below my knuckle, but he moves quickly. I don't remember catching my hand on anything sharp, but it's hard to remember everything that happened earlier. It's all a blur now.

The next thing I know, he's in front of me once again except now I'm sitting at one of the barstools while he stands in front of me; one of my hands drapes over him as he swipes at the cut with a cotton swab.

I hiss at the sharp sting and attempt to pull away but he holds me steady in his grip. All of his concentration is directed at the task at hand, leaving me to wonder how and why he seems to be so calm right now. The only thing I want to do is absolutely everything. Jump off the walls, parachute out of a helicopter; nothing feels off-limits.

"That was a dumb thing I did, wasn't it?"

The strands along his hairline fall over his eyes so I'm unable to see them. But even if he's shielding himself from making eye contact or genuinely just keeping himself busy by tending to my nonexistent wound, his eyes are burned into my memory as clearly as my own.

"A very dumb thing," he agrees.

"That could have ended badly."

He echoes, "Very badly."

His thumb grazes over my hand as he smooths the bandage into place. Even though the minor wound is fully dressed now, he doesn't remove his hand from mine.

"I don't know what I was thinking." Sliding off the stool, I tear myself away from him. The cause of my inability to breathe cannot be determined to be by previous events or his proximity, so I eliminate the chance for the latter to keep affecting me. "God, that was so dumb. That guy was huge. He could've knocked me flat on my ass in a heartbeat."

His watchful eyes follow my every move, but I'm at the point where I can't even be bothered to squirm underneath his gaze. I'm still on cloud one-thousand.

"You held your own pretty well." Zachariah crosses his arms in front of his chest, leaning back against the counter.

"Barely." I point my finger at him. "You know how weak I am. Imagine if that tool didn't have a pea-sized brain, then what?"

"I don't think you would've been put into that situation in the first place if that were the case," he argues.

The pacing continues at an accelerated speed. "Oh no, I'm sure I would have. There are plenty of smart, bigoted people in the world. It still would have been bad, just a slightly less stupid version of bad."

He considers this for a few seconds. "You're right. But I still think you would've landed the punch either way."

I shake my head. "You give me too much credit."

"On the contrary, I don't think people give you enough credit."

Instead of responding to his statement, my eyes scan my surroundings and pick up on anything to distract me. That's all I seem to do when I'm stuck between complicated feelings. Searching for something to take my mind off of all of it, as if pushing those thoughts aside will grant me any sort of reprieve from what will inevitably come around again. I don't know what's worse: the fact that I do this, or that I'm aware of what I'm doing and continue to do it anyway.

"This place is a mess," I say before leaning down to fluff a pillow that needs no fluffing.

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is," I argue, continuing down the maze with no way out.

"For someone whose room is a complete mess all of the time, you sure like to spend a lot of time cleaning your living room and kitchen."

"What can I say? I respect shared spaces."

Without realizing he made his way over in the first place, he holds me in place with a hand on each shoulder. He looks at me with a stern silence and for the second time that day, he calms me down with only a simple touch.

"Take a deep breath," he instructs.

I follow his lead. It takes a good minute before it settles, but it does.

Once he's satisfied with the way I've slowed my heart rate down, he releases me and takes a step back. A touch of frosty air brushes up against me as soon as he replaces the space between us.

"Better?" he asks.

I nod. "Better."

I don't need him to voice his desires to know he wants me to sit down, so I do. The cushion sinks beneath my weight and I expect it to bow further under his, but he walks around the sofa and into the kitchen. When he returns a few minutes later, he has a cup of hot chocolate which he hands off to me.

"Thanks," I mutter and clasp the mug in my hands. A feeling of deja vu washes over me as I think about how familiar this feels to this morning, except now with the other half of my heart as my companion.

"Aside from having to sneak you out of there before you were arrested, I'd say that went well," he says before taking a sip.

I watch steam swirl into the air, dissipating as a breeze blows in through the window. "We have low standards if not getting arrested is good."

"Hey," he shrugs, "you lasted longer than I would have. That guy had the most punchable face I've ever seen."

Lifting my hand, I blow on my bandage-covered knuckles, eliciting a tender smile from him that warms me from the inside out.

"Your dad looks good," he remarks after a few moments of surprisingly comfortable silence. Zachariah twirls the cup in his hand, adding, "Thought he was going to slap me or something at first."

"Slap you?" I scoff. "I think he secretly likes you more than he lets on. And he was the one that called you to come over and fix the sink for me, remember?"

"True," he concedes with a shrug.

The space in the living room where the poster boards used to be leaves a gaping hole in my chest. After the anticipation building up to this day, watching it all end as swiftly as it did leaves me equally satisfied and unfulfilled, waiting for something bigger to happen even though I know my heart feels full.

"When we were standing by the road earlier," I begin to say, "I overheard this conversation somebody else was having and it made me think about how, after the overthrow, they tried to ban Hawaiians from speaking their language. And how cruel that is since language is one of the most important facets of a culture."

He intently watches me, hanging onto every word as he always does. The ease in which he sits on the sofa he once spent so much time in feels so casual that, for a moment, I forget about everything that happened between us. As if our hearts had never been anchored down to a treacherous abyss full of guilty consciences and explosive secrets.

"I think I want to sign up for those classes at UH," I tell him. The images of flicking through the website the other night by only the light of the moon rush back to me. "I want to...I don't know, do more to feel connected to my culture. I know it would make my dad happy."

Zachariah places his mug down on the coffee table. Barely touched, somehow the steam still rises above. Without putting much thought into it, I rest mine right next to his.

"I think that's a good idea," he replies. "If it's something that'll make both of you happy, I don't see why not."

My fingers tug at the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch. There's a red stain on the corner from where Zachariah once spilled sriracha sauce after an argument over taco night. I complained about him using it after just seconds before taking out all of the jalapeño bits I'd sprinkled over top.

"Listen, before all of this ends," he waves his hand in the air, gesturing to the two of us, "I just want to make sure you know how proud I am of you. I know you've always struggled with your identity and even just talking about it. And even if the day didn't end exactly the way you thought it would, you accomplished something huge and it's worth being proud of. All of it. Everything that's led you to this day."

Because I can barely accept artificial compliments, let alone declarations of pride, I squirm beneath his thoughtful gaze. "I'm only here because all of you encouraged me to always be myself. I couldn't have done any of it without you."

"No, this was all you, Alexandra. Everything about the woman you are today is because you've always pursued the challenge, and fought to find solace. You've always been your biggest worst enemy but when push comes to shove, you prove yourself wrong every time."

I sit there in silence because I'm unsure of how to respond. The words thrown at me have been building up over the years, and all I can do is watch them unravel. The sweet melody of these confessions, strewn together with love and devotion.

Zachariah Kim is not my star-crossed lover. There is nothing magical about what we are. Nothing worthy of having stories being told about us.

Except that he's my guiding star; my steady true north. The magic of our love rests not in fantastical elements of great storytelling, but in the way we always find our way back to each other. In every lifetime, if there is such a thing, we come back to each other because the way he's looking at me right now makes the beating in my chest accelerate until I nearly feel burst out of me. If peace is what I seek in life, the comfort I feel sitting next to him means everything.

When the word vomit keeps flowing out of him, I sit there and let him, even though I know one day doesn't make up for two years of telling myself we could never be. I'm not a changed woman overnight, nor is he a changed man, and we are not us without our hesitations.

"Watching you stand there with Kawika and all the others, I couldn't help it. I stood there in awe because I've never been more proud of someone in my life. That I get to see you and watch you grow and become who I've always known you were meant to be is the biggest fluke in life because what have I ever done to deserve you."

The air rushes out of me. Fight or flight should kick in, to give in or run away, but I remain stuck. Frozen in time, hanging on for a moment to carry on forever.

"I know we said we would be friends but fucking hell, Alex, I can't just sit there and pretend like I don't love you anymore. Not when the only thing I want to do is make sure you get every ounce of happiness you deserve."

When he leans forward and kisses me, I don't pull away even though I know the rhythm of my heart still beats unsteadily. I'm selfish and weak, so I take a deep breath and pull him into me, grasping onto his hair like holding him is the only thing that'll keep me afloat.

His hands shake when they hold my face like he knows this moment is as delicate as trying to catch smoke with bare hands.

In the very next, he folds. Caving to the fears that plagued him from the moment he stepped foot in my apartment. He clutches at me for dear life, and when the tear slips down his cheek, I know how far the reach of my cruelty extends.

"Don't," he whispers frantically. "Don't pull away from me."

"I can't give you what you want, Zach. Not right now. Not the way you want or deserve."

"We can do this." His thumb brushes along my jawline, across the bottom of my lip, committing these features to memory so he can relive this moment after it ends. "I promise."

If only I could explain to him why saying yes is so hard, except that the answer comes difficult even to me. When a seed of self-hatred buries itself so deep into my core that I deny myself the acceptance of being loved, one day of hope doesn't change that overnight. And when I spend my entire life trying to remove any resemblance to a mother that betrayed my family, saying yes is nearly impossible.

After pulling away and telling him how sorry I am for not doing the right thing, he walks out the door once again. Not in a fit of rage or uncontrollable passion, but in a steady calm that terrifies me as much as the defeated look on his face.

It's not fair to play this game anymore, so I don't blame him when I recognize the defeat he exhibits is much deeper than before. In the calmest of surrenders, we realize how much we've truly lost.

It seems like a cruel trick life is playing on me, but she's the first person I call because, truthfully, she's the only one who understands the war raging in my heart.

"Alex?" Emmie answers, the dull roar of the protest beating on in the background. The noise fades as if she's just now leaving. "Did you make it home okay?"

"I need to leave," I exhale deeply. "I need to leave now."

Her tone shifts, her steps quickening in the background. "Leave where? What's going on?"

I close my eyes and feel the adrenaline from earlier picking up again, this time more chaotic, leaving me struggling to breathe. "Out of this apartment. Off this island. I just need to get away from this place."

There's a pause on the other end as she stops. The sounds around her have faded at this point, so the only noise filling my ears is white and scratchy.

"Okay, okay," she stutters. "That's okay. I'll figure it out. I'll be right there, okay?"

As I slide down onto the ground, the coffee table knocking against my knees, I mutter "I love you, you know that?"

"Always."