“How could I have risked so much for a lost little girl who probably needs as much therapy as I do?” He tilts his head, eyes going unfocused. “Well, that’s not possible.” He laughs again, but this time it’s so self-deprecating it feels like my anger has nowhere else to go. “No one needs as much therapy as I do.”

“I am a Medium, born from the earth. I am Bloodcrafted, born from resilience. I am Arthur, Awakened!”

“I thought Nicholas was amazing. He was everything I wasn’t: bright, open, popular. Heroic. He made it all look so easy. Still does. I wanted to be close to that.” He sighs softly. “Probably why I fell in love with him.”

Do you feel something when I look at you?”

This is a symptom of the type of grief you’re experiencing too: an inability to process that a person is more than their absence. That love is about more than loss.”

I feel the tingling sensation of Sel’s gaze, but I can’t find him in the crowd. He knows I can feel his attention now. I don’t know how I feel about that. Or the fact that, even though he knows I can feel him, he’s still looking at me.

Growing up Black in the South, it’s pretty common to find yourself in old places that just… weren’t made for you. Maybe it’s a building, a historic district, or a street. Some space that was originally built for white people and white people only, and you just have to hold that knowledge while going about your business.

How does he do it? How does this boy navigate my emotions like a seasoned sailor, finding the clear skies and bringing them closer, when all I seem able to do is hold fast to the storms?

“My brother Lancelot. My right hand. Camlann has come.”