Leaving Nova behind in that desert town…     God, it still sits heavy.     That cracked road, the sand in the wind, the way she waved with her whole heart —     and I didn’t even look back.
I felt like I was running for my life.     Not from her, but from the place.     That small little town in Nevada, with its quiet streets and long silences,     was swallowing me whole.
And the truth is…     I was afraid.     Afraid that if I didn’t leave, I’d disappear.     But also afraid that Nova…     needed me too much.     That I’d become the air she breathed —     and I didn’t know how to live with that kind of responsibility.
Maybe that fear was part of the reason I had to go.     Not because I didn’t love her —     but because I did.     And staying would’ve made me smaller.     And if I shrank enough, I couldn’t help her either.
So I left.     Took the Greyhound east,     watched the sky change colors behind me     and landed in New York —     in a shoebox apartment in the East Village     where the walls had ears and the pipes hummed like dying jazz horns.
The city never slept.     And neither did I.
I played in bars for crowds too drunk to listen.     Sang songs that meant everything to me     and nothing to them.
But it kept me alive.     The rhythm.     The grind.     The ache of trying.
And then I met someone.     She was kind.     Soft in the way Nova used to be when we were kids     and the world still felt full of time.
She reminded me of nowhere.     Of dust.     Of quiet dreams whispered in sunlit rooms.
But she wasn’t Nova.     And she never would be.

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Jessica Bravura (Aphmau)

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