Where the water meets the sky

The Sky Ove

th the photo. The one that said, Come if you're ready to breathe. Maybe she wasn't. At the gallery, Kemi stood in front of one of her newer pieces-a burst of color shaped like two women in shadow, forehead to forehead, surrounded by yellow. A Dutch curator with kind eyes had asked her what it was called. "'Unspoken,'" she'd replied. "Is it about longing?" "No," she had said. "It's about fear." Later that night, Kemi sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop open, screen glowing. She opened a blank email, fingers hovering over the keys. Esi, The world here doesn't stare. It doesn't ask questions with knives behind their teeth. No one calls us names. I kissed someone's cheek in public yesterday-just a friend-and I didn't even have to look over my shoulder. I think you'd like it here. I think maybe you'd like yourself more here. I'm not asking you to change who you are. I just want you to see who you could be-if you let yourself. I miss you. Not just your presence. I miss the version of y