Page 277 of Sweet Nightmare

She doesn’t ask why I’m thanking her.

She knows.

Somehow this woman knows me more than I even know myself.

Afterwards, I keep showing her the record stores I used to frequent whenever I needed inspiration for my music, the tiny venues where I performed, and the markets where I spent hours listening to underground rappers battling over beats and making magic out of nothing.

She listens without interrupting, laughing when I tell her about my worst performances.

“This city taught me everything I needed to know about music and culture. The raw beauty of South Korea,” I tell her.

She goes silent and then, “I wish I’d known you then.”

I frown. “Why?”

“So you wouldn’t have had to do all of it alone.”

I stop walking.

Then I pull her into my arms, holding her against my chest as snow catches in her hair

“I’m glad you found me now,” I whisper.

She tightens her arms around me and whispers back. “Me too.”

“And this,” I announce as we turn a corner, “is where I used to rap in exchange for food.”

We reach a row of popular local food trucks, their colorful signs glowing against the dark night. The smell of grilled meat, sizzling onions, and spices fills the air, making my stomach growl. I still come here whenever I need a reminder of where I started, when the noise of fame gets too loud and I need something real to bring me back down to earth.

Artemis slows, her gaze sweeping over the trucks and then she suddenly stops.

I follow her line of sight to a brightly painted yellow truck with tiny frogs painted all over it and a Puerto Rican flag hanging beside the service window.

Her eyes light up.

“Mom is right, Boricuas really are everywhere,” she says with a soft, delighted laugh.

“Boricua?” I repeat, frowning.

She turns to me, looking almost surprised that I don’t know.

“Boricua is what Puerto Ricans call themselves. The name comes from Borikén, or Borinquen, the Indigenous Taíno name for Puerto Rico.”

“Oh.” I glance at the flag, then back at her. “You really like that side of you, huh?”

“I do.” Her smile turns softer, more thoughtful. “My Italian side, too. Both are a huge part of who I am. The food, the music, the traditions, the way we love our families.”

She’s not wrong. Both her cultures are loud, colorful, passionate, and unapologetically expressive. There’s always music somewhere, someone talking with their hands, someone laughing too loudly, and someone insisting you eat more even when you’re already full.

And then there’s my little glacier.

My beautiful, stubborn glacier, who seems personally offended by any color that isn’t white and treats excessive enthusiasm like a crime against humanity.

The contrast is fucking hilarious.

“Let’s eat.” I grab her hand and drag her to the Puerto Rican truck. The name is ‘Hasta En La Luna’, painted in white, blue and red, across the yellow exterior. A small speaker plays Reggaeton music, and the warm aroma of garlic, grilled meat, and fried plantains drifts from the open service window.

An Afro-Latina woman with long curls tied beneath a blue scarf looks up from the counter as soon as we reach her truck.