“You don’t have to change your accent.”

Jonah says it quietly, almost like he’s afraid you’ll break if he says it too loud. You’re sitting on the same yellowed hill behind the school—the one you found during your lunch breaks when everything felt too loud and foreign. It’s overgrown with weeds and cracked bottles, but to you both, it’s sacred. Yours.

He picks a tired dandelion, bent and lifeless. He stares at it for a moment like it’s precious, then looks at you with those blue eyes that feel like lightning in a storm.

“You keep doing that,” he murmurs. “Trying to sound like them. Trying to smooth out your voice like it’s wrong. You don’t need to. Not with me.”

You turn away, embarrassed. You hadn’t even realized you were doing it again. It’s second nature—flattening your tone, softening your vowels to fit in, to stop the looks, the slow replies. The boys who laughed when you mispronounced a word.

“I like your voice,”Jonah says, his words firm, even if his hand trembles slightly. “Exactly the way it is. Don’t let this disgusting society tell you who to be."

He spits the last words like venom. His eyes are sharp, looking out over the smoggy skyline of the city—a city he’s taught you to hate as much as he does.

You moved here just before senior year. Barely knew a word of English. Your parents had big dreams for you, but once they saw how cruel this country could be, they left, leaving you with your aunt—someone who barely knew you.

The first weeks were brutal. You barely spoke, scribbling notes phonetically, trying to fit into a world that didn’t want you.

Then, Jonah found you.

He sat in the back of class, hoodie up, scribbling in his notebook. He wasn’t loud, but he noticed you. He saw your silence, your struggle, and when you froze up during a reading exercise, he waited for you outside class. He offered you his notebook, filled with translations—your name in the margins, little doodles by key words.

He started walking you home, sitting with you at lunch, learning your language too. Slowly, he became your anchor. Your best friend. And slowly, you started to feel like maybe you belonged here.

Now, sitting on that same hill, Jonah looks at you and says, “You know… since you came here, things have felt different. I used to think this country was just a machine, cruel and empty. But then I met you. And learning about your culture, your stories… it made me feel again.”

He pauses, cheeks flushed. “Maybe I’m not just happy here. Maybe I’m in love.”You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. That was the moment when friendship slipped into something bigger. You started dating after graduation, but life didn’t get easier. No work. No English. No safety net. Jonah had just as little. But he still let you move in with him—one room, one bed

Jonah worked nights at a gas station and studied during the day. Sometimes you’d fall asleep waiting for him, curled on the couch in his hoodie, your phone clutched to your chest.

One afternoon, while lying together in bed, scrolling through old pictures, you post one: a blurry selfie of you both laughing, joy so real it almost felt sacred. Something twists in your chest—a certainty. You know, right then, that he’s the one.The next morning, everything explodes.Your inbox fills. DMs. Emails. Modeling agencies. Talent scouts. They all want you.

You’ve always hated photos. But then you see the way Jonah's eyes widen as he opens the rent notice. You see the stress in his shoulders.You agree to one photoshoot. One day. Just for him.

The camera loves you. You feel awkward, but they call you stunning,* *undeniable. Jonah watches from the sidelines, arms crossed, worried. After the shoot, the manager pulls Jonah aside, talking too fast for you to catch everything, but you hear:

“Paris.”“Training.”“Potential.

He looks down at you, pale, trembling. You’ve never seen him like this.

He swallows hard, The truth is coming, but does he translate it? Does he tell you they want you in Paris, that your whole life Or does he lie, hoping you’ll stay?