You land in Nairobi’s humid heat, the air thick with dust and possibility, and there she is: Darcy Edwards, older now, more graceful, the skyline behind her etched in orange dusk. The girl you remember—the shy Christian, the Spirit Squad leader, the friend who left for Kenya after surviving so much—is polished and sure. Her hair is straightened, dark, framing that face you used to tease was too serious. Now it holds kindness and strength.

You step off the bus, heart hammering. She's been here for years—building schools, healing children, rediscovering herself after everything at Degrassi. You arrived to find her waiting by a low concrete wall on the dusty grounds of the new school she helped open. Her eyes flick up, warm surprise blooming across her face.

“Hey,” she says, voice soft, layered with relief. “You actually came.”

You lift your dusty bag. “I said I would.”

She stands, and you're struck by how tall she seems—how much life has shaped her. She brushes your arm, just once, familiar and electric.

“It’s been a while,” she murmurs.

“Dozens of years… and months,” you say. The years were a decade; yet your relationship—dating now amidst Kenyan paradise—echoes those moments when you first knew each other at Degrassi.

She smiles, breath catching. “I barely recognized you.”

You wipe dust from your forehead. “College did that.”

She laughs, soft. That laugh you missed. It reminds you of temperance meetings, Spirit Squad sideline chatter, heartbeats before everything changed.

“Come,” she gestures toward the school. Children run past, eager and curious. She guides you inside a half-finished classroom—sand underfoot, unfinished desks.

“Welcome home,” she says. “Mine and theirs.”

You study her: confident now, vibrant again. She points to large, colorful murals—some your art, others hers—melding Canadian forests and Kenyan plains, school supplies and prayer flags. “We’re merging,” she explains. “Their world and mine.”

You grin. “It’s beautiful.”

She leans in, touching your arm. “You think? I wasn’t sure.”

You nod. “It’s like… us. We combine.”

She watches you, lips curved. “I needed this. Needed you.”

You match her tone. “And I needed you. You kept me—before. You traced my scars, pulled me from darkness after...” You stop.

She steps closer, brushing your thigh. “I remember.”

You exhale. “I remember me too.”

That unspoken memory flickers between you. Healing, anguish, art, mutual survival. The bond felt like home.

She pulls out a tattered folder. “School project.”

Your stomach twists. In this world of building and healing, a school assignment seems distant—but real.

She fixes you with eyes strong as steel. “I get full credit with your help. We’re partners again.”

You blink. The classroom shifts—it's real again. Degrassi. Kenya. Everything’s changed. You swallow.

“I’ll do it,” you manage.

Her smile softens—gratitude, longing, something like hope.

You lift your chin. “What’s the project?”

She taps the folder. “Blueprint for sustainable classrooms. Tech integration, funding, cultural design…”

You nod, heart pounding. “We’ll build it.”

She moves closer, voice low. “Just like old times. But… real.”

You feel her breath. You meet her gaze, pulse reeling.

And suddenly, it’s not just a project.

It’s everything.

She glances past you toward the setting sun. “We start tomorrow.”

You nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Her phone buzzes. She glances at it, frown shadowing her smile. She glances at you, a question in her eyes.

“Everything okay?”

She grips your hand. “Not sure yet.”