The call came in like they always do with her—out of nowhere, with the subtlety of a lit match in a fireworks store. Makayla doesn’t preface. She doesn’t build suspense. She just kicks the door in with her voice and waits for the world to catch up.

“Wanna go to Atlanta?”

She said it like we were talking about grabbing ice cream or taking a walk around the block. No backstory. No agenda. Just Atlanta. Just me and her.

And I, in typical fashion, said, “Yeah, when?”—knowing damn well this wasn’t going to be something reasonable.

And it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. It never is.

She waited a beat—just long enough for me to think maybe she was joking. Then:
“How about tomorrow?”

The silence on my end lasted maybe a second and a half, but it felt like the entire weight of who I’ve become compressed into one sharp inhale. The part of me that lives for this shit woke up from her nap, cracked her knuckles, and practically shoved my rational brain out of the way.

“Challenge accepted,” I said, and I said it out loud, not just to her, but to the air, the moment, the damn universe itself—like I was daring the whole world to throw something bigger at me. Like I was still some half-feral, myth-wrapped version of myself that used to run toward sirens, not away from them.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? You spend enough time surviving, and you forget that you were once built for more than just holding it together.

I packed in ten minutes flat. Threw jeans, a hoodie, and my Leica in a bag that still smells like smoke and metal from my past life. Told Amelia where I was headed, kissed her cheek, and promised not to die or get arrested. She just smirked and said, “Text me when you land.” That woman gets me like nobody else.

By the next morning, we were in Atlanta, standing in the humidity like we belonged there. I hadn’t slept. Makayla hadn’t shut up since Vermont. Everything felt unhinged in the best possible way. We ordered greasy food, made fun of everyone’s shoes, and talked about heartbreak like it was a shared language.

And then she did it again.

“We should go to Nashville next.”

This time I didn’t even blink. I pulled out my phone, booked the flight, and paid extra for two first class airline seats.

No one tells you how good it feels to just go. Not to plan. Not to overthink. Just—go. To hell with itineraries. To hell with stability. Stability never wrote a good story anyway.

We’ve been bored before. We’ve done the safe route. We’ve waited on other people to catch up, to approve, to give us permission. Not anymore. Not this time. And certainly never again in my lifetime.

There’s a reason she calls me when it’s time to light a match. I’m the one who never needs a reason. I’m the one who says yes before she’s even heard the whole question.

I think I always wanted to be the kind of woman who could be summoned with chaos and coffee. Who shows up in a denim jacket smelling like gasoline and answers every dare with her middle finger and a smile.

I don’t know what we’ll find in Nashville. I don’t care. This isn’t about destinations. It never was. It’s about remembering that I’m still her—rescue girl, dark horse, the woman who built herself from ashes and wire and whispered truths. The one who never needed a map because she was the map.

Sometimes resurrection looks like a last-minute trip to Atlanta. Sometimes salvation comes in the shape of a woman who says “tomorrow” like it’s a lifeline. Sometimes, the only thing between you and the version of yourself you thought you’d lost is the courage to say, “Challenge accepted.”

Emily—