I don’t cry as I wheel my suitcase through the streets of Trois-Rivières, heading towards the bus station with the Maps app open on my phone. I don’t cry as I speak in garbled French to the counter attendant and get myself a ticket for the next bus back to Montreal. I don’t even cry as I stare out the window, watching the highway fly by, flanked by the same forests and fields JP and I passed not twenty-four hours ago.

No, I don’t cry. I’m not a girl who cries easily anymore.

When I step off the bus in Montreal, I don’t head home right away. I drag my suitcase along behind me, wandering through some quiet side streets in the Plateau. Everyone says this is the prettiest neighbourhood in Montreal. The houses all have quirky turrets and sculpted window frames painted in vibrant colours, rickety iron staircases spiraling up to the various units.

It’s also crawling with street art. I think that’s what drew me here today: the need to surround myself with something familiar, to get that old feeling of the city reaching out to say hello. I wander past some of my favourite murals, taking in the details of the brushstrokes, the carefully meditated use of colour, shadow, and light. I search for tags scrawled in alleyways and along the edges of high rises, their lines bold and defiant, scrawled in a hasty moment of impulse and courage.

I don’t spot the new hummingbird until I’m almost right underneath it, on a street lined with bare maple trees. The afternoon sunlight catches on the glass, making the tiny bird flash like a secret signal. I come to a stop in front of the street sign it’s attached to, staring up at the almost impossibly delicate glass beak dipping inside the red centre of the Montreal flower.

I stare for so long my hands start to go rigid with cold, even though they’re balled up in my coat pockets. I left my gloves in the hotel room.

I shiver, but I’m not ready to leave. I scan the street for somewhere to sit and spot a bench just across the road. There’s a girl about my age in a long coat and a cream-coloured head scarf sitting there, watching me watch the hummingbird. Normally I’d be embarrassed about being caught staring for so long. My mind would start reeling with worries about looking crazy, and I’d wheel my suitcase out of there as fast as I could.

Today I just cross the street and sit down next to her. Somehow, it isn’t awkward, but I still feel the need to speak.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, tipping my chin towards the street sign.

She nods. “I’ve been sitting her for awhile. You’re the first person who’s looked up at it.”

I let out a little laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me. They’re hard to spot, if you don’t know what you’re looking for. There are a few birds like that around the city.”

Another nod. “I know.”

“Are you...into street art?” I ask.

She grins. “Yeah, I guess you could say I am.”

“I just walked by that Five Eight mural. Do you know it? It’s the one with that girl looking up at the sky. She’s got this long hair, and there’s a neon sign...”

I trail off, realizing I might be gushing too much.

“I know it,” the girl replies. “I love the lighting in that one, the way it hits the side of her face. It’s like you can hear the neon buzzing.”

We launch into a full-on street art discussion after that. This girl knows her stuff. She doesn’t just recognize the pieces I describe; she can name the artists and their backgrounds, and lists off other paintings they’ve done. We move on from talking about Montreal artists and mention some of our favourites from abroad. We’ve got almost creepily similar tastes, and we both get sort of frantic with the excitement of finding someone who shares our enthusiasm.

“I think I like installations best, though,” I admit, gesturing back at the hummingbird. “It’s the way they turn ordinary things into art. They make you look at the world around you differently. Plus, there’s usually this...air of mystery around them. Like, how did someone even do that? How do you just drill a hole in a street sign and not get caught?”

The girl shrugs. “You’re right; it is mysterious. Why do you think they picked a hummingbird?”

“Hmm.”

I tap my chin while I think, and I realize it’s a habit I picked up from JP. I immediately drop my hand into my lap, doing my best to ignore the sudden shockwave of heartache that rattles through my chest.

“Well, aside from the whole flower thing, I guess maybe...because they’re fragile? It’s so unusual to see glass in street art, especially a breakable little ornament like that. Maybe that’s the point? To make people wonder at how delicate the piece is?”

“Maybe.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Hummingbirds aren’t just fragile, though. They’re amazingly strong. They have bigger flight muscles than any other bird, and they have one of the fastest metabolisms on the planet. When they migrate, they sometimes fly for twenty hours without stopping. They’re also extremely fierce. They’ll even attack things like blue jays or crows if they feel like they’re territory is threatened.”

I blink at her in surprise. “You...You sure know your hummingbird facts.”

She lets out a soft, musical-sounding laugh. “They’re my favourite bird. I like how they...defy expectations, you know?”

There’s a weird, Twilight Zone kind of feeling in the air now. I feel like my subconscious has just realized something and is waiting for the rest of my brain to catch up.

“I should get going,” the girl tells me. “It’s been really lovely talking to you. Really. I’m happy you noticed the piece.”

“Me too,” I reply, “and it’s been lovely talking to you, as well. I didn’t expect to learn any new bird facts today. I’m Molly, by the way.”

She shakes the hand I offer. “Zara. Nice to meet you.”

She gets up, stuffing her gloved hands into the pockets of her long coat. When she’s a few metres down the street, she turns back around to face me.

“Hey, Molly?”

“Yeah?” I call.

“I put them up in broad daylight. I just wear a construction vest, and nobody bats an eye. Most people don’t pay attention like you. Keep on...defying expectations, okay?”

I’m too stunned to say anything as she laughs that silvery laugh again and continues on down the street. I realize what my subconscious was trying to tell me; it figured out who she was as soon as she started talking about the hummingbird.

I sit there for a long time, watching people pass under the street sign across the road without ever looking up. My body gets colder with each passing minute, but inside, my heart is beginning to thaw. I had to let it freeze over before I could walk away from JP. I had to shut off all the fears and doubts and longing in order to convince myself I was doing the right thing, but now they swell in my ears.

He asked me to be his friend, and I left him alone in a hotel. He asked me to wait for him, and I walked out. The guilt and the dread are like a double slap across the face. I thought that I was making the right choice, that I had to give him the push of me leaving, but what if all I did was abandon him when he needed me most?

The realization goes down with a chaser of outrage. He abandoned me first. He tried to back out of something there’s no going back from. I opened myself to him, and when it really counted, all he did was shut me out. He doesn’t trust me, and he doesn’t trust himself. I know he has it in him to do both those things, but he might never realize it.

I thought that when I left today, he’d eventually find the courage to follow, even if it took him awhile, but he might not be coming after me at all.

The sun has sunk low enough that it’s blocked by a building, plunging the street into shadow and making me feel even colder than I already am. I get up and grab my suitcase, hurrying the rest of the way home. When I finally make it back to my place, Stéphanie isn’t home. I boil some water for tea—mostly just so I can hold the mug to warm my hands, and then I fire up my laptop, sending a video call request off to Justine.

She answers after a few rings, even though the call is unexpected.

“Hey,” I say, once her pixelated face pops up on the screen.

She blinks at me a few times. “What happened?”

Between all my work with Metro and her crazy prep for exams, we haven’t had much of a chance to talk lately. She doesn’t even know about the job offer. It takes me awhile to get her filled in on everything that’s happened since the Sherbrooke Station concert. I almost break my vow to keep the tears from falling a few times, but I make it to the end with shaky breaths and dry eyes.

“I don’t know what to do,” I admit. “I don’t know what happens next.”

“You keep going,” she says firmly. “You’re on a fucking role, Molly Myers, and as hard as it is, you did the right thing today when you walked away. If he’s not willing to try, you can’t force him. You have to keep building yourself into the best person you can be, and hope that maybe one day he catches up.”

“But I miss him,” I whisper, so quietly I don’t know if my microphone picks it up. “It’s only been a few hours, and I miss him so much.”

Justine’s face softens. “I know.”

My darkest, weakest fear spills out. “He helped me become this new, brave person. What if I can’t be that person without him?”

“Um, Molly.” She stares at me for the length of her dramatic pause. “He got you a job interview. That’s it. Actually, he didn’t even get you an interview; he found the artwork you made that got you a job interview. This process you’ve been going through lately isn’t because of him. You’ve always been brave. Hell, you moved all the way to Montreal even when you were so shy you could barely buy yourself a metro ticket. You’re just finding more ways to let that bravery show now, and no boy is enough to be responsible for your courage. It’s all you.”

Deep down, I know she’s right. I always knew. It still makes me feel better to hear her say it out loud, though.

“Thank you, Justine, Queen of the Scene.”

She adjusts an imaginary crown on her head.

“I’m scared to take the job,” I admit. “Even putting aside the apocalypse it’s going to cause with my mother, if things with JP stay like this...I mean, he’s there all the time. I’ll work on stuff for his band. I told him I didn’t want to see him again. It will be so awkward—”

“Molly,” Justine growls.

I take a deep breath, bringing the train of thought to a halt.

Defy expectations.

I set my jaw. “Okay, you’re right. Somebody else can feel awkward for a change.”

“That’s my Hot Tamale.” Justine grins. “Let that situation be his problem. I think you should take the job. In fact, I will personally hack your email account and send in your acceptance if you don’t.”

“How would you hack my email account?” I demand.

“I mean, it would be pretty easy, considering I know your password.”

I scoff. “No you don’t.”

“Yes I do,” she argues. “I bet you haven’t changed it. I bet it’s still Ace Turner’s Abs Six Nine Six Nine.”

I cough.

“HA!” she crows.

I mean, he might be my roommate’s boyfriend and I might be over my massive crush, but the man still has the body of a god. We laugh together for a moment before we fade into silence. I’m the one who finally breaks it.

“I know I have to keep going,” I tell her, “and I’m ready to do it. I want to do it, but no matter what, being without him...It hurts. It hurts so fucking much already.”

“I know.” She nods a few times. “It’s probably going to hurt for awhile. I’m here for you though, okay?”

“Okay.”

My voice cracks, and so does my resolve. A single tear spills from the corner of my eye and down my cheek.

“You can cry, you know,” Justine says quietly. “You can cry about it and still be strong.”

So I do. I curl up on my bed with my records and photos and artwork around me, with my best friend beside me on a screen. I cry for the things I walked away from today, and for the fear that I may never have them again.