Still Her

The conference badge around Jaleesa’s neck felt heavier than usual. Maybe it was the lanyard digging into her skin, or maybe it was the weight of the room itself—the hum of hallway chatter, the smell of too much coffee, the constant pulse of “networking.” She was scheduled to speak on a panel about culturally responsive teaching in thirty minutes, but instead of reviewing her notes, she was roaming the vendor booths like she had nowhere to be.

That’s when she saw her. Or rather—she felt her first. That unmistakable energy. Like a song you hadn’t heard in years but still knew every lyric to.

Shauna.

She stood across the room at a table for a social justice curriculum publisher, flipping through a stack of poetry anthologies. She looked almost exactly the same—sleek locs pulled into a high ponytail, a soft camel cardigan draped over her arm, and that same wrist tattoo peeking out under her watch: Blessed. The air around her still bent in her direction.

And beside her—holding her hand—was a woman. Tall. Well-dressed. They were laughing.

Jaleesa froze. She had imagined running into Shauna again maybe a hundred different ways, but this wasn’t one of them. Not with a woman on her arm. Not with Jaleesa about to speak in a room full of strangers, pretending her heart wasn’t catching in her throat.

Shauna looked up mid-laugh—and locked eyes with her. For a split second, nothing moved. Then a blink. Then that small, almost imperceptible smile—the one that used to unravel Jaleesa in bed, in bookstores, in silence. Shauna said something to the woman, let go of her hand gently, and started toward her.

Jaleesa didn’t move.

“Jae.” The nickname landed like a piano chord.

“Hey,” Jaleesa replied, her voice steady despite the storm in her chest. They stood face to face, surrounded by laminated posters and sample lesson plans, and none of it mattered. Jaleesa looked at her—really looked at her—and felt the ache of familiarity. The kind that wasn’t dulled by time, only sharpened by distance.

“I saw your name on the speaker list,” Shauna said. “Didn’t believe it at first. But here you are.”

“Here I am.”

Shauna’s eyes softened. “You look... like yourself. Teaching still suits you.”

“So does D.C.,” Jaleesa said, nodding toward the badge clipped to Shauna’s belt. “National Equity Coalition.” she didn't need to ask. It was the position Shauna had chased three years ago - the one Jaleesa hadn't fit into.

Shauna’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before the woman appeared. Just behind her. Smiling, but measured.

“Oh—Jaleesa,” Shauna said quickly, her voice shifting. “This is Ava, my girlfriend. Ava, this is Dr. Jaleesa Allen. We... went to grad school together.”

Ava extended her hand, polite and firm. “Nice to meet you. I don’t think Shauna has mentioned you before, but it's always good to meet her old colleagues.”

Jaleesa smiled through it. “Thanks. It’s good to meet you.”

The three of them stood there for a moment, the silence dressed in tension no one wanted to name. Shauna broke it. “You’re speaking on the ‘Representation and Resistance’ panel, right?”

“Yeah,” Jaleesa nodded. “In about... twenty-five minutes.”

“I’ll be there,” Shauna said, a little too quickly. Ava glanced at her.

Jaleesa gave a careful smile. “Well. I should head that way.”

“Of course,” Shauna said, her voice dropping just a notch. “Break a leg.”

Jaleesa turned, walking toward the escalator, resisting the urge to look back. But as she reached the top, she felt it again—that feeling she hadn’t been able to write out, work out, or move on from.

Still her.

**************************************************************************************************

The applause from her panel still echoed in her ears, but Jaleesa wasn’t thinking about pedagogy or equity. She was thinking about Shauna. About the moment their eyes met. About the calm way she introduced Ava—her girlfriend. The word was polite. Careful. Still, it stung.

She needed air. Instead of heading back to her apartment, she wandered a few blocks off-site to her favorite indie bookstore, Bound & Rooted, a hidden gem she’d discovered when she first moved to Atlanta. The shop was dim, cozy, and quiet—organized more like someone’s private library. The kind of place where poems breathed and memories lingered.

She ran her fingers along the spines of the “Black Feminist Thought” shelf when the bell above the door jingled.

She didn’t need to turn around. Her perfume had a way of introducing itself.

Shauna.

The footsteps were soft but deliberate. When she finally did glance over, Shauna stood at the edge of the poetry section. She had just pulled a copy of a bell hooks poetry collection from the shelf, her fingers tracing the cover.

“I thought I might find you here,” she said.

Jaleesa forced a half-smile. “Still predictable, huh?”

Shauna gave a shrug. “You always find the quiet corners.” A moment passed before she spoke again. “I didn’t know you moved, Jae. When did that happen?”

Jaleesa returned to the shelf, not ready to make it easy. “Moved here six months after you left. I needed a fresh start. Orlando held too many memories.”

Shauna stepped closer. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” she added quietly.

“But you stayed for the panel.” Jaleesa finally turned to look at her.

Shauna exhaled. “I had to. I mean—look at you. Owning that room. Your voice… it always had weight, Jae. I just never knew how heavy it could be until it wasn’t around anymore.”

The bookstore air shifted. Jaleesa tried not to blush. Shauna had always been her biggest supporter. She turned, her voice low and steady. “You left. You took that job, packed your things, and left me on read for two months. Then you called it timing. Said we ‘outgrew’ the version of us that worked. But you never asked if I agreed.”

Shauna blinked. “I didn’t know how to stay.”

“No,” Jaleesa snapped softly. “You just knew how to run and make it sound poetic.”

The words hung between them. Shauna lowered her gaze. “I didn’t come here to hurt you again,” she said. “I came because I heard your voice today—and it broke me a little. You still carry that same fire. And I—I miss the warmth of it.”

Jaleesa looked away, eyes burning. “You don’t get to say that. Not after building a life with someone else.”

Shauna stepped closer, gently now. “I didn’t build what we had. I found safety. That’s different.”

Jaleesa swallowed hard. “So why are you here?”

Shauna held up the book, then lowered it. “Because I never got to say I’m sorry. For leaving the way I did. For not giving you closure. And maybe ... maybe I needed to see if something in you still reached for me.”

Jaleesa’s voice cracked despite her efforts. “Of course it did. I loved you. I still…”

She stopped herself.

Shauna stepped in even closer now, eyes searching hers. “Then tell me to walk away, Jae. Tell me it’s too late.”

Jaleesa’s hands trembled slightly as she placed a book back on the shelf. “I can’t tell you that,” she whispered.

A long silence passed. Finally, Shauna reached out, fingers brushing Jaleesa’s hand. Not a grab. Not a plea. Just presence.

“I don’t know what this means,” Jaleesa said quietly. “But I know I’m tired of carrying the ghost of you around.”

“Then let me be real again,” Shauna said. “Even if it’s just for this moment.”

Jaleesa looked at Shauna’s hand, then back at the shelf. The air in the bookstore suddenly felt too thick, too full of things that couldn't be fixed by a conversation between the stacks. She realized that being "real" for a moment wasn't enough to bridge three years of silence and an introduction to a girlfriend named Ava.

“I can’t do this right now,” Jaleesa said, her voice barely a whisper.

Before Shauna could respond, Jaleesa turned. She walked quickly towards the front of the store, pushed through the front door, and let the bell jingle one last time behind her. She didn't stop moving until the humid Atlanta night air swallowed her whole. The old feelings came rushing back. Who was she kidding? They never left. And it didn’t matter that Shauna had found someone else. For Jaleesa, it was still her.

She didn't head back to the hotel; she drove the familiar route to her apartment—the one with the view of the skyline that usually brought her peace.

*******************************************************************************************

[Audio: Low, soulful lo-fi beat fades in—the signature theme of The Dope Soul Podcast]

“Peace and light, everybody. You’re tuned into The Dope Soul. I’m your host, Jaleesa. I’m coming to you a little late tonight because, to be honest, I just spent the last twenty minutes walking until my lungs burned. I was trying to outrun a conversation that ended before it even started.

Tonight’s episode is about second chances. Or maybe it’s about closure. Or maybe it’s just about that one person who stays with you, even when they’re gone.

Have you ever had somebody whose name still lives in your mouth—even after years? Who shows up in your dreams, in songs you forgot you loved, in poems you wrote before you knew you were writing about them? Yeah. That kind of person.

[Audio: The beat drops out, leaving only the weight of Jaleesa’s voice]

Sometimes love doesn’t end with doors slamming or voices raised.

It ends in the stillness.

The unanswered texts.

The distance that stretches until you can’t call it love anymore—just history.

And sometimes it ends with a bell jingling on a bookstore door while you walk away because staying would cost you too much of yourself.

Have you ever had a love that didn’t get a goodbye? A story that ended mid-sentence? Well then this is for you. For the ones still replaying the last line, hoping it’ll land softer this time. For the ones who had to keep living with the echo.

Here’s what I’ve learned: You don’t always get the final chapter you want. But sometimes, you get a page that lets you breathe again. And that’s enough. Maybe closure isn’t slamming the door. Maybe it’s walking out of a bookstore with nothing in your hands… but your own peace.

So wherever you are tonight—be well. Protect your light. And remember: Being a dope soul doesn’t mean you don’t feel it. It means you face it. See you next time.”

[Audio: Theme music swells for five seconds, then fades to silence]

************************************************************************************************

Shauna sat at the edge of her hotel bed, earbuds in, the Dope Soul logo pulsing on her screen. She hadn’t known about the show until a colleague mentioned it after the panel. Now there she was—listening. Jaleesa’s voice filled the room, rich and unflinching, every word landing a little too close to home.

She had told Ava she needed an hour of quiet to prepare for the morning, a small lie to buy herself the solitude she didn't realize she was craving until she saw Jaleesa. Now, the silence of the empty hotel room felt heavy. She stood quietly and walked out onto the balcony. The humid Atlanta air hit her like a memory.

Shauna looked at the screen of the podcast player. At the bottom, a small button pulsed: Leave a Voice Message for the Host. She took a breath, her thumb hovering over the record icon. She thought about the "safety" she had found with Ava and the "fire" she had just walked away from in the bookstore.

She pressed the button.

A small, rhythmic pulse appeared on the screen, catching the sound of the distant city traffic. Shauna cleared her throat, the sound sharp in the quiet night air. The beep sounded.

“Jae,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the city. “It’s Shauna.”