I catch the Nerium flower on his wrist and am reminded of my name scattered across his arm. I feel him looking at me when I’m looking at his creations. There’s an object shaped like a cow, a pink bow on her head—Lottie. There’s Hina, Rhys, Kat, and Shaan—all determined by their repeated outfits.
Then there’s Dean, wearing a black shirt with a green hairpin drawn over his breast.
And me, wearing the emerald dress that brought us here.
He clicks a small light inside of the theatre and begins talking while moving the figurines with each word:
“There once lived a young boy who lived on a ranch not too farfrom here. Carefree, funny, full of sarcasm. He thought their family’s ranch was paradise until he grew up and his father lost half their land gambling and turned to alcohol. The little boy had to step up and become a man. He worked twice as hard, made as much money as he could—working at the farm, then the local pub when he could—and gave it to his mom and brothers. He never knew what was going on at home until he heard his mother scream and found his dad dead on the ground—his brother holding a knife that caused it. The man saw himself in his brother and took the blame, marking blood on his body, tainting the knife with his touch, and letting his family know he’d be back. He sat in a room just like this one, broken, defenceless, and no one on his side. Until he heard her voice.
She came to court late. Eyes full of curiosity and optimism. She convinced the jury he was innocent. A young boy his age, taking care of the ranch and his family wouldn’t do what they thought he did. She stood strong despite the judge putting her down. She never sat, never cowered. She looked at him and smiled like he hadn’t lost his whole world. Years behind bars, he thought of the girl with a hopeful smile and held onto it. She wrote him a letter he read every morning and night, tattooed the precious star on his arm. He would survive this for his family, for all the hope that exists in the world. Life gave him good luck and he got out after four years. All had changed, from how his brothers saw him, to how his mother loved him. He no longer had a spot at the table. Until she came along again, her short hair grew to her back, eyes painted with colour, hands scarred with thorns, but her smile never changed. She didn’t recognize him and while he thought he’d be hurt, he wasn’t. She didn’t know who he was anymore, didn’t know the man in the dark. He felt that little boy again, the one who was forced to grow up. Instead, she made him feel like it was okay to not be the same anymore.
She gifted him a flower. Anemone, she calls it. He watered it every day, watched it the way she viewed the world. When the first stem surfaced, he found it in himself to wake up in the morning, to let his feet touch the ground, his hands feel the air, and his smile bless the mirror. Every week, she came by and offered him small flowers—most times they died even when he tried to plant them. But she told him that’s the beauty of flowers. They live long enough for a smile to be bestowed upon them. She’s the smile to his flower and instead of death, he was resurrected as someone worthy enough to bask in her presence.”
I blink heavily. Tears sit on my eyelashes, waiting for permission to fall, but I don’t let them. I can’t. The weight of his words settles into the sunray, dimming the sun like it’s incomparable to Dean. My lips part as I try to say something, to figure out if each movement of his fingers retells the truth he’s always wanted to say or if this is a moment that doesn’t exist yet. If I’m living in a scenario that’ll never happen.
For a long moment, we say nothing. He stares at me, I stare at him.
“I’ve never said these words before. Not to my mom, not to my brothers, not to myself. But I’ll say them to you because it’s yours to take.” Dean drops his toy theatre and rounds the table to stand toe-to-toe. “I love you, Nova Rivera. One day when the sun rises from the west and the world collapses into ash, loving you will be the good deed that takes me to you.”
For a woman who never thought twice about love, I never knew how much hearing it would solidify my existence. I’m not a new plant, stemming with roots. I’m an old sycamore tree, battling every disease withered underground, trying to find the root that ties me to Dean. But here he is, a vision to behold, a sight that will never be undone. My first impression of him ceases to exist when he stands, offering allhis love to, for, and with me.
Hell and heaven is merely a suggestion when I’m loved by him.
It’s scratchy, imperfect, and utterly disgusting when I open my mouth and all that comes out is the sound of blubbering anguish. Dean’s there, holding me up. We’re mourning our pasts with this touch and welcoming the future with it too.
“I wasn’t looking for love.” I whisper it into his chest. His hands roam my back, mine over his chest—thethumpof his heart, an awakened beast that won’t hibernate until he hears the same words I heard from him. “Yet I found you like yesterday finds tomorrow.”
Merely pulling away, just enough to see the tendons in his neck, the pulse racketing around his veins, and his eyes glowing with longing. “I love you, Dean Vuk.”
It’s the words he needs to tighten his arms around me.
Our bodies sway in the definitions of love.
Nova and Dean.
Dean and Nova.
We’re the love story you’ll find hidden in-between bookshelves. The kind that’ll haunt you when you’re scrolling through dating apps or trying to move on from a breakup. Our story isn’t the story of hurt, suffering, or pain—but the type that’ll make you wonder what love truly is.
Dean and I are the beginning of all love stories and the end to none.
When we pull apart, he’s smiling ear-to-ear and I’m kissing his cheek.
A teasing glimmer folds over his lids, “Does this mean we can sleep in your room together?”
I’m laughing, pulling him into me.
“Shut up and kiss me, ogre.”
“As you wish, lovebird.”
Get a hobby,they said. It’ll be fun.
And as we kiss, I can say it’s the most fun I’ve ever had.
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER
