She dreamed once again that her soul turned into a bird – a swallow or, maybe, a nightingale. Her curtains were open and it flew away, away from her and the city, to the east, to the ocean, to sit on his windowsill and sing him about her freedom.

But its wings were too weak.

It was always quiet. 

His breathing was ragged on her cheek and she turned her face to inhale warm air from his lungs with almost sinful possessiveness. 

She needed to make everything he’d ever owned hers. 

He pulled her even closer and swallowed her gasp. 

On his lips she tasted the same greed.

The swamp moss was so green and soft, inviting her to lay down her weary head. 

She thought will-o'-the-wisps could warm her at night. She forgot that it was the cold light of decay. 

She took a familiar hand and made a step on the seemingly solid ground, not noticing water oozing between her toes.

Never wake a sleeping dragon.

He watched reverently how her skin was covering with steelsheen scales, how her shoulder blades unfolded into the wings, how dangerous sparks danced in her green eyes, and how her soft voice turned into a roar. 

He’d only seen her wield such fire once. 

He’d never seen her this beautiful.

They avoided some topics. Only after his father’s death, they talked. 

She preferred her ashes to be scattered. 

He’d like to find the rest near his father. 

But they didn’t want to be parted even then. 

Both agreed after all that the last one would decide. 

That was the bet no one wanted to win.

Make it stop. 

‘Breathe’ she heard but didn’t recognize the voices. This excruciating pain muffed everything. 

God, please, make it stop.  

Another pang twisted her body, making her scream. A new sound echoed her this time, a disgruntled cry of someone, who tasted air for the first time. 

The pain was strong, but pride stronger.

Deeply inside, he still believed in fairy-tales. That every injustice would be corrected and love would conquer all. 

His faith died when true love’s kiss turned out to be merely smacking lips over a motionless flesh. 

He didn’t stay to see her opening her eyes to find herself in an unfamiliar and empty world.

He heard her voice in the whispering of the wind; in the rumbling of underground and street noises, he heard her name. 

He shut his ears, turning away. Too shallow, empty these signs were. He unlearned to trust them. Or himself. 

But a glint of gold in his hands was a sign he couldn’t ignore.

It was so unfair. 

But life, in general, wasn’t fair. If it were, he’d be a sports writer and she’d be single. 

He’d be over it. He had to. 

The hot water of his shower helped him to relax his body, but couldn’t wash away the fingerprints she’d left on his heart.

His Psycho-inspired prank went wrong.

She screamed but then a jet of hot water hit his face, and it was his turn to yell.

After everything settled down, he agreed that he was an ass and persuaded her to give him a kiss - ‘for a cure.’

And another one.

And one more.

He regretted nothing.

It was a mistake from the beginning. He knew that as well as she did, but she stubbornly kept trying to make it work. 

He’d liked that trait of hers back then. 

Now he wondered detachedly what happened first: would he extinguish her ambitions or would she evaporate the last bit of his personality?

The ocean wasn’t the best place for skipping stones, but she hadn’t ever done that and was eager to try. 

His pebble bounced thrice before sinking. She raised her hand and almost instantly dropped it. 

The child in her belly made its first move. 

Later, she said that the baby played for the daddy’s team.

She was sitting before an empty canvas and musing over her assignment.

Try to catch something fleeting, so light that almost doesn’t exist. 

She mixed colors and started to paint. 

The swirls of steam, raising above the cup of hot tea. 

The spiderwebs, floating in the air during the Indian summer. 

His smile these days.

She thought that she heard all of his voices. Laughs and chuckles, gravelly tones, and that low murmur that made her bones liquid. 

But now, watching as he pressed their firstborn’s head to his shoulder,  whispering silly lullabies, she heard the new voice of him. 

The tenderness hitched her breath leaving her speechless.

Her exhales went out in small white clouds, and her lips were pale. 

She was cold. He wanted to close this distance between them and warm her. 

But the liquid ice was running in his own veins, chaining his limbs, freezing the words on his tongue.

She was cold. He wanted to believe this half-truth.

Tiny droplets of tears were still entangled in her eyelashes. 

As much he hated to see her crying, that was okay. This night seemed to be everlasting and full of missing each other in the dark, but now it came to an end. 

And there was always dew at dawn.

The music ran in her bones, and she swirled in the exuberant dance. 

She was drunk on her freedom. 

Some ache still nested in her chest, scratching her ribs, but countless margaritas — why are they so salty?— drowned this feeling, and she danced again. 

She was going to be fine. 

At least, for tonight.

Embers gleamed before her, and she thought about the masks she wore. Wearing those required no courage or honesty. It was comfortable. Safe. 

Their layers muffled her voice, but she didn’t use it anyway. 

With every step, her masks flared, turning into the dust, until her only self remained. 

And she had something to say.

His hand, so large and strong in hers, was unexpectedly soft. 

She traced the lines on his palm, the roads and crossings he was destined to walk, and joked silly because neither of them believed in chiromancy. 

If they did, she’d ask him why his line of heart looked so troubled.

She wanted this. 

But as her shell cracked and fell, she felt as some invisible wave enveloped her, trying to drag her back into the sea of insecurity and doubts.

He laced their fingers and held her until this wave admitted its defeat and disappeared.

The rest of the world disappeared too.

Sometimes, she wondered why she kept loving a man who wasn’t even her friend anymore. Sometimes she wished her hapless feeling faded and set her free.

But then she spotted his smile, a familiar glint in his eyes, and her traitorous heart quickened its pace.

After all, she got used to feeding on crumbles.

Her face was full of disdain. He could do nothing as she walked away, fading into the mist, leaving him hollow... 

The sound of his name woke him up, and it was she who called him, full of concern. 

His hug was tight but only this way he could be sure that she was real.

She was obsessed with a flower language lately. Looking through the samples, she tried to pick something affordable, and yet meaningful. Something perfectly them. 

She raised her head and spotted a curious glance across the room. 

‘Thuja,’ she thought instantly. ‘Thyme. Fern and ivy.’ 

She wished it was that easy with her fiance.

The next year they visited that field again, but this time her art kit remained unopened. 

They didn’t need excuses to spend time together now. 

Her cheeks were smeared yellow as he crowned her with a clumsily made dandelion wreath, and she thought that they couldn’t have their anniversary of the first not-a-date any better.

Comforting as chocolate. Warm as a cup of coffee. Soft as a lover’s kiss. 

The sweet nonsense that had made her pick this dress shattered as everything she touched, and she found herself wearing the cloak of fallen leaves, discarded and forgotten as she was. 

It warmed her, but this was the warmth of rotting.

Red was the danger. 

He was surprised that only now she so openly marked her true nature and prided himself for avoiding her trap. 

That was premature. 

Her gravitation was strong, stronger than his will, his self-preservation. He circled around her, closer and closer, and was almost relieved when a familiar flame touched his wings.

Her hair swayed like seaweed. Her knees turned into islands above the calm surface. 

She was so tired.

The warm water caressed her body and she was tempted to sink her head lower, to open herself to its healing touch and allow it to extinguish that scorching pain in her chest too. 

But not today.

He rehearsed this moment so many times that when he finally walked to her, it felt like a dream. 

Some things, though, were off. 

A stench of gasoline, a coldness that pierced him when he kneeled, the cars’ roaring over his question. 

But her smile and vigorous nodding were better than he could ever imagine.

She was a goddess. 

Her breathing melted snow, and the spring sunlight was entangled in her hair. He could swear he saw flowers blooming wherever she stepped. 

And when he almost forgot that she didn’t truly belong here, he spotted pomegranate juice, tainting her lips, and heard hellhounds’ howl, sent to bring her back.

The first weekend they spent together they were too sick of pizza and too lazy to go out. He gave himself permission to check her supplies and she hopped on the counter, watching him making his magic with a frying pan. 

She didn’t have half the ingredients he needed, but they’d never shared anything better.

There was something fiery about her, and not only in the color of her curls. Sparkling eyes, sizzling touches, and kisses that made his blood boil — she was a living flame that was able to light his grey life. 

But he still dreamed about the sun.

The sun reflected in the thousands of droplets, but her smile shone brighter, and he smiled too, marveling at her enthusiasm. 

She loved the city. Just a word from her, and he’d uproot his life without hesitation. 

His smile faltered at the memory of another, and yet the same dream that had been shattered here.

All she needed was time. To escape, to compose herself, to plant the seeds of her feeble feelings and grow them into something strong, unshakable. 

And when he returned, she was ready. She greeted him with a smile and palms full of blossom.

He repelled her hand, and the useless flowers fell on the ground.

Her voice was unabated. Her words shook the ground under his feet. 

He watched her, petrified with her astonishing might, and the ramparts he’d created around his heart fell until only broken stones and dust left. 

Could he live without the safety of these walls again?

The kettle was hot. 

She pulled her hand back with a sharp gasp, shaking it frantically. Before he could say anything, she put a burned finger into her mouth, and words stuck in his throat. He kicked himself — his engaged friend was hurt — but this image of her… 

He couldn’t sleep that night.

They found a spring deep in the forest. 

She quenched her thirst with cold water in her cupped hands and then filled them again.

His lips brushed her palm, and she nearly spilled everything, but her fingers remained clasped tightly until he took the last sip. 

She closed her hand to keep that stolen kiss.

She was disappearing. 

As all the ghosts did, she thought. Little by little a forlorn soul lost its colors, its voice, and memories until only the cold nothingness remained. 

So when she heard her name she was confused — did he really call her? 

She forgot how it was — to be seen.

The holiday couldn’t last forever. 

Both knew that, but it was almost hurtful to watch how the familiar grey fog filled the room and suffocated the last sparks of festivity. 

They didn't conspire, but both of them saved a few embers to keep in the jar as a warm reminder of their innocent joy.

She’d never seen such a magnificent sunset before, with the sky, colored scarlet, and the rays reflecting on every surface, scattering shards of red gold around. 

She needed to capture this picture. 

Her gaze fell on the open laptop, and she felt her enthusiasm dwindling. 

The pixels of her unfinished assignment didn’t like to wait.

A little curly-haired girl dug the ground with a solemnity only four-years-old could have. Bulbs of crocuses laid nearby. 

She watched the child’s work with a soft smile. 

Once, she’d dreamed of being a girl planting flowers herself. She couldn’t stop wondering about the way her wish had come true.

The grease remained in the tiny cracks on her knuckles. She squinted her eyes at another pair of hands — soft skin, perfect nails, fingers delicate yet strong. 

She didn’t envy their grace. 

But it still stung that those hands, not hers, held his heart.

It was hard for him to visit bakeries.

Whenever he entered the cinnamon-scented room, it brought him memories of that time when he’d distracted her from baking. Memories of her skin under his lips, the jingling of overturned jars, spicy brown powder on her fingertips, in his hair, everywhere…

Yeah, he had some troubles.

He managed to form some balance.

Work, personal life, friendships — he slid between those easily. He was even able to be himself with her. Almost.

But her tiny hand disappeared into another’s, enormous one, and the world cracked under his feed. He was sinking down that deep icy darkness all over again.

Her cheeks were still red from earlier humiliation when women in the circle kept on that silly game. 

His name rolled off their tongues easily and with salty playfulness, but she couldn’t make herself say it too and join the joke. 

She wasn’t used to sharing her secrets.

They asked her if she wanted to skip their usual monthly meeting. She ignored both pitiful and scornful gazes of her colleagues, but that was a little too much. 

‘Of course, not! How can I miss the ‘Wuthering Heights’ month?’ she said. 

‘My world doesn’t rotate around him,’ she meant.

They tried different things from time to time. 

He hissed sharply at the assident kiss of melted wax, but she didn’t even flinch when hot drops ran down her flushed skin. 

He raised his brow, and she smiled angelically. 

‘I walked through the fire once, remember? You’ll have to use something stronger to burn me.’

He knew many ways to irk his foe, but his words could’ve never caused the avalanche that broke the man.

He wanted to say that it’d be better. That the dust would settle, and he’d rebuild himself.

That the hope remained.

He said all of that, feeling the familiar stones' weight on his own shoulders.

She held well, but inside she was terrified, counting moments silently before the righteous ire incinerated her.

She deserved that.

But instead, she was greeted with a genuine smile and a warm hug, and the wave of relief and happiness for both of them engulfed her.

She loved the universe a little more that day.

He wished to be made of stone, wood — of anything, just without that bleeding human heart. 

Some cruel deity heard his plea and turned him into a piece of ice. 

His facets shone sharply, and he enjoyed his new coldness.  

But her warmth didn't fail to melt him into a puddle at her feet.

He regretted his decision — to spend their winter vacation together in his parents’ cabin — as soon as they arrived when the cold walls and kerosene lamps instead of electricity greeted them.

Hours later, when the fire was roaring in the hearth, and she snuggled to him, he knew he’d made the right choice.

She sat on a toilet seat with her eyes closed, clutching a piece of plastic. Her stomach churned with an unexplained worry. They’d discussed this matter before and were prepared for anything. And yet… 

Finally, she opened her eyes and laughed aloud, with tears of relief. 

A single line wasn’t enough to cross her future.

The water spray efficiently ruined her hairdo, but she didn’t care and smiled wider than ever. All the worries reduced to the distant white noise when she leaned into his embrace, making her world consist just of two of them. 

Well, three of them. 

And it didn’t even matter that her parents were elsewhere.

When the smoke started to fill the room, he was surprisingly calm and collected. A single thought was pulsing in his head. 

Save her. 

Later, when everything turned out to be an insane trick, other feelings crushed him down. 

Relief that there was no danger. 

Fear that he’d fail his mission when there was some.

Some days he had to play his ‘happy-go-lucky’ record.

That never tricked her.

Her fingers ran through his hair, and those feathery touches loosened knots in his chest. A silent question was in her delicacy, and he knew he’d tell her everything, even if he wasn’t going to.

The price of silence was too high.

The children grew up and left — for the bigger cities and brighter lives. And, unexpectedly, they had time just for them — like in the days of their youth. 

On the top of their roof, under the stars, they held each other, recalling the dearest memories. 

And the moon weaved white in their hair. 

The end

She looked at his picture and couldn’t hide her grin. She could hide, though, an overwhelming tenderness this picture conjured and something too akin to regret.

Regret that one nerdy girl hadn’t met this dorky boy a little earlier, before her fate had been sealed.

There weren’t any big, irreparable things. Thoughtless words or upsetting deeds were too small to pay attention to them. She plastered the punctures they left with the memories of better days, full of love and hope.

Spilled drops were too insignificant to count.

And when she was at a crossroad and needed to make the right choice, she opened her heart to find it empty.

There were forty-seven steps between the parking lot and her apartment's door. 

The first ten steps she made easily. But the shadows were dark, and her heels clicked too loud, so on the eleventh step, she quickened her pace. 

On the eighteenth step, she got her sharp keys out of her purse. 

She started to run on step thirty-six. 

The door closed behind her back, and the kitchen lights blinded her, but for the first time today, she felt like she’d won.

‘I’ve got nothing for you,’ he said. 

That’s okay, she thought. I want your nothing more than anything else and I accept it gratefully. Just reach out, grasping it in your hand, and let me take my gift. 

‘That’s okay,’ she said and fell silent.

She hated her clock. 

Snuggling with him, laughing or kissing, she heard its persistent ticking, annoying as dripping water. She wanted it to stop, but it kept measuring the time they had left. 

She saw him off with a brave smile and a heavy heart, and when she returned to her dorm room, she heard the ticking again. 

She wished it went faster.

She nearly cried, throwing away her two pieces.

His eyes were tracing the thin white marks on her belly that so distressed her. How could he tell her that she was gorgeous? That these lines were a seafoam that washed the body of the newborn goddess? That these were the scars of the battles she’d won, and she should be proud and not ashamed of them? 

He didn’t know how to tell that, but his hands and kisses made a good try.

She didn’t know what she’d see, opening a slightly tattered envelope. 

She wasn’t prepared for a cardiogram. 

The tears made it hard to read but she saw it. In tops of ‘t’s and descents of ‘y’s, in curves of ‘e’s and ‘v’s, in every dot above ‘i’s, she saw the rhythm of his heart, beating because of her, for her. 

She raised her eyes and his look told her better than words that nothing had changed since.