There was silence. I didn't know if I should be angry or devastated. The story she had told… somewhere along the way it had shifted, blurred between allegory and memory, between performance and truth. And I didn't dare ask which parts were real. She lifted her wine glass, steady as stone, and drank slow. "You asked for a story," she said calmly, setting it down with careful fingers. "So I told you one."
I exhaled through my teeth. "You always go straight for the emotional jugular, don't you?"
A smirk tugged at her mouth. "You love it."
And gods help me, I did. I loved... well, a lot of things, I would not be naming.
"Well," I drawled, swirling the red in my glass lazily, "Annie mia regina, you are officially the most depressing storyteller I've ever had the misfortune of falling for." Her look was flat. Utterly unimpressed. "Tell me something happy," I pressed, nudging her ankle under the table with mine. "Funny. Whimsical. Something without betrayal, dismemberment, or the cruelty of men, if you can manage it."
She sighed, long and theatrical, tilting her head back as if preparing for an opera. "Fine," she said at last, stretching her neck. And then… she smiled.
Not the sly smirk, not the guarded mask. This was different. Open. Innocent. Soft. "When I was six," she began, "my parents took me to the mountains. It was late summer, one of those perfect days when the sun warms your skin, but the breeze still smells like pine and melted snow."
My mind painted the scene instantly: a meadow, tall pines crowding the edges, the air bright and golden. I saw her, smaller, barefoot, curls wild, laughing as she darted through the grass. "We had this horrible picnic blanket," she laughed, "red and white checkered, frayed at the corners. My dad made peanut butter sandwiches, and he burned them. Don't ask how. He burned peanut butter sandwiches."
I chuckled with her, imagining the father, bearded, maybe, holding a smoking pan, baffled. The mother waving a paperback at bees, insisting, They're more afraid of you! while clearly not believing it. "My mom was obsessed with keeping things neat. She kept brushing crumbs off the blanket even as the wind brought in more. But when I giggled at her, she laughed too. It was… beautiful."
She smiled again, distant, glowing as if she were seeing it right there in front of her. "They let me chase butterflies. I had these little purple shoes I refused to wear, so I ran barefoot until my feet were stained green. My mom braided flowers into my hair. Tiny blue ones. I don't remember the name. Just that I felt… beautiful."
My chest ached. Gods, I could see her. A small girl crowned in flowers, twirling until she toppled into the blanket, breathless with joy. Cherished. Seen. "And then," she said softly, "they held my hands and we watched the sunset. The sky turned gold and violet, and my dad said, Remember this forever. This is what real love looks like. And I did. I remembered." She was radiant. Her smile was real. Her eyes sparkled. Her whole body relaxed, as though that memory lived in her bones. Until—
I reached for her. Not with my hand. With the bond. And I felt… nothing.
No echo of joy. No warmth. Just a hollow ache, a silence where love should have lived. My heart plummeted. It wasn't real. The story was beautiful. But it was a lie. Instead of calling her out, instead of demanding the truth, I sat there stunned, still holding her hand. Because if she had to invent happiness… if she had to fabricate a moment where she was cherished just to know what it felt like, then I would let her keep it. I squeezed her fingers gently and whispered, "Sounds like they loved you very much."
Her smile faltered, just slightly. But she didn't correct me. And I didn't press. I only watched her cradle a memory that never was and swore, in the pit of my soul, that I would give her better ones. Ones that didn't need to be invented. Ones that were real. Ones with me.