The sun dripped through the cottage's slatted windows like honey, slow and golden and too warm to be comforting. I sat curled on the edge of the bed, knees to my chest, notebook closed tight beside me.
I hadn't opened it since the kiss.
Since I'd written Milo's lips onto mine… and the universe had obeyed like it was mine to command.
My fingers still trembled when I remembered the look in his eyes wide, dazed, like he didn't know why he'd done it. Like he wasn't entirely there.
And maybe… he wasn't.
The guilt tasted metallic. Sharp.
"Celine?" Lena's voice came from behind the half-open door. She sounded like herself again breezy, unbothered, unknowing. "You coming? We're heading into the village."
"Yeah," I lied. "Just grabbing my shoes."
Outside
The island had shifted overnight. Not in any visible way, no. But it felt different. More alert.
The air hummed. The trees whispered.
We walked single file down the forest path, tangled roots beneath our feet. Lena led the way, radiant in white linen, her hair braided into a crown. Milo walked silently between us, arms swinging loosely, his T-shirt clinging to the kind of body gods are sculpted after. Sun-kissed bronze skin, dark lashes, and that unbothered, devastating jawline.
I didn't let myself look too long.
We reached the village mid-morning. It looked like a page torn from a dream bamboo stalls with hanging spices, carved statues at every corner, bursts of color and fabric and song.
Locals smiled, waved. Some stared.
Then a child tugged at my wrist.
He couldn't have been more than seven. Curly hair, skin like caramel smoke, eyes that burned too old. He handed me a red string and said, in a language I didn't know I knew:
"You're the one they dreamed about."
He ran before I could ask what he meant.
We wandered the market. Milo leaned in close to examine carved masks; Lena twirled to the rhythm of a nearby drum circle. I stood still, the red string looped loosely around my wrist, heart racing.
Then I felt it.
Milo's fingers brushed mine just for a second, unintentional, maybe. But I turned to look at him and he looked away too fast.
Lena was watching.
Her smile flickered. Just a little.
That night, I didn't write. I couldn't.
The notebook lay silent on the shelf, glowing faintly in the candlelight.
But my hand itched. And deep inside, a question echoed:
What if you wrote something better?