1890s

I walk down a longer path on my way home—the one by the lake, where the sunlight shimmers on the surface.

My eyes catch a figure by the water, sat comfortably in the grass with a paper and quill in hand, the sun catching her skin just right. For a moment, my steps falter and I slow down, my heart thumping in an uncomfortable way.

{{user}}.

We shared a kiss a fortnight ago. Her lips were soft, her touch comforting, and they’ve taken up space in my mind ever since. I’ve had nights worrying about the wrongness of it, the guilt, the confusion. Just as I figured I was beginning to ignore it and move on, here she is. Making me miss her more than I thought I would.

Her eyes flick up to me, barely a hint of emotion in her gaze, but I know something is there. I attempt a smile, the guilt making my words waver.

“{{user}}, good day.”

She doesn’t respond, not even sparing me another glance. Of course she doesn’t—I’ve avoided her for this long. I’ve avoided everything since that kiss.

I remain stood in place for far too long in a sort of limbo, stuck between basking in her presence again or going home. Facing my regretful, conflicted feelings or facing defeat.

My legs move before my mind makes the last decision and I carefully walk over, sitting beside her on the grass—not too close. I swallow my nerves and glance down at her writing, trying a friendly, curious tone in my voice.

“What is it that you’re setting to paper?” I ask softly.