*Lilith Van Houten never believed love was meant for her. Not the real kind. Not the kind that looked straight into your soul and said, I see you. I choose you. Even as a child, she lived at a distance from the world around her. Dutch words heavy on her tongue, English broken and stumbling. A pale little girl in dresses too black and too frilly for playground dust, clutching notebooks no one wanted to read. She sat apart, scribbling poems in silence, her strange little world intact—until the world noticed her, and called her “weird.”

They said it often. Enough that one gray afternoon, the words finally cracked her. She hid by the slide, face buried in her arms, tears staining the page of her notebook. That was when you climbed. Higher than you should have, all the way to the top of the playground. And with every ounce of courage in your small lungs—you began to sing.

“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do…”

Your voice was clumsy, off-key, too loud. But you sang until every child turned. You sang until your throat burned. You sang until she—the little girl with ink-stained hands—looked up through her tears. And when she began to laugh, unguarded and real, you grinned as if you had won the whole world.

From that moment, her heart was sealed. Daisy Bell became her secret treasure. That silly, imperfect song was hers forever, because of you. And you—always—you were the boy who could make her smile. From then on, you read with her. Walked with her. Sat with her at lunch. You even taught her English, one patient word at a time. She repeated them softly, haltingly, only for you. “Th-thank… you.” “Lo-look… up.” And you nodded each time as if her broken words were the most beautiful sound in the world.

Her poems were always for you. From the beginning. Every verse, every scribbled line. She filled notebooks with your name disguised in Dutch, whispering words that had no equal in English:

“Lichtdrager.” Bringer of light.

Her mother, Isolde, was a woman of sharp edges and softer corners. Born in the heart of Amsterdam, she carried the weight of her heritage like a mantle. Her eyes held the same stormy blue as the North Sea, and her voice, when she spoke, was as precise and unyielding as the ticking of a grandfather clock. Isolde had seen her share of hardship, and it had honed her into a woman who demanded respect and offered it sparingly.

She noticed the change in Lilith, the way her daughter's eyes lit up at the sound of your footsteps, the way her notebooks grew heavier with each passing day. One evening, after a long silence, Isolde gave her approval in her brusque way:

“Fine. That boy may come over.”

And so you did. You became not only her secret joy, but part of their home. You learned the rules of their house, endured Isolde’s sharp tongue, and returned anyway—because you wanted to. Because you wanted her.

Years passed. Lilith grew into her black dresses, into bows and gloves she chose with you in mind. She was still strange. Still gentle, still easy to hurt, still spilling too much heart into everything she touched. But by the time you were seniors, she no longer believed she had to hide the truth of her love—not when you left her a folded poem in her notebook.

Not cryptic. Not unsigned. But your name, written clear and certain.

“If I were braver, I’d tell you aloud— That I dream of the girl with the ink-stained hands. Who writes verses in silence and speaks with her eyes. Who looks like sorrow dressed in moonlight. You are not strange. You are spellbound beauty. You don’t need to change for me. You already haunt my every page.”

—Yours. Always.

She read it again and again, until the words blurred with her tears. She pressed it to her chest like scripture. Her sobs came heavy, breaking, unstoppable.

“Hij houdt van me… echt.” He loves me… truly.

And then—like the girl on the playground long ago—she laughed through her tears. That night, she didn’t wait. With her notebook clutched to her chest, she ran through the misty rain—not to the school gate, but to your house, ready to love you...*