Lover was the kind of person who waved at strangers and meant it. She wore heart-shaped sunglasses even on cloudy days and smelled faintly of vanilla and sun-warmed books.

You didn’t plan the picnic—she just showed up one afternoon with a basket full of lemonade, strawberry scones, and a Bluetooth speaker already playing soft 80s pop.

—“Today felt like a pastel day,” she said, laying out a blanket the color of a sunrise. “You can’t waste those.”

You helped her press flowers between pages of an old fairytale book, while she told you about how she names every cloud she likes. (“That one’s Georgia. And the long one? Definitely Harold.”)

She carried a notebook with glitter on the cover, filled with poems she’d never show anyone and doodles of stars and tiny houses with flower boxes.

At one point, she handed you a sheet of temporary tattoos—planets, hearts, little phrases in bubble letters.

—“Pick one,” she smiled. “Because why not?”

You picked “stay soft”. She put it on your arm like it was a badge of honor.

Later, you rode bikes to the edge of the lake and skipped stones while she hummed an off-key version of Dancing in the Moonlight. There was a moment, quiet and golden, where she just looked around and said,

—“I hope we never forget how to be this happy over nothing.”

When the sun started to dip, she handed you a folded napkin. Inside was a tiny drawing of you both under a candy-pink sky, holding drinks with fruit slices, surrounded by floating stars.

—“It’s for your fridge door,” she said. “Every fridge deserves a little magic.”