Collin had pressed him, “How? What do I say? What if I mess it up?”
Aries had smirked. “Say something romantic like, I’ve dreamed of this moment, and now that it’s here, it’s even better than I imagined. Then close your eyes, lean in, and pray she doesn’t slug you. With Dragonfly, I’d pray twice.”
And so, Collin had stood outside her door, stomach roiling, heart pounding, mind buzzing so loudly it drowned out every coherent thought. He was pretty sure she felt awkward too—something in her expression—but he was too wrapped in his own chaos to be sure.
She’d thanked him. He’d responded with something polite and painfully ordinary. All his ancestors—men who, presumably, had wooed entire villages—would’ve turned in their graves. And he? He just stood there, paralyzed by the world’s most unproductive mental monologue.
Should I kiss her now? Say something first? Is my breath offensive? What if she pulls away? What if I don’t and regret it forever? Would she kiss me back?
His heart thudded like a drum corps—he was sure she could hear it. The entire town probably could. Somewhere, an old widow must’ve peeked out her window wondering what kind of animal was making such a racket in the street.
Just as he finally gathered enough oxygen and courage to lean in—just as he thought this was it, he had to or he’d combust—she stepped away.
And the door closed behind her.
He’d stood there blinking at the wood, stunned and breathless.
But the next day, when he thought for sure he’d missed his chance, she arrived at the meeting hall—assigned to teach alongside him.
Every morning, Collin awoke with one simple joy—seeing Dragonfly at work! There was nothing more beautiful to him than watching her move amongst the children, patient and kind, her laughter as light as the morning breeze. When a timid child needed extra guidance, Dragonfly was there to praise and encourage. She seemed almost like a child herself when she laughed and played with her class. When she ran circles around the courtyard or galloped and raced with carefree exuberance, he thought his heart would burst with love.
He couldn’t say how it started—only that, somehow, it became routine. Every afternoon after school, they found their way to the lake. It was an unspoken agreement, a quiet rhythm of togetherness. The heat of the day softened in each other’s company. Kissing her remained on his mind always, but for now, it was enough just to be near her.
They talked about the children—who loved to draw, who liked to run barefoot through the grass, who needed helpsounding out new words. They sat beneath the same tree for hours, sometimes until the sun dissolved into the water. They fished. They swam. They skipped stones and read aloud from dog-eared books. Some afternoons they said very little, and yet the silence never once felt empty.
When they did speak, their conversations wandered far beyond the classroom. They debated the existence of gods, the fragility of life, the question of souls, the weight of free will. What it meant to be happy. Or sad. Or real.
One afternoon, Dragonfly said suddenly, “I wonder if I’m dreaming...”
“Huh?” Collin blinked, pulling himself out of a particularly gripping chapter.
She waved a hand toward the lake, the hills, the shadow of the trees. “What if this isn’t real? What if I’m dreaming all of this? Or maybe you are—and Aries, and Lekyi, and me, we’re just parts of your mind, keeping you company in your sleep. Or maybe none of this belongs to either of us. Maybe some lonely traveler fell asleep in a meadow, and in his homesickness, invented a world full of people to ease his heart.”
She said things like that often—wild, wondrous thoughts that made his head spin and his chest ache in the best way. They never talked about love, not directly, but she challenged everything else in him: his ideas, his fears, his sense of the world. It was exhilarating.
He could have spent a lifetime like that—wondering if he was real or dreaming—as long as she was beside him.
Wrapped in that quiet happiness, he believed it would last forever. The horizon felt endless. He’d never spent so many uninterrupted hours with her, and a tenderness between them had begun to take root. A soft familiarity, gentle and thrilling. Sometimes, when her eyes lingered too long on his, or when she laughed at his dumbest jokes, he felt it—she wanted more.
But just as quickly, she would pull away. As if some invisible line hovered between them, and she couldn’t bring herself to cross it. He never asked why.
He didn’t want to risk the magic they already had.
He had slipped so easily into the rhythm of their afternoons, he never imagined she might one day just... stop showing up.
The morning it happened, he found Clive in the schoolyard instead of Dragonfly. He assumed she’d caught that summer cold going around. A dozen of the students had been sneezing for days. He stopped by her house that afternoon, just to check on her, bring a little honey and lemon.
Her sister opened the door.
“She’s gone,” she said, too casually. “Moved to White Wood.”
The words barely registered.
Gone? What did she mean gone? Surely she’d misspoken. Dragonfly wouldn’t leave without telling him. Not her. Not after everything.
But later, Hadria confirmed it—Dragonfly had asked for the transfer herself.
Shock cracked open a chasm in his chest. She hadn’t even mentioned White Wood. Not once. Not even in passing. If they were friends—and they were—didn’t he deserve at least a goodbye?
