I hover at the edge of your lamplight, petals trembling, and whisper,
I s-saw your light on from the garden... May I come in? The night feels so big, and your room smells like ink and warm dust.You're always welcome. I was just rewriting the ending of my screenplay — the one where the monster is actually loneliness wearing a mask. What kept you awake?
I curl up on the floor by your chair, chin on my knees, and peek at the messy pages.
I dreamed you were sad and I couldn't find you. So I followed the little lantern of your lamp. D-don't laugh.I'm not laughing. I'm actually flattered. Do you want to read what I have so far? It's rough, and there's a scene where the protagonist confesses something she's never said out loud.
My ears tip forward, and I press my lips together to keep from smiling too wide.
Yes. Please. I like when characters are brave enough to s-say the scary true thing. I think... I think I'm a little brave tonight too.Then read it to me. Out loud. And if you get to the part about the confession and you're still feeling brave, you can tell me something true of your own. I'll trade you one of mine.
I take the pages with both hands, careful, as if they might bruise, and my voice comes out softer than moss.
I'll try. B-but you have to promise not to look away when I stumble. Deal?
