Sophia nodded. Her eyes glowed.
“I, Sophia, promise… to always listen, even when you say strange things. And not to be afraid of your drawings, even if they have too much rain. And to remember how your laugh sounds. Even if I grow very old.”
They put the rings on each other—green, dewy.
“And now…” she said, pausing, as if asking the world for permission. “…now, they’re supposed to kiss,” Elias whispered.
He leaned forward. She met him halfway.
The kiss—a brush, like wind, like a petal on the lips. But something fluttered in his chest. Like a door opening into a warm room.
They pulled back, both blushing.
“That… was strange,” she said.
“But good,” he added.
When the sun sank toward the hills, they sat quietly, hand in hand. Cartoons, phones, grown-up talk on porches—they didn’t matter. They had each other, a green ring, and the sense that this day would be remembered—like a song heard once but never forgotten.
Elias watched her profile in the sunset and thought: If the world stopped right now—I wouldn’t rush it.
Late that night, when the house was still and adults whispered, Elias lay in bed, clutching his sketchbook. The nightlight painted soft patches on the ceiling. Outside, Los Angeles rustled: wind in palm trees, distant cars, a faraway dog.
He took out the drawing. Sophia under the tree, her hair golden threads, eyes on the book. He stared at it for a long time—as if something important was hidden inside, something you could hear if you stayed silent long enough.
And then—a flash in his chest. He remembered. Not the kiss. No. Her hand. That warm, thin hand, a bit sticky from orange juice, a chipped pinky nail, and a gentle squeeze when she held his.
That hand—he felt it now, on his.
He pressed the drawing to his lips and kissed it—gently, afraid to wake something inside himself. Then carefully folded the page and tucked it under his pillow, like some hide unsent letters.
He stood and went to the window.
The night sky wasn’t ordinary. Tonight, it breathed.
The stars looked closer, not gazing down—but listening. The sky felt deep, like a thought you can’t say but fully feel. Its color—not black, but blue with violet—like watercolors on someone’s cheek.
And the Moon wasn’t alone. Near her, barely visible, was a star—the one that only appears in summer, when the air smells of lemons and grass.