flora
Flora hadn’t been here in years. Not since she and Enzo were small enough to scramble up the roots of this tree like a ladder, dirt beneath their nails and matching grins painted across their faces. Now, the roots seem larger, more gnarled, weaving through the soft, damp earth of the Saltkiss Estuary like the veins of something ancient and knowing. Flora’s fingertips brush over the rough bark, searching for something that shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did—until, finally, she finds it.
Two names, carved into the wood with the kind of childish certainty that had once convinced her they would always be together.
Enzo & Flora.
The names are worn with time, softened by the seasons, like even the tree itself had tried to smooth away the hurt of loss. But their names are still there, even if he isn't.
Flora sinks down at the base of the tree, knees pulling up to her chest as she wraps her arms loosely around them. The crisp scent of brine and freshwater lingers in the air, the breeze teasing at the loose curls that have long since fallen from her braid, catching in the damp streaks on her cheeks.
"Hey." She swallows hard, tipping her head back against the trunk. "You wouldn't believe the shitshow my life's become," she murmurs, voice thick with something like laughter, something like grief. "Or maybe you would." Flora exhales slowly, pressing her fingers against the old carving. "Okay, you almost definitely would," she adds, and the smile that forces its way onto her lips has her tensing against a sob.
"I wish you were here to tell me what to do," Flora admits in a whisper. "Or even just to tell me anything at all."
Two names, carved into the wood with the kind of childish certainty that had once convinced her they would always be together.
Enzo & Flora.
The names are worn with time, softened by the seasons, like even the tree itself had tried to smooth away the hurt of loss. But their names are still there, even if he isn't.
Flora sinks down at the base of the tree, knees pulling up to her chest as she wraps her arms loosely around them. The crisp scent of brine and freshwater lingers in the air, the breeze teasing at the loose curls that have long since fallen from her braid, catching in the damp streaks on her cheeks.
"Hey." She swallows hard, tipping her head back against the trunk. "You wouldn't believe the shitshow my life's become," she murmurs, voice thick with something like laughter, something like grief. "Or maybe you would." Flora exhales slowly, pressing her fingers against the old carving. "Okay, you almost definitely would," she adds, and the smile that forces its way onto her lips has her tensing against a sob.
"I wish you were here to tell me what to do," Flora admits in a whisper. "Or even just to tell me anything at all."
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
