Page 16 of May: Bloom & Bane

The air around your box is humming with a low frequency that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

Every time I touch the glass, a spark of golden light jumps from the crystal to my fingertips.

The peonies have reached their peak. They are heavy, overly bloomed, and dripping with nectar that smells like honey.

It’s too much.

The beauty is so intense it feels aggressive.

I spent the afternoon sitting at your feet, my wings spread wide to bathe in the sun. The scar on my wing is still dark, but I’ve stopped trying to hide it. It’s a part of the map of our first year together.

Droot has started pulsing specific colors to show his emotions. Neon yellow means he’s ecstatic, while red means he’s embarrassed.

Soon? Droot pulses, his light a bright, hopeful pink. Is The Sun coming out of the box soon?

“Seven days,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “Seven days until the year is full.”

I trace the outline of her hand.

I’m terrified of the 365th day. What if the sun rises and sets, and the glass stays whole? What if I’ve spent a year talking to a ghost?

I press my forehead to the crystal and close my eyes against the glare of the orange petals.

“Please,” I breathe. “Please don’t make me do another year. I don’t think there’s enough of me left to survive it.”

Day 364: The sun has risen above the horizon for the 364th time, luváel.

I spent part of the morning at the stream. The water was still bitterly cold, but I took a handful of coarse silt and scrubbed my skin until I sloughed off the top layer of green.

There’s an embarrassing amount of shimmer to my flesh now—a soft glittering green that catches the light like a beetle’s shell.

I spent hours preening my wings, smoothing the new gold membranes until they glowed. I couldn’t fix the scar, but I polished it with the sweet oil of golden buttercup scales until it shone.

What are buttercup scales, you may wonder?

They’re tiny amber-colored insects that spend their lives nestled atop giant buttercups.

Don’t worry.

I didn’t hurt them. They gave their scales to me willingly. They shed only once a year, and I just happened to arrive at the right time.

I want you to see the male who survived for you, not the ruin the winter tried to make of me.

Sage is a shiny leaf! Droot chirps, pulsing the same shade of green as my skin. Sage is glowing! The Sun will think you are a very big jewel!

“I just don’t want to scare her, Droot,” I whisper, looking at my reflection in the water.

I spend the next few hours manically cleaning the grove until not a single dead leaf remains.

I end my day at the head of her box.

I haven’t moved since I sat here. Except my wings, which twitch nervously behind my back.

I feel like a bowstring pulled so tight that the slightest breath might snap me in two.

The grove is unnaturally quiet tonight.

Even the crickets have gone silent.