Not Yet
Dragonfly sat on the edge of her bed, toes pressed against the cool floorboards, letting the silence settle around her like a shawl.
Moments like this were rare—a sliver of quiet carved out from the bustle of three women squeezed into one narrow loft.
The same four walls served as kitchen, washroom, bedroom, all at once.
Privacy didn’t exist here; it had to be stolen.
She'd faked a headache this morning, stomachache yesterday, just for a breath of space.
Auntie had finally gone downstairs to unlock the shop.
Her sister had left for dance. For now, the room was hers.
But it wouldn’t last. Auntie had a way of drifting back up the stairs every fifteen minutes—forgetting her teacup, a book, a spool of thread.
And the neighbors—god, the neighbors—couldn't whisper to save their lives.
Their breakfast chatter seeped through the walls like steam, curling into every corner Dragonfly tried to keep for herself.
On this golden summer evening—the very last day of August—Dragonfly had officially come of age. It still felt strange to think it. A whole new chapter of her life, ushered in not with some quiet reflection or private ritual, but with a dinner party she hadn’t even asked for.
Hadria had insisted, of course. She’d planned the entire affair herself, keeping most of the details from Dragonfly “for the surprise.” The celebration would be held at Collin’s house. Hadria had claimed the boys were thrilled to host.
“Aries wants to please me,” she’d said, with that smirk that meant she always got what she wanted. “And you know Collin wants to please you too.”
In the days leading up, Dragonfly had hovered somewhere between anticipation and dread.
A celebration sounded lovely in theory—she’d never been the guest of honor before—but Hadria’s version of “a simple dinner” had a way of spiraling.
The woman could turn soup into a spectacle.
Aries would bend before she even asked, and Collin.
.. well, he never stood a chance against her guilt trips.
Still, Dragonfly couldn’t deny a flicker of excitement.
She’d spent the day running errands under the sun. It was thrilling—her first official work assignment, her name inked on a real tax form. She was a contributing member of society now, and the pride in her chest still hadn’t worn off.
Back in the loft, she twisted her slightly tousled hair into a knot atop her head, then folded the faded yellow cotton shift she wore and set it aside for laundry.
In the washbasin, perfumed oil bloomed and disappeared, its sweet rose and honeyed citrus scent rising to meet her like an old friend. She bathed slowly, deliberately, a quiet, unhurried ritual that left the air kissing her damp skin.
At the dresser, she sifted through her clothes with a growing frown.
Everything seemed too plain or too practical—meant for mops and garden soil.
But near the bottom, she uncovered a treasure, Bluejay’s old overskirt, pale blue with delicate embroidery at the waist and hem.
She held it against her body and smiled. It still fit.
She chose a blouse with lace at the neckline and gentle ruffles at the sleeves—something she’d saved from wear and tear. Back at the mirror, she paused before dressing.
She studied her reflection—bare shoulders, knobby knees, the soft slope of her hips. Her body felt like a sketch half-finished; breasts still catching up, shoulders too narrow, knees too sharp. But her belly was flat, and her arms and legs were strong from constant movement.
She tugged on her linen chemise, then her prettiest stays—lightly boned and edged with lace. She laced them tighter than usual, just enough to feel cinched and defined. The blouse fit snug over her figure. The skirt draped beautifully.
From the bottom drawer, she unearthed her little wooden jewelry box and fastened on her silver hoop earrings—tiny, perfect, worn only on special days. Her favorite necklace didn’t match, but she clasped it anyway.
She let her hair fall loose again, brushed it through with her fingers, and tilted her head at the mirror. Not bad. She didn’t look like a child. She didn’t quite feel like a woman either—but she liked what she saw.
With a sudden grin, she dashed for the stairs. Her skirts flared behind her like wings. She shouted a hasty goodbye as she flew through the doors of the cobbler shop, the bell chiming brightly in her wake.
The summer sun still beat down, hot and heavy, though the sky had begun to soften toward dusk. The stones beneath Dragonfly’s shoes were warm as sunbaked bricks. Lekyi stood waiting in front of the cobbler shop, one hand shading his eyes.
She bounded down the steps and straight into his arms.
His smile—open and bright—warmed her more than the sun ever could. “Happy birthday,” he said. “You look awfully nice this evening.”
She hugged him tightly as he kissed her cheek. “I thought you were meeting me at Collin’s.”
His expression faltered. “I’m so sorry. I got called in at the last minute. I have to go on rounds with the chief steward.”
The words hit her like a slap, but before she could say anything, he blurted, “But! I have a present. Today’s too important not to celebrate properly.”
She tried to look gracious—tried to be gracious—but the disappointment sat heavy in her chest. He knew how much this meant to her. Her first real celebration, her coming-of-age. Couldn’t work wait for once?
The grown part of her said, Smile. Let it go. Be kind.
The younger part sulked, Make him stay. Make him feel bad.
She did neither. Instead, she crossed her arms and gave him a glare—stern, but not entirely convincing.
Lekyi rummaged through his book bag and produced a small square envelope with a flourish and a theatrical bow.
She snatched it from his hands and pulled out the gift inside.
Her breath caught.
It was a charcoal sketch—his signature style—of a stilted cabin nestled amongst the towering trees of North Town.
Every stroke breathed life: the slope of the roof, the shimmer of bark, the way the light filtered through the leaves.
She could practically hear the whisper of wind in the branches.
She stared at the tiny window he’d drawn on the cabin and swore she saw her own silhouette behind the glass.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. Her chest ached with affection.
“Do you forgive me then?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with playful hope.
She rolled her eyes, but her lips curled against her will. He always knew how to win her over. And how could she stay mad at someone who could take a scrap of paper and conjure a world from it?
“I guess,” she said, “just this once.”
She slipped the sketch into her skirt pocket as if it were made of glass, then threw her arms around his shoulders. “Are you absolutely sure you can’t make it?”
He hugged her back, arms wrapped tight around her waist until she squeaked. “You know I’d rather be at a party than out counting supply crates. I swear it.”
The sky had turned a soft mauve by the time Dragonfly stepped into Collin’s meadow.
The trees towered at the edges, casting long, heavy shadows across the grass.
Stars blinked faintly overhead, barely visible against the fading light.
Though the sun hadn’t yet reached the horizon, the clearing already felt like twilight—quiet, veiled, expectant.
Collin stood alone by the fire pit, coaxing the flames with a metal poker.
Without any wind, the smoke curled upward in a straight column, white against the deepening blue.
He wore his shirtsleeves rolled, his movements quick and focused.
In the low light, his figure stood out—steady, sure, and entirely absorbed in his task.
It stopped her breath for a moment. The scene looked like a drawing from a story: the firelight catching in the folds of his shirt, the sky behind him streaked in lavender and gold, the smell of pine smoke rising into the cooling air. She almost didn’t call out.
But she did, softly.
He looked up. Stillness flickered through him before he smiled—broad, radiant, completely unguarded. The poker dropped to the ground as he crossed the yard and swung the gate wide.
“Good evening,” he said.
There was tension in the way he looked at her that made the space between them hum.
When his hand settled gently on the small of her back, the contact surged through her like heat.
Her breath hitched. The pressure was light, but it sent a ripple along her spine, through her chest, all the way down to her knees.
She tipped her face away before he could see the flush rising beneath her skin and gestured vaguely toward the fire. “What are you doing?”
He grinned. “Grilling. Aries and I went foraging this morning.”
“Oh,” she said, barely above a whisper. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
His voice wrapped around her like a warm breeze. It wasn’t just the way he spoke—though there was rhythm in it, a kind of quiet melody—it was what it stirred. Every word brushed against the hope inside her she hadn’t known was waiting.
When they reached the fire pit, Collin let go of her back and picked up the poker. His thumb brushed the worn handle, his knuckles pale from how tightly he gripped the iron.
The absence of his hand sent a chill through her—not from the breeze, but from something deeper, a hunger left wanting. She had to resist the urge to lean back, to find his warmth again. It was as if his touch had left a hollow she didn’t know was there until it was gone.