Out of the Past
The day couldn’t have been more beautiful—of course it couldn’t.
The sky was a polished, taunting blue, clouds drifting like lazy brushstrokes across a canvas someone else had painted just to spite him.
The sun was too warm, too golden. The lake sparkled like it belonged in a dream that wasn't his.
Even the trees seemed in on the joke, their leaves fluttering with delicate grace in the breeze.
Somewhere in the forest, birds sang in sweet, insufferable harmony—voices full of longing and joy that made his jaw tighten.
Collin sat with his back to the old oak, glaring at the glittering lake as if it had personally offended him. The sheer loveliness of the afternoon pressed down on his shoulders like a weight—each golden shimmer, each birdsong, another insult. Even nature had the gall to be happy.
He held the knife loosely in his hand, its tip hovering over a gnarled root. A bird above him started singing—bright, earnest, full of longing. He clenched his teeth. It wasn’t a song. It was mockery.
With a tight grip, he plunged the knife into the bark. The blade sank in clean, then snagged. He twisted it slowly, watching a small curl of wood lift and break away. He felt nothing. Or maybe he felt everything—he couldn’t tell.
He was the root, mute and raw, and he was the knife—merciless, exacting.
Each scrape was a kind of honesty.
There was relief in the act, in giving up the performance of hope. Misery didn’t demand anything of him. It didn’t bargain or beg. It simply waited, familiar and patient, like a shadow at dusk—always ready to be let in.
"What’s so funny?" Aries asked lazily.
Collin wrenched the knife out of the tree's root and shoved it back into his bookbag. He hadn’t realized he’d laughed aloud.
Aries lay stretched on his back in the tall grass, nearly invisible beneath the swaying stalks. When he sat up abruptly, he shot Collin a quick glance.
“You don’t look so great. You alright?”
Collin didn’t answer—not that it mattered. Aries was already on his feet, attention yanked elsewhere. There was only one person who could scatter his focus like that.
A moment later, Aries and Hadria tumbled back into view, tangled together, kissing like they hadn’t seen each other in years.
Like war drums were sounding and they'd only seconds left. For heaven’s sake.
They clung to each other with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm, as if no one else existed—or mattered.
They collapsed into the grass, laughing and pawing, breathless with their own self-importance. Collin wished he hadn’t put away his knife. His fingers twitched with the urge to sink the blade into the root again, to feel that quiet resistance split open beneath his hand.
“Hi, Collin,” Hadria said brightly, half-shoving Aries off her. Her voice was thick with amusement, as if they were all part of the same joke.
He muttered vaguely in reply, but she was too busy shrieking with laughter to notice. He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder in a single motion. The scene before him turned his stomach. Had they no sense? No awareness that not everyone wanted to be caught in the wake of their relentless joy?
Aries, lips flushed and hair mussed, glanced up long enough to call, “You heading home?” He had to peel a curtain of Hadria’s hair off his face to even see, while she traced kisses along his neck like they were rehearsing for a tragedy.
“I’m just trying to get away from you two,” Collin muttered, stomping up the path from the lake.
He was happy for Aries—he told himself that often enough it ought to be true. And he liked Hadria. She was... maybe even a friend. But still, it felt like she’d stolen something from him.
It used to be just him and Aries. They did everything together. Now it was Aries and Hadria, and Collin tagging along like a younger sibling no one invited.
They were always touching. Always kissing. Laughing like no one could possibly understand how in love they were. Aries had started giggling. Giggling! When had that become a thing?
Of course it was normal—new love, infatuation, all of that. But did it have to happen right in front of him, like a play he didn’t get a part in?
They had what he wanted. What he couldn’t have. And watching it bloom so easily, so shamelessly, while he stood just close enough to feel the warmth but not be part of it—it made something small and ugly twist inside him. He hated that feeling. Hated how envy clung to him like wet clothes.
But mostly, he hated how much he wanted what they had.
Dragonfly’s coming of age dinner had been perfect—so perfect, he found himself replaying it over and over in his mind.
He’d made dishes he knew she’d love, and she’d gushed over each one.
Her delight had lit him up inside, enough to withstand even Hadria’s theatrical nudging and oh-so-subtle matchmaking.
He wished the night had stretched on forever.
Even doing the dishes had felt thrilling, just to be beside her.
On the walk home, all he could think about was holding her hand.
Again and again, he nearly reached out—but his palm was soaked.
It would’ve been like grabbing her with a damp towel.
And it wasn’t just his hand. Sweat trickled down his back, pooled at the base of his spine, beaded under his hairline.
He swung the lantern a little too hard, hoping the motion would dry him off or distract him or just make the air move.
But the closer they got to her house, the more the anxiety took over.
He’d wanted to kiss her. God, he’d wanted to kiss her for months. Ever since that moment in the forest, the thought had rooted itself in his mind, impossible to shake. He’d even asked Aries for advice—an act of such humility it still made him wince.
“You just do it,” Aries had said, maddeningly unhelpful.
Collin had pressed him, “How? What do I say? What if I mess it up?”
Aries had smirked. “Say something romantic like, I’ve dreamed of this moment, and now that it’s here, it’s even better than I imagined. Then close your eyes, lean in, and pray she doesn’t slug you. With Dragonfly, I’d pray twice.”
And so, Collin had stood outside her door, stomach roiling, heart pounding, mind buzzing so loudly it drowned out every coherent thought. He was pretty sure she felt awkward too—something in her expression—but he was too wrapped in his own chaos to be sure.
She’d thanked him. He’d responded with something polite and painfully ordinary. All his ancestors—men who, presumably, had wooed entire villages—would’ve turned in their graves. And he? He just stood there, paralyzed by the world’s most unproductive mental monologue.
Should I kiss her now? Say something first? Is my breath offensive? What if she pulls away? What if I don’t and regret it forever? Would she kiss me back?
His heart thudded like a drum corps—he was sure she could hear it. The entire town probably could. Somewhere, an old widow must’ve peeked out her window wondering what kind of animal was making such a racket in the street.
Just as he finally gathered enough oxygen and courage to lean in—just as he thought this was it, he had to or he’d combust—she stepped away.
And the door closed behind her.
He’d stood there blinking at the wood, stunned and breathless.
But the next day, when he thought for sure he’d missed his chance, she arrived at the meeting hall—assigned to teach alongside him.
Every morning, Collin awoke with one simple joy—seeing Dragonfly at work!
There was nothing more beautiful to him than watching her move amongst the children, patient and kind, her laughter as light as the morning breeze.
When a timid child needed extra guidance, Dragonfly was there to praise and encourage.
She seemed almost like a child herself when she laughed and played with her class.
When she ran circles around the courtyard or galloped and raced with carefree exuberance, he thought his heart would burst with love.
He couldn’t say how it started—only that, somehow, it became routine.
Every afternoon after school, they found their way to the lake.
It was an unspoken agreement, a quiet rhythm of togetherness.
The heat of the day softened in each other’s company.
Kissing her remained on his mind always, but for now, it was enough just to be near her.
They talked about the children—who loved to draw, who liked to run barefoot through the grass, who needed help sounding out new words.
They sat beneath the same tree for hours, sometimes until the sun dissolved into the water.
They fished. They swam. They skipped stones and read aloud from dog-eared books.
Some afternoons they said very little, and yet the silence never once felt empty.
When they did speak, their conversations wandered far beyond the classroom. They debated the existence of gods, the fragility of life, the question of souls, the weight of free will. What it meant to be happy. Or sad. Or real.
One afternoon, Dragonfly said suddenly, “I wonder if I’m dreaming...”
“Huh?” Collin blinked, pulling himself out of a particularly gripping chapter.
She waved a hand toward the lake, the hills, the shadow of the trees.
“What if this isn’t real? What if I’m dreaming all of this?
Or maybe you are—and Aries, and Lekyi, and me, we’re just parts of your mind, keeping you company in your sleep.
Or maybe none of this belongs to either of us.
Maybe some lonely traveler fell asleep in a meadow, and in his homesickness, invented a world full of people to ease his heart. ”
She said things like that often—wild, wondrous thoughts that made his head spin and his chest ache in the best way. They never talked about love, not directly, but she challenged everything else in him: his ideas, his fears, his sense of the world. It was exhilarating.