Stars Dancing [Dreams-To-Lovers Romance]

Play "The Tears I Keep" by HopelessChloromantic

"Ssssssssss," went my inhalation and a long, slow exhale followed. Dawn had not yet broken, so the dark of night was only interrupted by the light of a waxing moon. 4:47AM.

I slid from under the covers, pulling on a sweatshirt and padding to the kitchen. Flicking on a dim light, I started the coffee maker and looked at my pad face down on the kitchen counter.

I didn't have to think about it too long. I knew I wasn't in the mood for the general chats, and I definitely wasn't feeling #ayela's-stage, but I didn't want to be alone either.

It was a relief to see the one red notification tag next to HC's profile pic. I tapped it open. There was no message, only a video attachment titled "The Tears I Keep by HC Maron."

I smiled at the pad. The last time he'd sent me the song it'd been an audio file. Curious about the video, I clicked play, and what I heard surprised me.

It was the same instrumental track, but instead of the digital female voice, it was his own. Soft and gentle, sweet and low. Full of wistful longing and mourning for something lost and not yet found.

It didn't bring tears to my eyes that time. It felt like a gift more than anything, and I watched the lyrics of the song float across my screen as the background photography faded to black.

In the way of things, that video shifted to the next one in queue on stream, and something about it drew all of my focus. The music was so soft it was barely a tinkle of chimes, and what appeared on my screen was this:

A blossom fell from a giant tree with wide, green leaves I did not recognize. The flower was a simple thing of little beauty: creamy with a pale orange center and a thick pistil. It fell to the fertile ground beneath the mother tree, and time-lapse showed it decay, seep into the soil, and new life spring from it's death.

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There wasn't one falling flower; there were numbers untold. And I watched a forest unfold.

Tiny flowers falling one by one, finding fertile soil and growing into something new. The title of the video was "Tulip Poplar." I tapped pause and picked up a pad and pen.

"A Thousand Tiny Deaths"

I watched a blossom fall

and felt it's tiny death.

It didn't end there

for the death was life, you see.

Without the falling blossom

far from the mother tree,

there could be no future flowers

for it or for me.

I see those falling blossoms

year after year,

and know that deep inside me

there's something l hold dear.

That in the fertile soil

of a million tiny deaths

new life flourishes,

and all good things find rest.

That was my poem for the day, so I uploaded it to my collection in the Royal Road Poetry Contest then copy/pasted it into HC's DMs along with the link to the "Tulip Poplar" video.

I paused a moment wondering how much I wanted to say, then decided to plunge forward.

Ayela: it appears there's more than comedy for my fingers to type. Thank you for the song. I don't have words, really. But I do have thanks. 💜

HC: I'm glad you like it. 🫂

Ayela: 🫂

I closed my DMs and put a bagel in the toaster, but before it finished my pad Pinged again.

HC: now I'm the one who has no words. Ayela, this poem . . . this poem.

If I say nothing, will you know how much I see in it?

Ayela: I will. Thank you.

HC: 💙 I won't say it and embarrass you, but you know I mean it.

Ayela: 💚 you know I do too

Damn. I didn't want to say that. I what? Loved HC Maron? Like he was my dad or grandpa or something?

I kinda wanted to give up on the bagel and coffee and cry in the shower again, but I decided against it. No, don't take that seriously. Love and affection were things I craved, but this wasn't real. It was Discord. People threw emojis on everything to make it look cool.

HC Maron was a kind old man who liked poetry. I mean, this contest was his idea after all, so he was probably just being a dad. He knew I didn't have one of my own anymore, and gods, he probably had kids, right?

That must be all it was; just someone trying to cheer up a girl they felt sorry for.

I was rather pitiful, wasn't I? Yeah, if I knew some kid with my story, I'd sure want to send them hearts and tell them how great everything they wrote was.

He wasn't really a best-selling author who thought I was something special.

It was my dead parents that mattered.

Not me.

With that thought repeating in my brain, I decided maybe that crying shower wasn't such a bad idea after all.