Page 117 of Sad Girl Hours
“Yeah?”
“Yes. It said that some places in the north might be able to see the Northern Lights if it was a clear night, which – lo and behold – it definitely is. I know how much you love completing tasks, and this was one of our last things on the bucket list, so … I believe if we look north…”
I hardly dare to hope as she manoeuvres us both round. “Clue’s kind of in the name.”
“Then they might be…”
They’re not there. But, thankfully, we have a lot to do while we wait. Namely, kissing and talking about everything the other’s missed. I tell her about making the shortlist – turns out she already knew, but she tells me how proud she is and echoes Jenna’s surety that I’m going to win. I also tell her how fuckingweirdthe others were today, and how Vivvie literally pulled the goddamn f ire alarm just to get me to leave the building.
“Oh my GOD!” She laughs. “At least we know they’re all ride and die for us. I feel weirdly loved that she committed a felony just to manifest this.”
“They’re all batshit. But I love them.”
“Me too. And I loveyou.”
“I love you too.” I think it’ll take a while before my smile isn’t audible when I say that. “I never—”
“Nell…” Saffron freezes up, I feel her body tensing next to mine. “Look.”
At the edges of the hills, the sky has turned a deep amethyst with bright green light underneath it. It’s faint when I first turn my head but deepens with my gaze, the light swirling with invisible ridges, folding back in and out on itself.
My hand finds Saffron’s. Our fingers lace together and squeeze tight as we look out at the Northern freaking Lights filling the sky in front of us.
“Nell.” Saffron’s voice is tremoring but it doesn’t break the quiet, it compliments it, like the world knows we’re meant to be here right now.
“Yes?” I say, turning back to find her looking at me, not at the sky.
“I didn’t know it was possible to love – or be loved – this much.”
“Me neither. And yet…” My voice trails off to leave room for whatever’s to come.
She smiles. “And yet.”
How pretty it is to open one’s mouth to sing, without yet knowing the tune.
To lace up shoes without knowing over which earth their footprints will be scattered.
To love without knowing when or how it will end, only knowing at least one heart must be broken.
To write poetry not because you have the answers, but because you have questions to ask of the world and of yourself.
And the shape of the poem – while often less revealing than desired –
still reminds you of something
you’re not quite sure what
but there’s something there
that your words have helped you say hello to.
Whatever it was didn’ t come to you true like an arrow
aimed straight for the bullseye in your brain
it came slowly, timid and unsure.
But, over time, you get to know it,
