Saffron's bedroom smelled like vanilla candles and burnt toast—with crumpled papers and pencil shavings scattered like secrets.
Mom's voice echoed from downstairs—sharp, breaking against Dad's silence.
Another scolding. Her report card lay open on the desk: 98 in Chem, 97 in Bio. Mom's red pen circled the B in English: "Unacceptable . Doctors don't write poetry." Dad's voice still rang from dinner; Medicine or nothing, Saffron. We didn't come to Willowmere for dreams."
She sat cross-legged on the carpet, guitar hidden under the bed like contraband. Notebook open. Purple ink bled;
"She was sleeping next door…
Holdin' her heart like a ballon…"
She didn't know who "She" was. Maybe her mom. Maybe herself. She hummed it low, testing the shape of the words. It wasn't real—just a feeling; guilt, want, being close but not seen.
The line came from nowhere. Or everywhere. A secret she couldn't sing at home. The melody slow like her breathe after crying. Her heart felt like that—holding on, floating fragile.
Rowan's text lit her phone:
"Boathouse. Midnight. Just us."
She smiled despite the ache. Rowan; her anchor.
Lark chimed in the group:
"I'll bring snacks."
Rowan:
"Saff you coming?"
Saffron:
"can't mom's on my case."
Lark:
"you okay?"
Saffron stared at the screen. Lark always asked, always knew. But tonight something felt….off. Like Lark was asking from farther away.
Her thumb hovered. She typed:
"Tired. Asleep soon."
She set her phone down. Wrote again.
"She's the wildflower …
I'm the withered one that watched her bloom…"
Wildflower… Not fragile. Not perfect. Just….growing through the cracks.
Downstairs, she heard her mom say…
"You'll thank us when you're saving lives."
Hours later, she slipped out. Boathouse shadows. Voices inside—Rowan and Lark were already there.
They sat on an overturned crate, guitar balanced on his knee, Rowan's hands on Lark's waist. Lark's head on his shoulder-odd yet it felt familiar, like a bruise she hadn't noticed forming.
"You were late," his voice was soft, the kind that made you lean in. "Saffron's asleep." like it explained anything.
Saffron's stomach twisted. Lark. Golden girl. The one whose laugh lit up the diner like sunrise.
She stepped closer. The floorboards creaked under sneakers.
"Play it again," she heard.
He did. The melody wrapped around her ribs, tight and suffocating. Saffron closed her eyes. In the dark behind her lids, she saw petals—white, fragile, falling.
When she opened them, they were kissing.
Her breath caught.
She should scream.
Should march in.
Instead, she backed away.
Back home, lights off. Dad's snores rumbled. Saffron locked her door. Pulled the guitar out. Strummed once. Twice. Wrote;
"Im the one who picked her…"
But tonight she wasn't sure who was picking who.
Tears hit the page, smudging the ink.
98 in Chem, 97 in Bio.
But Zero in being seen.
Insecurities bloomed. She whispered to the dark:
"Am I fading?"
The family silence downstairs mirrored her wilt.