I hope you guys like this chapter.
By the way, I have to say that if Theo asking Elsa to call Anna is ''very close to emotional blackmail'' then I'm gonna have to take a hard look at my own experience with it because it seems like I've been wrong this whole time.
Thank you for reading, guys.
If Anna were to rip off every page of every journal that lay on the floor and decided to tape each one of them to the walls of her apartment, she would be able to cover every corner of it with not a single glimpse of beige paint ever to be seen again.
But Anna wouldn't do that, even if the idea is so ludicrous that she has fun entertaining it for about a minute. She could wake up every morning to the sight of her own handwriting staring back at her, standalone sentences or entire pages filled up with scrawls that she often categorizes as awkward and timid pertaining to her early college years; lulling and even painful to read belonging to the few years she could barely get a word out; messy, quick and almost urgent reflecting the last few months of her life, as though she were chasing after the ideas in her mind, never catching up.
Anna doesn't quite know what she's looking for amidst traces and scraps of her own musings. Some of them are so old they're cringy and some others are so ambiguous Anna wishes she could go back in time, find her younger self and ask, YOU CALL THIS A PROMPT?! Although she thinks: it must be this way for everyone else. Going back to one's old writings is like thinking about one's own past. Some of it makes sense, some of it doesn't. Some is funny, some is depressing. Some of it makes you say out loud: What the fuck was I thinking?
But life goes on either way, and one must keep writing either way.
She does, however, know what she's doing. She's fishing for ideas in the old, sluggish lake that is her consciousness. It doesn't hurt to try. Writers do it all the time, right? It's part of the process, seeing how much you've improved, laughing at your own incongruousness at times, drawing out ancient ideas, blowing some air on them to get rid of the dust and polishing them to make them look like new. Hey, this just occurred to me yesterday. Definitely not two years ago when I was alone and depressed.
It's been a little over three weeks since she met up with Lauren. Three weeks of searching, writing, and searching some more. She wakes up in the morning, looks at herself in the mirror and thinks: today is breakthrough day. Except that it isn't. And it's not that she isn't inspired, like before. She is. Ideas come and go, they dangle in front of her when she least expects it: inside coffee shops, in the train, at the grocery store in the fruits and veggies department. Hell, even at work where one is supposed to be thinking about work. But there are small, trite ideas and there are ideas that make you want to write an actual book. Two hundred plus pages of absolute nonsense (to you) that may reach the hearts of one or two people according to your targeted audience.
Anna feels as though she were standing in front of a claw machine—the one with the shiny, multi-colored stuffed bears—and she keeps putting in 50 cents borrowed from her sanity piggy bank but no shiny, multi-colored bear comes out. The claw is weak. The bears are too big. But she keeps trying. She moves the claw with surgical precision, her nose almost touching the glass. The claw goes down, down, down and... nothing. So Anna slams the machine with her fist and exclaims, "This is rigged!" before the aloof teenage employee approaches her and asks, "What's the problem?" with a voice so impassive he's almost explicitly saying, "I hate my job." And Anna demands to know why, no matter how many 50 cents she puts in, the claw won't pick any bear up. "Because it's rigged," the teenage states as if everybody in the world, even the Pope, knew. And Anna fumes. She kicks the machine, glares at the smiling stuffed animals inside and, begrudgingly, pulls out another two quarters. Because one of these days it will be breakthrough day. One of these days the machine that is her own writing won't be rigged. And one of these days she will have a multi-colored bear to show the world.
She picks up one of her college journals to see what her college self had to say. It's a composition book with the classic grainy black and white style. She remembers it being one of the three journals she bought at Shakespeare & Co. during her first year at NYU. Back during her brief period of time obsessing over Shakespeare's sonnets and plays. She opens the notebook on the first page and chuckles at her own predictability. Lines belonging to her favorite Shakespearean works fill up the space like threads of a whole tapestry.
If music be the food of love...
"Play on," Anna finishes out loud with a smile. A pair of beaming blue eyes appears like a mirage in the back of her mind, beckoning her farther away from the present and into a memory that is vague and fragmented. There are trickles of music, afternoon sunlight, a gentle breeze. There is the taste of Elsa's lips and the taste of sadness, too.
The memory shakes her almost the same as the moment itself once did.
She goes on leafing through the journal absentmindedly. Searching but not really looking. There had been so much in her college self's mind, she realizes, but not a lot that feels profound now. Is it common to categorize your younger issues into trifling matters? No, she supposes it is not. Some people take them seriously because they were once serious. For Anna, it feels as if their magnitude had diminished with every passing year. Shrinking and shrinking until they became so small all she had to do was give them a kick. Stones eroded from her childhood years, falling off the bridge and into the water.
She stumbles upon a short piece of writing. Something akin to a prompt, she figures. You call this a prompt? resonates in her mind again. It makes her give out a tiny snort.
She (who?) stepped into the train one fortuitous day with her head held high and a gait as purposeful as the one belonging to a queen. Her scent was that of Her steps were mutely counted by the rest of us; each one more boisterous than the last one. Her gaze, impassible and penetrating; a pair of ice cold irises that looked around the car in such an inconspicuous a manner that she seemed as though she were reading each one of us like a book placed at her mercy.
Anna stares at the words, a mixture of laughter and an embarrassing groan bubbling up in her throat. She closes the notebook and throws it back onto the messy pile that sits between her legs. Her hand hovers over another journal but it retreats almost immediately. It tells Anna: "Chill, for a sec," and she decides to listen. She reclines against the bed with a loud exhale. The room answers back with its usual, surrounding silence.
The time on her phone says 6:54 PM and even this is mocking. She can't believe she's spent over an hour sitting on the floor going through old stuff. She needs to find something else to do. She needs to stand up because she can no longer feel her body from her waist down and she needs to make some coffee so that she can keep doing whatever it is that she thinks she's doing.
Anna stands up as if carrying on her shoulders the weight of her whole life's laments. She limps to her kitchen: her left foot has fallen asleep. Needles prick and travel from the tip of her toes all the way up to her calf as she curses and reaches the counter. Coffee, coffee, coffee. She opens the cabinet. No coffee. Anna narrows her eyes. She checks all the other cabinets. No coffee still. This must be a joke. But she knows it isn't because this is what her life has become. In between waiting to see Theo again to discuss the probabilities of her love life and finding a book-worthy idea—insert work duties somewhere in there—Anna has forgotten to go grocery shopping.
"How dare you," she tells herself.
Regardless of whatever answer she may summon, Anna steps away, limping still. She doesn't change out of her clothes; decides that it is inconsequential to leave her apartment dressed in an old NYU shirt and sports shorts. She eyes the pile of notebooks with detachment, suddenly aware that she won't be finding her shiny teddy bear in there.
She takes her keys and her phone and puts on her favorite pair of Chucks. She decides to leave the lights on in the apartment, for when she returns. It has always made her feel less lonely.
For a while, Anna doesn't know where she's heading.
She had intended to buy a coffee from across the street, maybe even a sandwich, and come back home feeling proud to have succeeded at least at that. But the warm evening had been beckoning, eternally tempting in what Anna considered to be her favorite time of the year. So she chose to walk instead; move past the corner coffee shop where they knew her name, her order and the one time she spilled coffee at the entrance, and explore once more the streets she could roam with her eyes closed.
The keys jangle in her pocket, her phone flaps. They keep pulling at her shorts, weighing them down, and Anna keeps having to pull them back up until she pauses at a corner and tightens them up—something she should have done since before leaving her apartment but something she never, ever did. Habits and all that. However, she doesn't go down the avenue as she so often does, but instead chooses to go down West 4th. A path she hadn't followed since her college years, back when she'd munch on an everything bagel while walking down the street and drink her coffee while waiting for the lights to turn. She knew one or two things about time management even back then.
The street is lively. The lights of every business blend in with the darkened blue of sunset's remnants. Anna's ears are pricked with traces of conversations as she passes people by. A woman is having an argument over the phone; two girls carrying grocery bags are laughing; a man and a woman seem to be talking about work; two men are discussing a roommate's sex life. Anna overhears their words as though she were pulling at loose, random threads, never knowing what will come out.
She reaches 7th Avenue as if by chance: she had not been paying close attention. Across the street there is a pizza joint, and Anna decides it's time for a nutritious dinner even if the memories the place elicits are brought back to the forefront of her mind with a single glance.
There is a tiny jazz bar not too far from this pizza joint. A cubbyhole kind of place in the basement of some Village building. Crampy, noisy, but with good drinks and even better music. Anna remembers having wondered how they'd managed to fit a baby grand piano in there. They had all gone out that night, she remembers that too. Kristoff, Eugene, Rapunzel, Elsa... They'd taken turns listening to the live band and talking animatedly at the bar. They'd gotten buzzed, clumsy and loud but not entirely loose-headed. They'd had pizza afterwards. At this exact place.
Anna gets a cheese slice and goes to sit at the bar by the window. She eats slowly, distractedly. It had not hit her until a couple of months after their decision to take a break that their group dynamic had suffered because of it as well. It had shifted, become convoluted. No longer did they hang out the five of them. The ties that bounded them together loosened and they ceased to be what they once were. Anna missed this constantly. She wondered if Elsa did too; if any of them ever did.
She places her half-eaten, folded slice of pizza back on the grease-stained paper plate. She dangles her feet above the tiled floor, wipes her fingers with a napkin. How much longer, she thinks, of waiting around? Should she say 'fuck it all' and look for Elsa herself? Do a stake out at the elderly center? Or should she just accept Elsa's silence as her definite answer? Anna would be lying if she said that every day that went by didn't make her lean more and more towards the latter. The last thing she wanted to do was put any pressure on Elsa, keep her back where she may not want to be. If Elsa wanted full out, then so be it. She'd meant what she said in the text. She wanted nothing more than for her to be happy.
But this limbo. This fuckery of an Alighieri-like situation. It was no bueno.
Anna finishes her slice with a mopey attitude. Upon exiting the place she considers going back home, but be it the warm night or the liveliness of the neighborhood, Anna doesn't feel ready to return.
She continues east, following the path that will take her to NYU. Up above: an airplane blinking across a starless sky. Looking at them now, Anna realizes that she wished upon many of them back when she was a kid. She used to think stars could move like that. Like shooting stars but old, because they traveled much slower. The virtue of innocence, she thinks now, makes one wish on a streetlamp with the conviction that it'll become true. But maybe it was never about the object. Maybe it's always been about the belief.
When she reaches 6th Avenue, Anna makes a sudden right, southbound. The destination comes to her like a thought bursting through as she passes by the basketball courts where a game is taking place. She hears the squeaking of shoes, the ball bouncing, the men calling out to each other. In the distance, a number of strings are playing.
One more block and she'll have reached the park. A corner park, she thinks they call them. Or at least she thinks they should. Square just doesn't make sense when its shape is a triangle. Anna eyes those already occupying the benches. She observes the water that cascades down the fountain but cannot quite hear it: there is far too much going on outside this tiny place.
In the pocket of her shorts, her phone suddenly rings.
It is not that the name on the screen scares her, really, but the effect it has on her is undeniably physical. It petrifies her, glues her to the ground on which she stands, unable to breathe.
Elsa is calling.
She picks up without a second thought. "Hello?"
There is a pause. "Hi," comes from the other side of the line.
Anna's face breaks into a tentative grin. She doesn't know what to do, what to say. For a moment she forgets everything except for Elsa's name. "Hey," she repeats, willing herself to get a grip. "How," she clears her throat, "How are you?"
There is a longer break this time. Enough for her to find the nearest bench and sit on it. The iron is cold against the back of her thighs. It barely bothers her.
"I'm okay," Elsa finally breathes. "What about you?"
"I'm okay as well," she replies a little too quickly, unable to keep her emotions from manifesting themselves on her wavering voice. For so long, Anna had pictured this moment. She'd dwelt on it, recreated time and again the same event under different circumstances. What would they tell each other? Would it be easy? Difficult? Would they be angry, accusing each other of not having reached out sooner? Or would they be willing to leave everything behind, just like that. She would be prepared, she often told herself. But she should have known. She should have known the effect Elsa's voice would have on her.
"Are you busy?" Elsa asks, "I can call another time, I—"
"No, no," Anna responds, "It's okay. I was just... walking. Doing nothing. Don't worry about it."
"Okay." Yet another well of silence, the kind that exists between strangers. Anna grips her phone tighter as she hears Elsa sigh and speak again: "This is awkward."
She closes her eyes. "I'm sorry," she murmurs.
Elsa doesn't appease her. Instead, she says, "It's just... been a while."
"It has been..."
Anna can picture her with almost as much clarity as if she were sitting by her side. Eyes downcast, arms loosely wrapped around her midriff. Anna wishes she could reach out to her and say out loud what's been swarming in her mind for so long. But how can she bridge that gap? Small steps, a voice tells her. Anything that'll move them forward from here.
"Are you at home right now or..?"
"No," Elsa says.
"Oh." She nibbles at her lip. "Not at home then?"
"No," she repeats. "I'm at work right now."
Anna nods despite not being seen. "Night shift," she comments. She would like to think Elsa smiles a little at this, as if after all this time Anna still had a grasp of working hours at the hospital. However, Elsa does nothing to acknowledge it but for a soft humming sound.
"I'm not sure... I don't know why I'm calling you right now to be honest," Elsa breathes into the phone, "I should be looking at tests or finding something to eat, or resting. But Theo asked me to do it and I just couldn't..." She chokes up at the last word, unable to finish her sentence.
"What's wrong?" Anna asks. She hears a muffled cry, but no answer still. "Elsa? What happened?"
"She has cancer, Anna."
"What?"
"Theo... She has cancer."
The air escapes her lungs as if someone were pressing against her chest. Words begin to resonate in her mind; distant at first, drawing closer and closer until they're all around her, dragging her into a sea of sorrow. She's starting to feel a tight pain in the back of her throat, a stinging in her nose. Anna's vision is blurring. She feels like screaming.
"I'm sorry," Elsa murmurs in response to her silence, "I shouldn't have called right now. This probably wasn't the best time for either of us. But it was getting to me again, and I needed... I had to call you, Anna."
She closes her eyes at this. At the sound of her name coming from Elsa's lips, at the words that have been left unsaid, at the unbearable sadness of it all. She looks up at the sky then, to keep her tears from falling. Where is the moon and the stars when she needs them? Where is the gentle comfort of the night?
"How bad is it?" she asks with a weak voice.
"It's spread already."
"So that's—it's bad, right? When it spreads that means it's gotten bad. Where—how? I mean where is it? What kind? What are the chances?" Anna knows she's babbling, but she feels as though she's lost her footing. She doesn't know which questions to ask, and the answers she receives she will not know how to interpret. All she has is Elsa right now. Elsa's explanations. Elsa's reassurances. Elsa's comfort. Elsa. It has always been her.
"We only just found out this weekend," Elsa tells her, calm but rough around the edges. Cracks in her voice made by the pressure of sadness and exhaustion. "She... only told me because she said you asked her to. She says she was feeling nauseous, right?"
"Right."
Elsa breathes lowly. "Right," she repeats. "I mean it could have meant a hundred different things. I honestly didn't think it would be cancer but at that age it's always better to cross out every option with tests and scans and... yeah." She trails off, leaving enough time for Anna to silently question if it is because she doesn't want to be caught at ease. "It's pancreatic cancer," she adds. "Which has metastasized already. Neither of those things are good."
"Cancer is never good," she mutters.
"No. It isn't. But cancer in the pancreas is not... The chances are very slim."
She lets out a shuddering breath, wiping away the tear that's begun to roll down her cheek. "Okay," she whispers. "So what's next? Will she get chemo? Surgery?.. Am I asking too many questions?"
It is the first time she is sure she can hear a smile in Elsa's voice. It may be small, tired, even sad. But Anna knows it's there. She can feel it in her heart. "You're not asking too many questions," Elsa tells her softly. "As to what's next, I don't know. That's Theo's decision. She said she wanted to think about it and that she'll tell me this weekend."
Anna nods again. "That sounds... wise, I guess." She exhales. "I don't know... I wish I did, though. I wish I could just be able to cure her or something."
Elsa whispers, "Me too."
The silence that follows feels different, more tender than before; a phantom of what they used to have. Anna hears little coming from the other side of the phone call: a faint rustling of the wind, what seems like a car driving close by, Elsa's breathing coming in and out. There is a shared sadness, a temporary agreement to focus on the present rather than the past.
"Where are you?" Elsa asks her when an ambulance rushes down the street.
"I... a park," she answers, "Not sure which one. But the one that's close to Washington Square. The tiny one."
"There are many tiny ones in that area, Anna."
"The triangle one that shouldn't be called a square, remember that?"
Elsa pauses. "The one where you dropped your ice cream once?"
"Yes," Anna says, intimately without her meaning to. "That one." She has to bite her lower lip to keep herself from smiling. It should be incongruous to feel this way; to feel both the weight of sadness and the comfort of what was once so familiar permeating her soul.
"I'll leave you to it then," Elsa tells her after a moment. "I should go back anyway."
"Okay," she breathes.
"Okay..."
"Elsa?"
"Yes?"
Anna doesn't feel ready to let her go just yet. "Thank you," she says, "For telling me."
"Of course," she murmurs.
A lull stretches itself out until Anna decides to speak out one last time. "Can I ask you something?"
"... Sure."
"Will you... Would it be okay if I came to see Theo this weekend too?"
Elsa breathes out a long and quiet exhale before she softly answers: "You don't have to ask me that."
Flowers carry their own language, as intrinsically developed as the petals that blossom from their buds. Almost every imaginable sentiment can be expressed through them. Conceit, love, passion, regret. Grief. Purity. Forgiveness. In the Victorian era, a flower handed with the right hand meant 'yes.' A flower handed with the left meant 'no.' A woman given a red rose by her suitor to demonstrate his love and devotion may respond with a yellow carnation to declare disdain, or a yellow pansy to let him know she's thinking of him as well. Flowers given upside down conveyed the opposite of what was traditionally meant. There is gardenia, for secret love. Hydrangea, for gratitude. Hyacinth: blue for constancy, yellow for jealousy. Flowers give power to the playful art of silent communication. They lend out messages, the same way poets speak of trees whispering through the wind.
Anna has sought out a flower shop in Queens. It is the sensitive thing to do, she thinks. The natural course of things. But more than that, Anna doesn't want to show up empty handed. She wants to buy something cheerful, she'll tell the flower shop girl. But nothing that comes too close to a 'get well soon' bouquet. Something pretty, colorful; that will brighten up Theo's room for a week or two.
The place is called Ophelia's Bouquet. A small corner shop in the edge of the suburbs only blocks away from the Center. Succulents of various sizes line up its window sills from the outside. Next to the entrance, tiny flower pots sit on two upside-down wooden crates. The mingled fragrance of dozens of different types of flowers reaches her nostrils as soon as she steps in, a bell dinging above. The walls are soft green, the two sentences painted high up behind the counter a deep pink.
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance...
...and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
Vaguely Shakespearean, Anna thinks. Yes, yes, of course, she remembers some of it. Hamlet. That one monologue where Ophelia loses it and shows up to the castle looking like a hot mess. There's fennel for you, and columbines. Anna conceals a smile. Seems like the Bard's been following her around lately.
She greets the person who's trimming stems by the counter. Not a girl, but a flower shop man close to Anna's age. He smiles at her when she begins approaching and welcomes her to Ophelia's Bouquet.
"What's the occasion?" he asks.
Anna's mouth opens and closes. She tells him there is none but, "Is there something cheerful? Maybe for someone who's just received bad news and needs some cheering up? But nothing too obvious. Just neutral ground. I don't wanna depress her further by trying to... you know." She doesn't think he knows. She doesn't even know herself. She is extremely nervous, that is all she's able to recognize.
"Something neutral and not too depressing," he repeats.
"And cheerful."
"Right." He hums for a bit. "Yellow tulips for sure." The man steps around the counter and heads for the rows of flower bunches that line up one of the walls. He begins sorting through the tulips, pulling at the brightest yellow ones he can find. Anna stands just a few feet behind him, fidgeting. "How do we feel about lilies?" he asks her.
"Uh, good? They smell good."
He nods without looking at her, immersed still in something he clearly enjoys doing. He pulls a few lilies by the stem, soft yellow petals to contrast with the sharpness of the tulips' color. Walking back towards the counter he asks her if she wants a bouquet or a vase. Definitely a vase, she responds. He arranges the flowers one by one with faithful precision, filling the spaces in between with white baby's-breath; two or three branches of rich green myrtle and fine tree fern.
"Most yellow flowers signify things like cheerfulness and hope," he explains as he gives the arrangement the last few touches. "Even friendship in most cases. Then of course there's a few exceptions like the yellow—"
"Carnation?"
"I was going to say rose, but yeah." He smiles curiously at her. "You did your research."
"I just didn't want to give off the wrong message, you know?"
"Sure," he smiles, genuinely this time.
"It's not too lame, you think? Buying someone flowers that'll wither and die in a couple of weeks?"
"Lame? No. Sad, maybe."
Anna dwells on this. She grazes the tulips, the lilies, the miniature petals of the baby's-breath. They are supple and soft, fragile under the weight of her fingers. If one could touch life, she thinks, this would be it. "Why do you think people still buy them, then? If it's sad?"
"Because I don't think they consider that at all," he responds. "I think it's more about the message it sends at the beginning, regardless of whatever type of flower they end up getting."
"Which is what?" she asks.
He says: "I'm thinking of you."
She can't help but smile at this. That's it, all right. Flowers carry their own language and they speak in a way words never quite could. They break through the silence, fill in the gaps. But when symbolism and ancient meanings are scraped off the surface, they are all left with nothing but the same message.
Anna speaks just as he's about to ring her up.
"Do you have sunflowers?"
For the last couple of blocks, Anna doesn't know whether she should sprint or slow down, fully freak out or take deep, calming breaths. She is a mess, internally. Externally she is just another stranger walking through the suburbs, listening to the chirping birds, carrying a floral arrangement and a single sunflower wrapped up nicely in brown paper and secured by a dark green silky ribbon.
Somebody is mowing their lawn somewhere and even this sets her on edge. Maybe she should count her steps, focus on the cracks of the sidewalk (step on a crack, break your momma's back) but there are no cracks to avoid, only fallen leaves and twigs. Who keeps these sidewalks so clean? So devoid of childhood games?
What is she going to say to Theo? To Elsa? She doesn't know which to consider first. The thought of Theo forms a knot in her throat; the thought of Elsa makes her hyperventilate. She should focus on the receptionist instead. If it's Tom, she will ask him what book he's reading. If it's Miriam, she will ask about her baby. If it's Linda, she'll ignore her because she's a bitch. And then what? She will have to go inside. Up the stairs, maybe, depending on how Theo is feeling today. Oh, Theo. This is not fair. It never is. Fuck cancer. Fuck it right in the—
A man runs past her and she's startled. He's just jogging. Okay. Phew. He scared the shit out of her. But who runs with the sun this high up?
She wonders if Elsa still runs. But she's wondered about this before, hasn't she? She's tried to dissect every detail of her life without Anna in it. She's wondered about what she does at the hospital, about whether or not her habits have slowly changed, about the people she's met along the way. She's wondered, too, whether Elsa's been with anyone else during this time, and how she would react if she had. Would it hurt? It sure would. It would ache, both physically and emotionally, but Anna would never be able to hold it against her. Three years had been a long time. She could not be angry if life just... happened.
So what of the kiss? a voice asks her. Well, that had been different. It felt different: a mistake that was never supposed to happen. But Anna doesn't wish to think about this right now. Not when she can see the Center already on the other side of the street.
She feels herself growing restless with every step she takes to cross the street, her nervousness compressing harder and harder around her body. She shudders despite June's warmth and remembers, all of the sudden, the reason why she's here. She remembers the circumstances like a wave crashing down on the shore, abruptly and all at once. The small traces of life she holds in her arms, which have nothing to do with her own; that hold none of her happiness, none of her sorrows. When she delivers them to Theo, what will they amount to?
A twinge of sadness comes to her as she makes her way inside.
It is Miriam today at the desk and Anna stops by in order to mentally prepare herself. She asks about the baby, as planned, and asks about everyone else while she's there. Miriam speaks with her freely, gives her what she asks for and more. It soothes her in a way, to be reminded that nothing much has changed inside these walls since the last time she was here.
Miriam tells her Theo is upstairs, and that so is Elsa. Anna nods to let her know she's heard her, hoping that she can't tell just how much of an effect this has on her.
She travels up the stairs one at a time. Her feet are heavy, her breathing is erratic. Her heart thrums inside her ribcage, struggling to get out, to go faster and leave her behind. It knows what's coming. It has waited for this moment for more than three years.
The sound of their voices reaches her just as she's beginning to rise up her hand to knock on the open door. She stops inches away from it, and Anna stands there, frozen and breathless. She registers Theo sitting on the bed with a smile that widens when she sees her. And she registers the girl sitting on a chair close by: the hands intertwined on her lap, the hair cascading over her shoulder, the lean neck, the soft lips, the faint freckles, the pair of deep blue eyes.
Elsa.
Everything escapes her at once; every mistake that came in between them, every aching well of silence, every single decision that drew them farther and farther apart. There is no more trace of what ifs, no more wishing for things to have happened differently. It has all been washed away by this moment, if only for a glorious instant.
"Honey."
Anna looks at Theo, who gives her an encouraging nod. It makes her realize she's been standing by the door for the past few seconds, staring back at Elsa.
It is enough to get her to talk.
"Hi."
"Hi," Elsa says back.
She takes one step inside. "I..."
Nothing comes.
"Oh, good lord," Theo mumbles. "Are those flowers ya got, sugar?"
Anna glances down at the vase she's still holding. "Yes," she says, "I brought these for you." She steps farther inside on positively quivering legs, edging dangerously close to where Elsa sits in this tiny space. Her scent reaches Anna's nose. It takes everything in her to ignore this.
She places the vase on Theo's desk but keeps the sunflower in her hand. She notices the way Elsa's gaze flickers down to it, but has no idea how to go about any of this. So she stalls, moves to the other side of the room, by the foot of Theo's bed.
"What are you gonna do with that sunflower?" Theo asks her with a hint of amusement. Anna looks at her, then at Elsa. Too soon. She looks down at the flower. Too soon. She stammers. Too soon. She speaks: "It's for you as well."
It is too soon, she repeats in her mind as she begins to move again. Too soon. Elsa stands up to let her pass and their eyes connect as Anna edges past her. Not a single part of them touches, but Anna feels their connection rattle her bones from head to toe. Elsa gives her the faintest of smiles, and she reciprocates the same way. I missed you, she wants to say. But it is too soon.
Anna finds herself before Theo and it's as if the thoughts in her mind had suddenly weaved and shifted. She gives her the flower, not unaware of the fact that she does so genuinely. "You look very pretty today," she tells her, and the next moment she is hugging her, burying her face in her shoulder. She feels Theo give her a squeeze, gently rub the back of her head. She wills herself not to cry.
"No time for tears yet, baby girl."
Anna shakes her head.
"Today's a good day, okay?"
Anna nods.
"Now, I'll need you to step back 'cause my neck is hurtin'."
Anna chuckles but does as she's told.
"How are you feeling?" Elsa asks from behind her.
Theo gives them both a mirthful grin. "I'm feelin' splendid."
Anna finally goes to sit at the foot of the bed, her emotions subduing, quietening inside of her. "Have you decided what you're going to do?"
"No," she responds, "And I still got a day to think it over so let's just leave it at that."
"Theo," both girls say at the same time, causing them to look at each other for a pause that is broken by Elsa looking away, the ghost of a blush on her cheeks.
"You shouldn't drag it out," she tells the elder. "If you go for treatment, the sooner you start the better."
Theo twiddles with the stem of the sunflower. "That's the thing, honey. I don't know if I want treatment."
"But why?" Anna asks.
"'Cause it can't be cured with chemo."
"You don't know that," Elsa argues.
She rolls her eyes stubbornly. "Yes, I know. Gaby told me."
Anna narrows her eyes. She doubts Gaby gave out that piece of information willingly. She then glances over at Elsa, who is clearly struggling to find the right words. She decides to help her out a little.
"How did you fish it out of her?"
Theo raises a resolute hand. "Irrelevant."
She tries. She really does. It shouldn't be funny, but Anna is unable to keep her laugh in. What a sliver of joy this brings her, to know that Theo will not stop being sassy. And what a joy as well that, looking over at Elsa, she finds a very similar reaction.
"We should still discuss your options with a doctor," Elsa suggests.
"Okay," Theo agrees with a hint of reluctance. "You can make an appointment and let me know. But tomorrow, right now I'm gettin' sleepy and I wish to sleep."
"But I just got here," Anna whines.
Theo points at her with the sunflower. "You were late, missy."
She pouts, to which the elder responds with a wink. "Go now," she says, "Do what young adults do on weekends. Whatever that is." When she notices the reluctance in both their expressions, she adds: "I promise I'm fine."
Unsure of how to proceed, Anna lets Elsa be the first to move. She watches her stand up slowly without looking her way, hug Theo goodbye, tell her a few last words. Anna understands her stepping aside as her queue to say goodbye to Theo as well. She feels Elsa move behind her as she hugs her, senses her leave the bedroom when Theo says, "Next weekend, just you and me, honey."
Anna nods despite the gnawing dejection she feels at having noticed Elsa leaving. "Promise me you'll see the doctor this week?"
"I promise."
She accepts this, making a move to go before Theo squeezes her hand one last time. "Good luck, honey," she tells her.
Anna gives her a sad smile, and leaves the room.
She walks down the stairs weighed down by despondency. She is disappointed at how things have turned out, how they have begun and ended just as quickly. It shouldn't have been hard asking Elsa to stay. But maybe that's what needed to happen. Maybe she's finally found the answer she's been seeking for weeks.
Miriam is speaking on the phone by the time she reaches the lobby. She waves at her goodbye and the woman does the same. The smile that Anna gives her doesn't reach her eyes.
Outside, the sun is still warm and the birds are still chirping the same song. Everything has remained the same except for Elsa, who leans against the fence, looking away towards the street. Anna thinks she could cry—of relief, regret, or joy, she does not know. But she approaches with hesitant movements, as if by moving as she normally does were to startle her. But of course, Elsa has noticed her before she has even seen her, for she looks behind her shoulder and watches Anna close the distance between them.
Elsa takes her in and she does the same. There is little of her that has changed, yet the maturity she radiates is unmistakable. Her demure beauty, her discerning eyes, the quiet air that has always belonged to her; they have all grown with her. Undeniably so. They exist in silence, in this brief space in time where nothing else has place in their lives except for each other. Anna longs to touch her but the same two words resonate in her mind. Small steps, she thinks instead. No matter how far ahead her heart already feels; already holding her hand; already having her in her arms; already kissing her; already loving her again.
Small steps.
"Can we talk?"
Elsa pushes herself away from the fence, never once removing her eyes from Anna.
"Where do you want to go?" she murmurs.
And for now, that is all she needs to hear.
