I move closer regardless, the impulse to lean across it and kiss her surfacing with a severity that makes denial impossible.
“Brandon, can I ask you something?” she asks, and I check my movement at the last second, my hand redirected toward the clover.
“Of course,” I say, brushing the green leaves as I pretend to search for a lucky one.
“Daisy and Jack keep telling me I should make a social media account. But I’m not sure. Do I have to be online?”
“Yes and no. You don’t have to let it consume your life.”
She frowns. “But where would I draw the line? I want to focus on creating, but if I’m spending a big chunk of my time responding to comments and messages…”
“You don’t have to engage. There’s no need to set a precedent. Treat it like a portfolio.”
“Like a business card?”
“Exactly. Or a creative outlet. Share posts or videos on what you’re working on. Then step away.”
“Hmm. I think I can manage that.”
“Or simply ignore the internet altogether.”
“Is that possible?”
“Probably not.”
I’ve seen artists lose themselves chasing numbers—likes and hearts and followers—and that was back when social media was still effective. From what I’ve heard, those days are long gone. Yet the internet is more relevant than ever.
I glance at her guitar, then back at her. “Play me one more,” I say softly.
She considers this, then she smiles. “Alright.”
Her fingers brush the strings, and the first few notes drift into the warm afternoon air.
“Any requests?”
“Not Dustin.”
She laughs. “Done.”
It’s so simple, so pure and gentle, yet every note hurts, just like earlier—only now, it’s sharper, deeper, like a heartache carving its way into my chest.
Doors open on a quiet room
And dust begins to swirl
Numbness fades, as something stirs
So slow, and sweet, and pure
It’s that spark again
It’s found me in the night
A treasure chest with chains and locks
Springs open to my touch
A tinderbox, a thousand stars
