I watch the horizon where she will disappear, willing the thread between us to hold fast. Even as she goes, I vow that I will remember her, always, and choke down the exquisite pain that comes with her loss with a deep thanks and grateful heart.The heartache was worth having her be mine, even if only for a little while. Even if she will never know.
In my eagerness to protect her, even from herself—to be just the smallest bit closer to her and shoulder her burden—I had unconsciously stepped right up to the edge of the trees. When her eyes flick up from the fire to meet mine, I freeze, shocked that she has seen me from this great distance.
Shooting a glance at the sky, I realize the full moon and starry expanse must have reflected back at her in my luminous eyes, glinting with a bright silver sure to draw her attention. The weight of her stare sinks into my soul, stripping it bare, bringing my pounding heart painfully to the surface, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. My adaptations to the harsh environment I call home can’t save me now. I have no defenses against her.
The shock and awe that accompany the rare instance I am seen are there, but above it rises a stronger current—so powerful it’s almost tangible, like the warming bite ofrakshi, the moonshine of the mountains. Heat, desire, and raw primal need floods my soul and pulses through my veins when our eyes meet. I see it reflected back at me in her gaze—she feels it, too.
Stunned, I stumble back, retreating into the welcoming, dark safety of the forest, watching as she runs off to her room, alone. I stand sentinel as the moon tracks across the sky and stars blink out of existence. As the sun rises, bathing the land in its golden glow—reminiscent of her curls that have captured my heart—I remain, desperate for one last look at the human who calls to me.
In the early hours, my nightlong vigil is rewarded when she emerges with several bags to say her goodbyes. The unshed tears only make her eyes more luminescent, my beautiful Winter Star. They call her Dahlia, but she has been named for the wrong flower. She ismy flower.
This is it. She looks over her shoulder, directly across theriver to where I stand hidden in the shadows. My heart leaps with the hope that she will come to me, drawn by this connection. But she simply turns back around and climbs into the vehicle.
This beautiful creature, who didn’t just capture my attention but breathed life back into my frozen heart, is gone. With a sigh so deep, it rattles the leaves around me, I turn and head back to my home. Alone again.
Chapter Three
Dahlia
The next morning, I make my way down the mountain, leaving behind the serene loneliness and crisp, clean air of the Himalayas. As I descend into Delhi, the bustling chaos consumes me.
The noise, the heat, the relentless press of people—after the quiet majesty of the mountains, the city feels claustrophobic. Even the airport, with its harsh fluorescent lighting and stale recirculated air, offers a small reprieve from the unrelenting sensory overload as I tuck myself away into a corner at my gate.
I type a quick text to Ben, telling him how excited I am to see him. My thumbs hover over the screen for a moment, lingering on the unspoken distance that’s grown between us. We haven’t talked much during my time away, but I brush the thought aside, chalking it up to mismatched time zones and busy schedules. Instead of hitting send, I lock the home screen, reassuring myself that everything will be just as it was once we’re face to face again.
I pull out my laptop, thinking I might get some work done,but the blank screen stares back at me, mocking. Without the plant, there’s no point. The data I need, the keystone of my research, is still out there somewhere, just as elusive as the hope I chased through the mountains no matter how many leads I had followed. Disappointment can wait until later.
Sighing, I stow the computer back in my carry on and scroll through the hundreds of photos on my phone instead. Faces and landscapes flash across the screen: Sita, my guide turned friend, laughing at something I said; her father, Tenzig, the welcoming host of the guesthouse I called home; the jagged peaks of the Himalayas piercing endless blue skies; and, of course, the plants—so many plants.
I love India. The warmth of the people, the spicy food, the tiny cups of chai served in clay cups. Somehow, this vibrant, foreign land felt more like home than I ever expected. But as I sit in the airport, watching the last sunset I’ll witness here, a bittersweet ache pulls at my chest.
The exotic country held me spellbound, but my real home calls to me now, its pull quieter but no less insistent. I think of the familiar comforts waiting for me: my small desk in the ethnobotany department, the quiet hum of the research lab, and the dusty, welcoming scent of the university library.
And, more than anything, I miss my fiancé. We’ve both been so focused on our careers, and Ben on climbing the academic ladder, that we promised to prioritize our relationship when I returned. The thought of seeing him is like a compass, pulling me back to true north.
Ben’s career had taken off while I stayed in the background. His first semester teaching had been wonderful, and I had fun helping him grade papers and plan lessons. We had both sacrificed so much to achieve our dreams and lay the solid foundation for a life together. By mutual agreement, we pushed his career forward first, knowing mine would then follow.
Now it was my turn to prove my worth in our field. But I'mnot sure how my failure will impact my funding and finishing my doctorate. Botany is already a small department, and specializing in ethnobotany, the study of not just plants but the relationship between them and people, is truly niche.
Disappointment burns in my throat, and my chest tightens in what is becoming a familiar feeling. I am older than most of the other doctoral candidates. Supporting Ben was a choice I made with love and conviction, but now I can't help but wonder if I had gambled away too much time. If maybe I should have directed some of my energy and efforts into myself.
No. I shake my head, forcing the doubt away. We followed our plan, and he is brilliant. Together, we’ll figure this out. I just need to get home to him. That’s all this melancholy is—exhaustion, defeat, the weight of too many goodbyes. India isn’t my home. The Pacific Northwest is. Our little house in the suburbs, minutes from the university, is where I belong.
When boarding is announced, I close the pictures with the finality of turning the last page of this chapter of my life; a grand adventure before settling into marriage and finding my way forward. But as I rise to join the line, that hollow feeling doesn’t dissipate. It clings to me, insistent, a whisper of everything I’ve left undiscovered—not just the plant, but also those damn silver eyes.
On the flight home, the cabin lights dim and brighten in a rhythm I no longer understand, marking a passage of time that feels meaningless. Between eating what I think is at least three dinners, I drift in and out of restless sleep, the hours blurring together as I anxiously await our arrival.
But even in sleep, there’s no escape. That gaze haunts me, unrelenting, always watching, always pulling. It doesn’t just linger at the edges of my mind—it wraps around me, as though it’s a part of me now, impossible to sever. A puzzle that I can’t help but want the solution to. A lingering heat that doesn’t dissipate even with the distance.
I press my forehead against the cool airplane window, hoping to anchor myself in the here and now. The endless darkness beyond offers no comfort, no answers. And yet, the feeling doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows stronger the farther I go, the connection pulling tighter with every mile until the tension thrums under my skin.
The clouds stretch below like a vast, empty ocean, but the thought surfaces unbidden—maybe I was never meant to leave. Maybe some part of me is still there, bound to that place, to that silver stare.
The idea steals my breath as awareness pricks the back of my neck, as if someone still stares. Watching. Waiting for me. I force myself to pull away from the window, but even as I close my eyes, I know the truth I’m not ready to face yet—some ties are too strong to break, no matter how vast the ocean.
Countless hours later, after a blur of stumbling through customs and baggage claim, the taxi pulls up in front of my house. The driver helps me wrestle my luggage out of the trunk, and I mutter my thanks, my mind already on what awaits me inside.
I try to leave thoughts of India behind and focus on the here and now. Reconnecting with Ben. Grounding myself in reality. Casting off the cloak of fanciful thinking and mysterious eyes. I shove my feelings down, determined to get back to serious, scientific Dahlia and focus on what matters—the next steps in finding the plant and, with it, the cure. That’s the only thing I can afford to concentrate on right now.
