The fairy who causes chaos. A trickster who meddles with love.
Written across the bottom of the snow globe in curly golden lettering is,Give me your hands, if we be friends.
My throat is suddenly burning.
“Mina?” His voice is worried. “If you hate it—”
“I don’t hate it.” The words come out thick and choked. “I love it.”
The tears are spilling over now, sliding down my cheeks, and I can’t stop them. This is the Cristiano I remember. The one who knew me. The one who paid attention to the things I loved.
My best friend.
“Hey.” He’s closer now, sitting on the edge of my bed, his hand hovering near my face like he wants to touch me but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“I’m not crying,” I lie, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I just wasn’t expecting this.”
“I know.” His voice is soft. “I don’t deserve to give you gifts. Not after what I did.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and impossible to ignore.
He looks down at his hands. “Mina, I…” He swallows hard. “I scared you that day. Really scared you. And I’ve regretted it every single day since.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. My throat is too tight.
“There is no excuse for what I did to you.” His voice is rough. “I’m so sorry, Mina. I know that doesn’t fix anything, and you won’t ever forgive me, but I need you to know that I would give anything to take it back.”
The snow globe is clutched in my hands, the glitter swirling around Puck’s tiny figure.
“Why didn’t you ever say this before?” My voice is barely a whisper. “It’s been four years.”
“I was trying to respect what you asked of me. And I was afraid that if I tried to apologize, you’d confirm what I already knew. That you hate me. That you’ll always hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and he looks up.
“You don’t?”
“I…” I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know anymore. “I was scared of you. But I don’t hate you, Cristiano. I never hated you.”
He’s closer now. When did he get so close? He’s sitting right beside me on the bed, his thigh almost touching mine, and I can feel the heat of him through his jeans.
“Mina.” He says my name, soft and urgent. “I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
He hesitates. Looks away. His jaw is tight, like he’s fighting with himself.
“It’s nothing,” he says finally. “Forget it.”
“Cristiano?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me, please.”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer. Then, so softly I almost miss it, he confesses, “I still think about you.”
