Page 20 of June

Weeks had passed since Aaron's departure, yet the weight of our last encounter lingered in the quiet spaces of my mind. Life, however, has a way of moving forward, even when the heart struggles to keep pace.

One afternoon, as sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room, Dad approached me. In his hands, he held a small box and an envelope, their presence both unexpected and heavy with meaning.

"Aaron left these with me before he left,"

he said gently.

"He asked me to give them to you when I thought the time was right."

My heart skipped a beat. I took the items from him, my fingers trembling slightly.

"Whatever you choose to do, I'm on your side. Always."

"Thank you,"

I whispered, my voice barely audible.

I opened the envelope first. Inside was a card, Aaron's handwriting unmistakable.

June,

I don't know if words can still reach you.

But if they can, let these be softer than the ones I once used to hurt you.

I'm sorry.

Not the kind of sorry that fades when it's convenient, or waits for forgiveness like a prize.

I mean the kind that lives in my bones now— The kind that wakes me up in the quiet hours

and reminds me what I lost when I forgot how to hold something good.

I wish I could go back. I wish I could rewrite the nights I made you feel small,

The mornings I made you question your worth.

But more than anything—

I wish I could kneel beside you at your mother's grave And be the kind of man who held you through that grief, Instead of becoming the reason you wept harder.

That's what haunts me most.

That I added to a pain I should've helped carry.

That I made you feel alone

That I reminded you that she is not here when you needed her,

I saw this necklace and thought of the two of you. Dancing in some memory I was never part of,

but always knew mattered more than anything. I know a gift doesn't make up for what I broke. But maybe it can be a small reminder— that there was love here once. That I see you, even from far away.

Take all the time you need. Take all the space. You don't owe me anything. But if there's ever a door open again— even just a crack— I'll be waiting.

No pressure. No expectations. Just hope.

—Aaron

Tears welled up as I opened the box. Inside was a delicate necklace—a pendant depicting a mother and daughter dancing together, captured in a graceful embrace.

Overwhelmed, I sat down, clutching the necklace.

Dad sat beside me on the edge of the couch, the box still open between us, the necklace catching a shard of late afternoon light like it was holding something sacred. He didn't speak right away. Just rested a warm, steady hand on my shoulder—the kind of touch that didn't try to fix anything, just reminded you that you weren't alone in it.

His voice was soft when it came.

"You're in control, June. This is your story to write.

And I won't think less of you if you decide to forgive him. Sometimes people do come back changed. But whatever you choose..."

His thumb rubbed a small, thoughtful circle against my arm.

"Please... don't break that man's heart."

I turned to him slowly, brows drawing together.

"He broke mine,"

I said, and my voice came out raw, not just with anger—but with the ache of all the versions of myself I'd had to gather off the floor.

He didn't flinch. Just gave a quiet nod, then tilted his head like he wanted me to see something I hadn't yet.

"I mean moonboy."

The name felt like a sudden hush in a loud room. I stared at Dad, startled.

"What? Why would I ever—"

He gave me that look. The one I'd seen my whole life—the one that told me he'd already watched the story unfold while I was still learning the first few lines.

"Because sometimes, when we're nursing old wounds,"

he said.

"we get so focused on the pain that cracked us open... we miss the quiet hands trying to stitch us back together. Sometimes, we forget the hearts that are standing close, not asking for anything—just hoping we'll look up long enough to see them."

His voice trailed off, but the words stayed, heavy and aching in the silence.

I looked down at the necklace again. And suddenly I wasn't just thinking of what had been lost—

I was thinking of Liam, waiting. With galaxies in his metaphors and kindness in his stillness.

Never demanding. Just showing up.

I opened the drawer slowly, the wood creaking like it, too, remembered. Then, with careful hands, I placed the necklace inside—the pendant catching the light for just a second before it disappeared into shadow. It landed beside the letter, still folded, still unread for a second time.

I didn't cling to them. I didn't cast them away. I simply let them be. A quiet surrender. Some things aren't meant to be carried or discarded—just...set down and left in peace. With a soft breath, I closed the drawer. Dad watched me from the doorway, silent until I turned toward him.

"We have a date,"

I said, trying not to smile like an idiot.

"Oh?"

he asked, amused now. "When?"

I shrugged, trying to play it off, my voice a little too breezy.

"He hasn't said yet."

He nudged me gently with his elbow.

"Well, when he does finally set a date, maybe warn me in advance. So I can prepare my talking-to-the-boy voice."

"You already did the voice,"

I muttered.

"I did the pre-date voice. There's a difference."

He explained and left.

After a while, I stood by the window and called him. He picked up after one ring.

"June,"

he said—soft, a little breathless, "Hey."

"Hey,"

I said, smiling before I could help it.

"Quick question."

"Go for it."

"When exactly were you planning to take me on this mysterious date of yours?"

I asked, trying for casual but already blushing.

"Because I may or may not have told my dad we had one. And I really don't want to look like I'm out here inventing fictional men for emotional clout."

He laughed, low and sheepish.

"Damn. Caught in 4K."

"Exactly,"

I said.

"So? Do I need to start photoshopping you into pictures, or are you going to make an honest woman out of me and take me somewhere?"

"I was waiting for your signal,"

he said.

"Didn't want to interfere with your... orbital velocity. Figured I'd follow your lead. Respect the gravity of your situation."

"Wow,"

I said, already smiling.

"That was a lot of space metaphor for one sentence."

"I'm nothing if not consistently on brand,"

he said.

"Also: still mildly terrified of your father."

"You should be."

"I am. The man stares like he's plotting my astronomical demise."

"Well, he did ask me once if you had 'intentions.'"

He made a panicked sound.

"Did you tell him I barely have coordination, let alone intentions?"

I laughed.

"I might've said you had one intention: to quote Carl Sagan until I cry."

"Hey. That's a very specific niche. And I've honed it for years."

There was a pause. Quiet static, but the good kind. The kind that feels like starlight waiting to be named.

"So?"

I asked softly.

"What about tonight?"

A beat. I heard a faint shuffle—papers maybe, the unmistakable squeak of his desk chair, a click that sounded suspiciously like a weather app loading.

"Hang on—"

"You're checking the sky right now, aren't you?"

"I am absolutely not checking the moon phase, atmospheric clarity, or meteor activity,"

he said.

"Nor am I consulting my totally-not-obsessive spreadsheet titled Potential Romantic Astronomical Events, Ranked by Heartache Risk and Light Pollution Index."

I snorted.

"You have a spreadsheet?"

"You don't?"

"You're impossible."

"I'm data-driven,"

he corrected.

"Tonight is ranked 9.7 for romance. That's premium stargazing quality. Ideal conditions for a first date and possible hand-holding under nebulous emotional tension."

I felt a giggle rise in my throat.

"So I should prepare for... what? Whispering constellations into the night and one dramatically timed forehead kiss?"

"Exactly,"

he said solemnly.

"The stars told me themselves."

I looked up. The sky was fading into that early blue dusk, the kind that always felt like the world holding its breath.

"So..."

I said, brushing a hair behind my ear.

"should I bring anything?"

"Bring yourself,"

he said.

"and maybe a hoodie. Or don't. I'll pretend to struggle before offering you mine, but it'll already be folded and waiting in the backseat. I like to plan my acts of chivalry."

I laughed, warmth blooming in my chest.

"You're unreal, you know that?"

"Only slightly celestial,"

he said.

"But completely real where it counts."

My heart fluttered. I bit my lip, already imagining it—blankets, stars, his voice pointing out the galaxies I could never name, like maybe he was trying to give them to me.

"See you tonight, then?" I asked.

"You will,"

he said.

"And June?"

"Yeah?"

"I promise the cosmos have nothing on you."

And just like that, the ache of the past folded a little smaller.

...I hadn't felt this kind of excitement in a long time. The fluttery, breathless kind that makes your hands fidget with your sweater hem even though it's already perfect.

I wore something cozy but soft, something that felt like me—but a little more radiant. A fitted cream-colored sweater, the kind that catches the sunset like gold, and jeans that hugged just right. My hair was loose, waves still warm from the curling iron, and I'd dabbed on a bit of my favorite scent—vanilla and something that smelled like dusk.

When Liam arrived, I swear the air changed.

He stepped out of the car with quiet ease, wearing a soft charcoal sweater that fit him a little too well, the sleeves pushed back in that careless, lived-in way. His trousers were dark and tailored just enough to hint at good taste without trying too hard, and his boots bore a trace of dust, like he'd walked through stories to get here. A pair of glasses perched on the bridge of his nose—sharp, classic, a little disarming. His hair was slightly tousled, and when he looked at me, those impossibly blue eyes—framed in lenses and fading sunlight—felt like they recognized something in me. Like I was the place he'd been meaning to arrive.

Then—when he reached down to grab something from the back seat—I caught a glimpse of a tattoo. Just a flicker of ink where his shirt rode up, curling over the dip of his back like a secret.

I blinked.

"Wait—was that another tattoo?"

He straightened, smirking. "Maybe."

I raised an eyebrow.

"What is it?"

"You'll see one day,"

he said, voice a little lower.

"Might even get to explore them. If you're curious enough."

My cheeks lit on fire. I opened my mouth to respond, but—

"Liam!"

my dad called from the porch, voice all parental authority.

"Got a minute?"

Liam's face froze.

"Operation Cosmic Charm has encountered turbulence."

I tried not to laugh.

"You'll survive."

He turned, composed himself like he was walking into a job interview, and gave me a wink before heading over to my dad.

Ten minutes and a handshake later, we were off. We drove away from the lights of town, the sun dipping lower, painting everything in pink and orange. The desert opened around us—wide, quiet, golden. Sagebrush rolled by like waves, and the horizon felt endless. As the sky dimmed, stars began to prick through the dusk like they were rushing to see us.

Finally, he pulled off the road and into a clearing surrounded by low hills and wild grasses, the kind of place that felt untouched—sacred somehow.

And then I saw it. He had set up an entire world.

There, in the quiet cradle of nature, Oh God! It was a blanket of soft pillows and throws—plush and layered in mismatched patterns that looked like they'd been chosen by heart, not a catalogue. Lanterns glowed softly in the corners, flickering like fireflies. A little cooler sat nearby, and beside it, a telescope already aligned with the sky. There were sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, strawberries, dark chocolate, and a thermos I was really hoping was full of hot cocoa.

"Liam,"

I breathed.

He was leaning against the car, watching me with that soft expression I was starting to know well. Like I was the thing he'd come to see, not the stars.

"I thought you deserved a night that didn't ask anything from you. Just gave."

My heart ached in the best way.

"You did all this?"

He shrugged, but his eyes sparkled.

"I told you. Astronomer by day, hopeless romantic by cosmic compulsion."

I laughed, full and warm.

"You forgot baker."

"Oh, there's crumble in the cooler,"

he added casually.

"Interstellar flavor profile, obviously."

I walked toward the blanket, toeing off my shoes and sitting down slowly, letting the silence wash over me. Crickets hummed in the distance, and above us, the stars were blooming—delicate and infinite.

He joined me, not too close, not too far. Just enough space to let me breathe, but enough warmth to remind me he was there. For a moment, I didn't feel broken or haunted by the past. I just felt seen.

The sky stretched above us, and I tilted my face to it, feeling the gravity shift—not around the Earth, but around us. Around this.

"Ready to meet the universe?"

he asked, lifting the telescope lens with a boyish grin.

The desert night unfolded like a velvet tapestry, the air crisp and filled with the scent of sagebrush. Liam stood beside me, his presence both comforting and exhilarating. He adjusted his glasses, the lenses catching the starlight, and gestured toward the sky.

"Look,"

he said, barely above a whisper, like he didn't want to wake the sky.

His voice curled around me like soft velvet, warm and sure.

I followed the angle of his hand, and there it was— a silver crescent, cradled between constellations, glowing with the kind of softness that only comes after surviving the dark.

"That's the Moon in Gemini,"

he murmured, his words slow, reverent, as if naming something sacred.

"Curiosity. Communication. A season of stories and second chances. And... unexpected connections."

I turned to him then— the stargazer and the scientist, the boy with galaxies in his mouth

and patience in his hands.

"Unexpected connections, huh?"

I said, lips curling.

"Like this one?"

He didn't look away. He held my gaze like it was a compass.

"Exactly."

The world hushed around us. Only the soft hush of wind through mesquite branches, and the heartbeat of the desert pulsing like it knew something was unfolding here— something stitched together by silence, by stardust, by the impossible nearness of now.

He shifted closer, our arms brushing— a spark, a flutter, the kind of touch that asks rather than takes.

"You know,"

I whispered, my voice trembling on the edge of wonder.

"this feels like something out of a dream."

He smiled, slow and steady, like sunrise climbing the back of night.

"Then let's make it a reality."

His hand hovered near mine—tentative, tender— like he was asking permission from the stars themselves. I gave it. Our fingers laced—warmth meeting warmth— and everything stilled.

Time paused. The earth held its breath. He turned to me fully, the starlight etching the soft edges of his face, and with one hand, he cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing the place where fear used to live.

"June,"

he breathed, like my name had been waiting on the edge of his tongue for years.

"I've been holding this in... holding you in my heart, quietly, for longer than I ever dared admit."

Then he kissed me—slowly, reverently—not like someone chasing a spark, but like someone who had studied every star in the sky... and finally stepped into the one that felt like home.

When we broke apart, breathless and aching, he rested his forehead against mine.

"Let's dance under the stars,"

he whispered, his voice a vow wrapped in starlight,

I blinked.

"You want to dance?"

"I know, I know—me, the guy who almost dislocated a hip trying to learn a box step. But..."

he gave a sheepish shrug.

"I'm willing to risk mild public embarrassment if it means holding you a little longer."

I laughed softly.

"You're ridiculous."

"Romantically ridiculous,"

he corrected.

"Also, mildly uncoordinated. But I brought backup."

He pulled out his phone, scrolled a bit, then hit play.

"Moon River"

floated through the air, soft and slow, that timeless ache woven into every note. The kind of song that didn't ask you to be perfect—only honest.

He offered his hand.

"Shall we?"

I took it, my palm slipping into his like it belonged there. And just like that, we were swaying—no choreography, no steps, just movement born from feeling. From the pull of something quiet and sure.

Liam was warm and solid against me, and even when he stumbled slightly, he didn't let go.

"See?"

he whispered, lips near my temple.

"No injuries yet. Progress."

I smiled against his shoulder.

"You're doing great."

He pulled me just a little closer, his arms wrapping fully around me now, holding me like he meant it.

"June,"

he murmured.

"I don't know where this goes. I just know I want to go there with you. Even if I trip over my own feet on the way."

I closed my eyes, pressing my cheek to his chest, where I could hear his heartbeat—steady, sincere.

The last notes of Moon River faded into the hush of the desert, but neither of us moved to break the quiet. Our hands remained laced, our bodies still swaying slightly, as if the stars themselves hadn't given us permission to stop yet.

Liam exhaled, soft and steady. Then he pulled back just enough to look at me, the playfulness in his eyes now shaded with something gentler—more vulnerable.

"There's something else I wanted to ask you,"

he said,"I was wondering if you'd come with me. To the gala,"

he said, a little breathless now.

"Be my date. Be the person I look for in the crowd when I start panicking about footwork and forget everything I've practiced."

I felt my chest swell, my heart stammering in a rhythm he somehow always found a way to match.

"I want you there,"

he added softly.

"Not just beside me. With me."

I smiled, leaning in just enough for our foreheads to touch.

"You had me at panicking footwork."

He laughed—a sound that cracked open something bright between us.

"Thank God. I was prepared to launch into a monologue about orbital synchronicity and emotional gravity."

"You still might."

"True. I'm not above using star metaphors to win affection."

I slipped my hand into his again.

"You don't need metaphors, Liam. You just need to show up."

His fingers tightened gently around mine, grounding and sure, as if he knew I needed something solid to hold onto in the quiet unraveling of this night.

"I will,"

he said, voice soft but certain, like a vow whispered to the stars. Then, after a breath, he added.

"Always. I promise."

There was no hesitation in him. No flourish, no dramatic pause. Just the quiet truth of a man who meant every word with the weight of his whole heart.

And before I could even respond, before the moment could slip away into silence, he leaned in and sealed that promise the only way that felt right. With a kiss. It wasn't rushed or showy—it was deliberate, reverent. A kiss that didn't just speak of affection, but of devotion.

His lips brushed mine like a tether to something real, and for one suspended second, the world faded—leaving only the two of us, and a sky full of stars bearing witness.