Chapter 18: Shadows of Doubt
Clara took one last look in the hallway mirror before heading out for the volunteer event. Her reflection was unmistakably her: untidy auburn hair, smudges of paint on her old favorite jeans, and a face that still carried traces of last night's laughter. But something else had shifted beneath that familiar image. It wasn't the magical glow of the ring she used to wear, nor the practiced perfect smile she once summoned at will. No, what Clara saw now was real—a quiet confidence. She gave her hair a quick snap and tugged at a stray hem on her shirt, suddenly aware of how carefree she felt. For a moment she reached for her necklace chain, felt the emptiness, and grinned. That tiny act, like touching a phantom, made her feel strangely brave. She slipped her hands into the pockets of her jeans, feeling the weight of her sketchbook in the satchel like a reassuring friend. There was a thrill in being without any crutch today, any secret weapon. Clara took a steadying breath and whispered to her reflection, "Alright, magic-free mission." If the day tried to knock her down, she was ready to stand tall.
The city outside seemed to agree. Morning light filtered through the trees, scattering dust motes across the sidewalk as Clara stepped out. A breeze teased at her hair like a playful first date, and somewhere in the distance an old accordion musician played a lively tune. A sleek black cat lounged on a sun-warmed window ledge and flicked its tail at her. Clara gave it a little wave with her paint-smeared fingers; the cat blinked back slowly, as if offering a silent salute to her new self. Neighbors on the street were already lively: an early-riser jogger gave Clara a thumbs-up and a cheery "Good morning!" as he passed. Even a passing cyclist rang a quick salute of his bell in her direction. Clara couldn't help but grin — if the city could clap, it was sure giving her a pat on the back this morning. For once, she wasn't just a face in a crowd but a person walking through a world that seemed oddly eager to encourage her new resolve.
Volunteers in bright safety vests were already bustling around as Clara approached the park's community garden. Donated wheelbarrows and crates of young plants were scattered under a canopy of colorful bunting, and the morning sun made everything glow with a hopeful golden light. Aromas of mulched earth and brewing coffee filled the air, mingling with the distant laughter of children from a nearby playground. A dog with a wagging tail trotted past, carrying a stick way too large for it to manage. Clara spotted Mark by the tool station, patiently showing an elderly couple how to press a sapling into the soil. He looked up just in time to catch her eye, and his face lit up like she'd brought sunshine with her. Despite the flutter in her stomach, Clara found herself smiling back. Real or magical, the real magic was that Mark was here, and that was enough.
The volunteer coordinator, Aisha, handed Clara a worn clipboard and a nametag with an encouraging grin. "Thank you so much for coming today," she said. "We heard you might join us—glad to see you!" She winked as she pinned the nametag to Clara's shirt, and added playfully, "Think you can handle a day of digging without turning it into fireworks?" Before Clara could answer, Greg zipped around a half-assembled trellis with all the grace of a cartoon dog. He flung both arms in the air. "Presenting Clara: Our Superstar Volunteer Returns!" he announced with a mischievous bow — and promptly veered into a row of potted flowers. Clay pots teetered and some soil spilled onto the path. Clara quickly backed away to avoid disaster, heart pounding with a mixture of shock and amusement. Mark rolled his eyes but couldn't quite suppress a smile — he was clearly used to this kind of show. Greg popped back up, grinning sheepishly, muttering, "All part of the grand performance." Clara bit her lip to keep from bursting into laughter. Even with all the theatrics around her, she felt strangely calm. This was her world now, messy and absurd and completely real.
Clara checked her nametag — green paint blurring its edges — and knelt down beside Mark at a muddy planter box. She glanced at him and asked quietly, "Are you sure we really have to do this without any… special help?" She made a vague motion at her purse where her ring was safely tucked away. Mark smiled and gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "Absolutely," he said. "Just us and some good hard work." The sun warmed her back as she nodded and picked up a small trowel. Nearby, a volunteer had left a thermos of lemonade on a table; Clara took a grateful sip, the cool tartness steadying her. "All right," she murmured with determination. "Let's give this a shot." Together, she and Mark knelt in the soft soil and started planting. The seedling they found was tiny, almost trembling in the fresh earth — and Clara felt a thrill of responsibility.
They worked side by side, filling the planter with soil. Mark kept up a gentle commentary about his morning — how his gardenias were blooming early this year, and how Mrs. Diaz down the street was selling pumpkin pie at the school fair. His calm, steady presence made Clara feel like a regular teammate instead of a princess under a spell. Every once in a while, Mark reached over to brush an errant strand of hair from her face. "You're doing great, you know," he said, pushing his glasses back up after they slid down from the sweat of working. Clara's cheeks warmed at the praise. She tried to joke it off. "I've got my magic ring off-duty at home," she teased, wiggling her eyebrows. Mark just laughed softly. "Who needs that when you have all this?" he said, motioning around at the budding garden. Clara found herself believing him: who needed enchanted confidence when plain confidence felt this satisfying?
Clara took a breath and looked at the flowerbed they had just planted. She actually felt proud of herself — no ring, no charm, just a genuine, paint-smudged smile on her face. Mark was brushing dirt off his gloves a few inches away, still grinning. "I can't believe how good this feels," she thought, and for once, it was true joy, not a magic-made façade. The gentle breeze rustled the leaves overhead like a little standing ovation — even nature itself seemed to applaud her honesty. A nearby volunteer gave a quiet clap; the man was digging a new stone border and had stopped to listen. Soon others followed, small bursts of applause from her fellow volunteers echoing around the garden. Clara's cheeks turned pleasantly warm at their praise. It felt incredible to be celebrated for genuine effort, not some trick or line.
By mid-morning, Clara suggested a short break to rest her arms. They sat on a wooden bench under a crabapple tree whose pale pink blossoms trembled in the gentle wind. Mark handed Clara a water bottle with a kindly smile. "Need a little recharge?" he asked. Clara gave a grateful nod and took a long drink; the lemonade was sweet and cold, and it made her grin with refreshment. She noticed a neat spiral of shadows on the bench from the leaves overhead — patterns that reminded her of sun-dappled afternoons at art camp. Habitually, she pulled her sketchbook from her satchel — a familiar comfort that had accompanied her since childhood. Mark noticed it lying in her lap and leaned closer. "So, the star artist takes a break?" he teased with a gentle raise of his eyebrows. Clara almost rolled her eyes, but then admitted with a small grin, "Yeah... just drawing what I see." Mark settled in to watch.
Clara shook her head, thinking for a moment how far she'd come. "I guess I'm a little nervous," she confessed quietly. "What if things go wrong without my…" She waved a hand at her empty ring finger. Mark squeezed her hand reassuringly. "They won't — not today. You're doing fine, Clara. We're in this together," he said softly. She smiled at him, grateful for support that didn't feel like she had to pretend to need it. Clara opened her sketchbook and began to doodle the crabapple blossoms overhead with quick, confident strokes. The pencil glided over the page, and the petals fluttered above, catching the morning light. "Wow, Clara, those look just like the real thing," Mark said softly, admiring the sketch. Clara glanced up at him, a bit bashful, and shrugged. "Just... doodling," she said. It felt amazing to do something simple — no trickery, just talent and focus.
As Clara finished her sketch, a little voice piped up next to her. A boy of about seven, with dirt on his knees and a pencil too big for his hands, asked shyly, "Can I draw too?" Clara smiled and offered him her sketchbook open to the next blank page. "Here you go," she said, guiding his chubby fingers to trace a lopsided flower. He giggled when he saw what he'd made, and Clara laughed along with him. Mark looked down at the boy and gave Clara an approving nod. "I think that one might be the best artwork so far," he teased. The child beamed, proudly announcing, "My name is Gabe." Clara wrote "Gabe, age 7" in the corner of the page, then handed it back. Seeing the joy on his face — a genuine grin over that little flower — felt better than any magic spell ever did.
Clara closed the sketchbook and set it aside. They sat in a comfortable silence, the quiet of shared pencils and water bottles settling around them. Suddenly, Greg was back with a flourish: he darted over carrying a wicker basket with all the solemnity of a circus performer. "Muffin break!" he declared, and without warning, plopped the basket on Clara's lap. Muffins in every flavor — blueberry, chocolate-chip, and peanut butter — tumbled out like a confetti of treats. Clara nearly fell off the bench, but Mark caught the edge of her shirt just in time. Greg dove in hand-first, declaring "Life is short, eat the chocolate!" He tore off a blueberry one and offered another to Clara. "Emergency rations," he grinned. "I'm the scavenger."
Clara giggled and accepted a chocolate-chip muffin, noting Greg's eyebrows rise. She pretended the first bite was poison ("Brave volunteer testing, very scientific," Mark joked), but actually it was delicious. Mark took a bite of his own muffin and gave her an "I told you so" look. The afternoon suddenly tasted even sweeter — literally. Even the crabapple tree above seemed to lean in closer, its blossoms scenting the air warmly. Clara closed her eyes for a moment, feeling more normal and happy than she could remember in a long time, all because of muffins and friends.
After the break, they returned to work with renewed energy. Greg volunteered to carry extra tools, parading around with a rake in one hand and a watering can in the other like an absurd parade grand marshal. Every time he clanged a shovel or dropped a paint pot, he'd announce it with the gusto of a referee: "Alert! Paint incoming on sector four!" This kept Clara laughing as she picked up a brush to help paint the garden sign. Nearby volunteers painted letters and flowers on the wooden board. Clara wiped her brow with the back of her hand and added a bright yellow daisy in one corner. Mark lent a hand steadying the heavy board. "Look at that precision!" one of the teens called from the other side. Clara grinned — this time her only magic was patience and a steady hand.
At last, everyone gathered for a group photo by the newly planted flower bed. Greg insisted on lifting a small watering can above his head, posing like he'd just won a championship. Clara stood close to Mark, their shoulders touching, and they all squeezed together for the shot. Just before the photographer said, "Smile," Clara noticed her reflection in a nearby windowpane. The glass showed a muddy but genuinely happy version of herself: eyes bright and cheeks streaked with paint. It wasn't the flawless face from the mirror this morning — but she liked it better. For once, her reflection had nothing to hide and everything to smile about.
As the event wound down, Clara felt lighter than she had in weeks. Her arms ached pleasantly from all the work, and her fingernails were still caked with soil and paint, but she couldn't stop smiling. Mark helped clear away the paint cans and straighten the newly planted flowers while volunteers said their goodbyes. Greg was giving goofy high-fives to everyone, including two little kids who laughed and declared him the "funniest gardener ever." The late afternoon sun cast long, friendly shadows across the garden. Clara realized with a little amazement that she had lived the whole day without leaning on any magical crutches — and it felt wonderful. The city around her seemed to join in, as if even the sidewalks had brightened a touch in approval.
Driving home through the city streets, they passed people strolling with ice cream cones and couples walking dogs. The city itself seemed to hum with satisfaction; streetlights blinked on one by one, greeting each evening passerby as if in celebration of another good day. Clara looked at Mark over at the wheel, warm lamplight reflecting in his eyes, and felt contentment like a full cup in her chest. In the back seat, Greg rambled on about his day's triumphs — he insisted he had heroically saved a "wild animal" (a runaway squirrel) and that a volunteer kid had crowned him "King of Weeding." Clara laughed along, more relaxed than she'd been in ages. Watching Mark listen with a soft smile, she realized that this — laughter, dirt, and all — was exactly what she had been waiting for.
Mark finally pulled up in front of Clara's apartment building, and they sat in the car for a moment, not wanting the day to end too quickly. In the hush, Clara turned to him. "I… I know I was nervous today. I didn't know if I could do all this without… well, without you or anything," she began, voice small. Mark smiled and squeezed her hand reassuringly. "You did beautifully, Clara. I'm proud of you," he said softly. Just then, a gentle breeze drifted through the open window carrying the distant laughter of children from a playground. Clara felt surrounded by so much warmth and peace that even the city seemed to be congratulating her. "Thank you," she whispered back, the word loaded with all the gratitude she felt.
Clara said her goodbyes and slipped into the building. A few blocks away, Greg peeled off to chase a pigeon that had toppled his hat, calling after her, "See you tomorrow, Clara!" Mark rolled down his window and called back a playful goodbye. They both waved until the car turned out of sight. The hallway in her apartment was dimly lit, and Clara's footsteps echoed as she made her way to the elevator. A silk dress on a doorknob looked out of place in the humble lobby — maybe one of her neighbors getting ready for an evening out. Clara admired the small, cozy details of this place that was really hers.
Later that night, Clara would lie in bed replaying small moments of the day like her own private highlight reel. For now, though, she stood in front of her hallway mirror one last time before changing for bed. The girl looking back was paint-stained and barefoot — not the picture of perfection, but completely herself. Clara gave herself a small, tired smile. No magic ring was needed to see what everyone else had discovered: she was perfectly fine being exactly who she was. Tomorrow would surely bring new challenges, but tonight Clara felt ready to meet them head-on. With Mark and her own true self at her side, she felt capable of anything the next chapter might hold.
Chapter 19: Chasing Truth
Clara was in the middle of rewatching a classic noir film on her battered old TV when the doorbell rang, an intrusive sound scattering the silence like a thrown stone in a still pond. The late afternoon light spilled through the window, painting golden rectangles on the rug beneath the coffee table. She sighed and squinted at the clock. Who would be visiting now? Community theater volunteers? Unlikely. She set the remote aside and crossed her legs, wondering if she had a spine left in her from the stretch. Her eyes moved from the screen to the door, then back to the movie playing the final scenes of a mystery she knew by heart.
Clara opened the door. Standing there was Greg, holding a bubbling casserole dish wrapped in foil, his cheeks slightly flushed as if embarrassed and hopeful at the same time. The late afternoon sun caught flecks of gold in his hair and turned his sheepish grin into something both tender and a little desperate. Greg at the door, carrying what smelled like garlic and redemption. She blinked at him. What on earth is he doing here?
For a moment Clara just stared at him, the whiff of garlic making this suddenly normal Saturday afternoon feel like a scene from an absurdist play. Greg shifted his feet. "Hi, Clara," he said, voice a little uneven. "I—uh—I know this is out of the blue, but I made too much dinner and thought you might want some." Clara tilted her head, looking at the casserole. He made dinner for me? she thought, one eyebrow arching in surprise. She managed a polite but wary smile. "All right," she said evenly, "come in, then."
She stepped aside and Greg carried the dish into the cramped kitchen. Instantly the apartment smelled warm and savory—garlic bread and tomato sauce, maybe. Her stomach gave an involuntary growl. He set the casserole on the kitchen counter and ran his fingers through his hair. "I remember you like lasagna," he said softly. "I might have gone a little overboard." Clara crossed her arms, recalling all the times he had stopped answering her calls. He never apologized for how he left things. Why now? she wondered. With a controlled smile she asked, "So, Greg, what's this about? You haven't exactly been... friendly since everything happened." Greg hunched his shoulders. "I know, I know," he started, "and I'm sorry. I just... I thought we should talk."
Clara ran a hand through her hair and leaned against the counter. Greg's apology hung between them like the trailing steam from the lasagna. She didn't want to just leap in with questions, but after months of silence, she had a few. She took a breath, steadying herself as much as she could. "Talking is fine, I guess," she said, "but I don't owe you my time or forgiveness or anything. Do you even remember what happened?" Greg swallowed. The memory was probably as fresh to him as it was to her, and yet he looked as if he'd sunk into a hole of regret. "I know I messed up," he began, "but I just don't want things to be weird between us." Clara didn't know whether to be relieved or infuriated.
Before she could answer, the doorbell rang again. Clara frowned. "I'll get it," she said, pushing off the counter with a thump. She hadn't told Greg much about her life since the falling out, but she had told him enough to know that Mark lived next door. Maybe he had the key, or maybe he decided to surprise her. Whatever it was, Clara felt the familiar flutter of nerves at the potential interruption. Greg shifted behind her as she walked to the front door. The lasagna sat in the kitchen, unheard, waiting.
Clara opened the door to find Mark standing on the threshold, dripping a little from the late afternoon drizzle. He looked cool as ever in his rain jacket, hair tousled and eyes concerned. "Hey, Clara," he said, raising an eyebrow at Greg behind her. Mark's gaze shifted to the lasagna Greg carried, then quickly up to Greg's apologetic face. "Evening," he added, nodding to Greg politely. Clara stood between them in the doorway. The two men regarded each other, hats off.
Mark stepped in without waiting for an invitation. "Lasagna?" he asked, the word hanging between a question and an accusation. Greg flushed an elegant shade of embarrassment. "Yeah. I thought, maybe, since we're all kind of... here." Mark tossed a set of keys from one hand to the other. "I came to drop these off—" he held up an envelope, "—and I guess I didn't expect company. Or garlic." Clara closed the door behind them, arms crossed. "Everyone, um, meet at the dining table," she said, forcing calm. "We're having dinner." She surprised herself by sounding almost assured. Mark gave Greg a polite half-smile, as if they were rivals in a bizarre cooking contest.
They settled around the small dining table—the casserole between Clara and Mark, Greg on the other side. Clara poured water into glasses and exhaled quietly, not quite sure where to look. The confrontation they had avoided on the porch was now unavoidable in her living room. Mark attempted a piece of Greg's toast, making a face of exaggerated delight at the taste. "Wow, Greg, this is excellent. Really, you outdid yourself," he said, breaking the ice a bit. Greg glanced up, relief flickering in his eyes. Clara watched the interplay with a disbelieving smirk. Who am I, just a supporting character in some awkward sitcom? she thought.
As Greg dug in with gusto, Mark leaned toward Clara and murmured, "You okay?" Clara realized Mark hadn't even moved, just studied her. She nodded slowly, shoving a spaghetti noodle into her mouth to stall. "Just... surprised," she whispered. Mark gave her a quick, understanding smile. "Yeah, me too." Across the table, Greg hesitated, fork halfway to his mouth. "I know this is unexpected," he said, voice low. "Clara, I meant what I said—I want to apologize. For... everything. I wish I'd handled it better." Clara set down her fork and looked at him. "I heard you, Greg. But this isn't easy for me. I think you should go soon."
Greg looked momentarily crushed, then managed a small nod. "You're right. I'll go." He pushed away his plate and stood, forgetting that he'd been kicked off his chair just moments ago. Mark glanced up from the window; rain had stopped and the first stars were appearing. "I'll walk you out," he offered, standing as well. Clara got up, too, to retrieve Greg's jacket. "Thank you for dinner," Greg mumbled. "I think I'll keep the casserole, though." He winked lamely, which should have been charming if it weren't for the situation. Clara felt heat rise in her cheeks. Mark placed a gentle hand on Greg's shoulder. "Take care of yourself, man," he said quietly.
Greg gave a stiff-lipped smile. "Yeah, thanks." The trio made their way to the door. The hallway smelled faintly of rain and old wood. Clara unclasped the latch and opened the front door. "Good luck with everything," she said, surprising herself with how much she meant it. Greg paused on the threshold. Just for a second, his apology seemed sincere: "Really, I'm sorry, Clara." She nodded. He stepped out into the evening and closed the door behind him. Clara stood there a moment, listening to the soft click of the latch, then let out a shaky breath. Mark gave her a moment, standing silently behind her with concern in his eyes.
After a heartbeat, Mark cleared his throat. "That was intense." Clara leaned against the doorframe, trying to steady the last jitters. The wood still felt warm under her palm, as if it too had heard something startling. "Yeah," she agreed, voice low. "I didn't know what to say. It was all so sudden." Mark moved closer, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "You were great," he said quietly. "Seriously. I would've been awkward as hell, either way." Clara glanced up at him, a flicker of a smile on her lips. "He just showed up with lasagna, Mark. How was I supposed to react?"
Mark left the light on behind Greg and gestured toward the living room. "Come on, let's sit down. Do you want some water or—"
"—come sit next to me," Clara suggested before he could finish offering. They settled on the sofa, the flickering candlelight from the dining table making the living room glow with a warm softness. Clara sank into the cushions, drawing her knees up. She felt a strange exhaustion creeping in. "I feel weird," she admitted. "Like I should be relieved, but I'm just…" She struggled for words. Mark nodded gently. "Confused? Hurt? Angry?" he asked. Clara scooted closer, leaning into his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her. "All of it," she whispered. Mark stroked her hair unconsciously. "It makes sense to feel all of those things."
Clara rested her head against Mark's shoulder and closed her eyes for a moment. In the silence she could hear Greg disappearing down the street, the distant sound of water dripping from his umbrella. Mark continued softly, "None of this was your fault, Clara. You didn't do anything wrong." Clara felt something flush inside her at his words, a gentle warmth on the horizon of her nerves. She opened one eye. "How do you always know exactly what to say?" Mark just shrugged with a quiet smile. "I have my moments."
They sat like that for a minute, the earlier tension unspooling into something calmer. Clara absentmindedly eyed the sketchbook on the coffee table. "You want to see something stupid?" she asked Mark quietly, surprising even herself with the suggestion. He lifted an eyebrow. "Stupid good or stupid-punish-me-later?" he teased. "Maybe both," she admitted, reaching for the sketchbook with fingers that still felt a little shaky. Mark moved to sit on the floor, leaning against the sofa and gesturing for her to open it on her lap. Clara flipped open the pages, heart thumping a little as she revealed her private drawings.
The first few sketches were ordinary: doodles of street lamps, scribbles of old jokes, little things she'd drawn in the margins before work. Mark smiled at a ridiculous stick-figure date she had drawn of them last month at the downtown book fair. "Where did this little guy come from?" he laughed softly. Clara grinned sheepishly, "He was you—making a silly face." She flipped the page and a faint glow pulsed along the edge. Mark noticed it, eyebrows rising. "Did you do that?" he asked, surprised. Clara paused, Focus, Clara, focus. She looked closely: it was a drawing of last week's picnic by the river, actually drawings of them. The fireflies she'd drawn in the margins glowed dimly golden, as if they were alive. "It's subtle magic," Clara said. Mark reached out and watched as the drawn fireflies flickered between his fingers. "I know it's not really... but it feels like it might be."
Mark leaned in, squinting at the sketches. The background doodles—the sketched sun overhead, the ripples in the water—seemed to flutter in the soft evening light. The figures of them by the river felt almost alive. "It's gorgeous," he said softly. "What else did you draw?" Clara was trembling slightly, but when Mark asked, she sensed sincerity more than anything. She turned the page carefully. The next sketch was of Greg on her porch with the lasagna dish, looking hopeful. Greg's cartoon self was almost statuesque, but the casserole dish on the sketchbook page actually wafted tiny pencil-drawn steam curling into the margin. Mark chuckled. "He looks like he's really smelling that garlic." Clara noticed a faint blue haze around his drawn character's shoulders, like his nerves or empathy colored in. "Yeah," she said, smiling. "I drew him bracing himself."
Mark pointed at a little ghostly figure in the corner of that page. "And who's that?" he asked, tracing a finger around a pale, scribbly silhouette on the sketch. Clara sighed. "I was me, but at a distance," she said quietly. "Waiting inside." She turned another page. This one was a nighttime scene: Clara and Mark sat side by side on a park bench, heads drawn close together. The scene itself was in black ink, but where her pencil had shifted to charcoal were the stars overhead. The sky on the page glowed softly, pinpricks of light flickering. "I guess... I guess I didn't realize I missed moments like this until you kissed me last week," Clara said, voice small. Mark's heart skipped. He remembered the first kiss vividly—how they had both laughed awkwardly afterwards. "I missed it too," he whispered. "More than I should have."
Clara moved the sketchbook so Mark could see the next spread. Her hands were steady now, confident. This sketch was different: it was a drawing of Clara's apartment with little stick figures—one at the door with a fork, one gesturing with an envelope. Mark squinted. "Wait—are you a cartoon villain here?" he joked, pointing to a tiny dog-eared figure that looked like Emma, the scene captioned "sneak attack at dessert time." Clara laughed, a genuine burst of sound. The character of Emma was drawn with a cape of brownies and one eyebrow raised. "That was today. You should've seen her sneak up on us with that tray of brownies." Mark grinned broadly. "Classic Emma." Clara tapped the page; at her touch the drawn brownie tray fell apart into tiny drawn crumbs. "Oops," she said, "guess I just made a joke disappear?"
As they flipped through more pages, Clara explained each drawing—the little animated moments preserved like private postcards. Mark was amazed, both by the art and by how open Clara had become. The warmth from the lamp on the coffee table spread across Clara's fingers as they turned the pages. A sketch of her drawing Mark flipping bread in the kitchen briefly flickered with golden light, and Mark raised an impressed eyebrow. "This is incredible," he said, looking at Clara with affection. "You have such a gift." Clara felt herself blush. "It's how I make sense of things." She paused on one page: it was a sketch of her own face, eyes closed, bathed in a pool of light from a streetlamp, lips slightly parted as if about to say something. Mark traced her drawn outline gently. "I think I get it now."
They ended up on a drawing of that afternoon: Greg's silhouette at the door with the casserole dish. Clara had drawn herself on the other side, one foot inside, one foot out. The line on the ground was thick and almost went across the page, as if she was poised on a threshold. "It's like a seesaw," Clara said, "me, on one side. Him, on the other. I didn't know which way to step." Mark studied the illustration. "And here," he pointed at her drawn foot, "it's sinking into the floor, like you're afraid to move." Clara nodded. Mark's thumb brushed that foot. "But you've got support now," he whispered. She felt a warmth spread through her chest at those words.
Clara closed the sketchbook, pushing it gently onto the coffee table. It fell open to a blank page in the middle. She sat for a moment in silence, heart thumping. "My sketches explain things better than I do sometimes," she admitted softly. "They tell me what I'm feeling." Mark reached for her hand. "Then keep sketching if you want," he said. "But you know you don't have to carry any of those feelings alone." Clara looked at him, tears brimming her eyes, but her voice was steady. "Right now, I feel lucky that I'm with you." Mark moved his hand to her cheek, thumb tracing a tender circle. "Me too," he said, and leaned in.
Then there was a sharp knock at the door, crisp and unexpected. Clara jumped, squeezing Mark's shoulder. Who on earth is that now? she wondered. Mark smirked and offered, "Should I... get it?" Clara waved him off with a laugh, smoothing back her hair. "No, I got it." She stood and opened the door to reveal Emma standing there in one of her flair-full outfits, a plate of brownies held out in offering. "Thought you might be plotting existential art stuff without me," Emma declared with perfect comic timing, stepping inside.
She grinned broadly at the scene: Clara sitting with the sketchbook on her lap, Mark on the sofa, Emma's entry stealing their attention. "I come armed with dessert and a few life-affirming quips," she continued, setting the plate of brownies on the coffee table. "Who wants a brownie... or an epiphany?"
Mark sat up, and Clara laughed as Emma made herself comfortable on the chair by the window. "Emma!" Clara said, relief and joy blooming at her friend's face. "You're here! You look fabulous, as always." Emma winked, plucking a brownie from the plate. "Natural charm and brownies are my secret weapons," she said as she took a dramatic bite.
Emma surveyed the room, sniffing theatrically at the air. "So, do I smell romance or just stale lasagna?" she teased, nodding at the empty casserole dish. Mark handed her a glass of water and grinned. "A bit of both, actually." Emma clapped her hands and launched into support. "Excellent. I love a love story with snacks! Clara, darling, you are doing fantastic." She put a finger in the air like a wise friend. "Greg just showed up with dinner—that's the universe giving you either an apology or a reminder that lasagna always smells better with companionship." She tore another brownie in half. "And if kindness came in the form of chocolate, well, I fully endorse it." She offered one half to Clara with a mock-serious look.
Clara felt her eyes filling with tears, but this time from gratitude. Emma continued, "No guilt. You don't need to carry Greg's baggage. You haven't done anything wrong. Look at this guy," Emma said, turning to Mark with an exaggerated wink, "devoted and sitting here—" "Emma," Clara giggled, "Mark's perfect." Emma flipped a bit of a hair lock. "Oh please, Clara. He's almost too perfect. Like, is your brother available or something?" Clara snorted.
Mark added quietly, "She's right. You deserve someone who's here." Clara took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. The warmth of Emma's support and Mark's words made something light up inside her chest.
Emma rose abruptly, wagging a finger mock-authoritatively. "Alright lovebirds, that's enough intervention for one night. Big kisses all around!" She turned to leave, pausing with a dramatic bow. "Clara, sweetheart, remember: you're stronger and more wonderful than you think. You got this." With a final twirl, Emma was gone, the door gently swinging closed behind her. Mark drew Clara into a hug, chuckling at Emma's departure.
The apartment felt warm and intimate as the night deepened. Mark closed the door firmly, then turned to Clara with a warm smile. "See? Even Emma approves." Clara laughed softly, the tension falling from her shoulders. "She really is something," she said, thinking how lucky she was to have such an amazing friend. Mark brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. "Anything you need, I'm here. You don't have to face anything alone tonight," he reminded gently. Clara nodded, feeling tears prickling again but this time of gratitude and relief. The night was still young, and somehow, everything felt just a little bit clearer.
Mark drew her close again, and this time there were no interruptions. His lips met Clara's in a kiss that was slow, gentle, and entirely clear of any hesitation. It felt like affirmation, like they were finally speaking a language they'd both been struggling to find. Clara responded, wrapping an arm around his neck as the world narrowed to nothing but that moment. Outside, a light breeze carried in the night air through the cracked window, but inside the room was still, as if holding its breath. A faint glow flickered on the page of the open sketchbook—one of Emma, with a tiny speech bubble that said "Go get 'em, girl!"—and the glow pulsed as though cheering them on.
When they finally parted, they rested foreheads together, breathing softly. Clara's cheeks were warm. The only sound was their simultaneous quiet laughter. Mark brushed a stray hair off her face. "That felt..." she murmured, searching for a word. "Good?" he offered with a grin. "Right," she breathed, smiling. "Really good."
The room felt cozy. Clara noticed the lamp on her desk had settled into a steady, unwavering glow, as if it had been soothed by what just happened. Even the spider plant by the window, which had been slightly drooping, had perked up, its long leaves stretching forward into the light. She fancied that the curtains had drawn themselves a little closer, like they wanted to keep this warmth inside. It was as if the apartment itself was acknowledging that something had changed—for the better.
Mark glanced at the clock and nodded. "Late night, huh?" Clara laughed quietly and nodded. "I'm not complaining," she said, feeling the last hints of tension dissolve from her shoulders. Mark took her hand in both of his. "I know things are crazy sometimes," he said softly, "but whatever happens, you never have to go through it alone." Clara squeezed his hand. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for not leaving." It was half joke, half serious. Mark smiled. "You can count on it. I'm not going anywhere."
They sat together for a while longer, talking in hushed tones about trivial things—the weekend plans, a joke Emma had cracked earlier, the story of how Mark's keys ended up on the coffee table—and in that easy comfort, Clara realized how deeply she cared for him. Her heart felt light and full at once. At last, Clara yawned. "I should probably try to get some rest," she said. Mark stood and went to turn off the TV. "I can stay," he offered, but Clara shook her head. "I'll be okay. Thank you."
Mark tucked the covers around Clara on the futon couch where she'd decided to catch a few winks instead of going all the way to bed. He kissed her forehead. "Good night, Clara." She felt the warmth of his lips linger as he stood up. "Good night, Mark," she whispered. She closed her eyes, breathing in the lingering scent of his soap and cologne. Outside, the moon had climbed higher, soft light filtering through the blinds in stripes over the floor.
In the dim light, Clara imagined the images from her sketchbook softly fading out of sight, leaving the pages blank. Whether by magic or the thrill of what's to come, nothing else moved. The apartment felt utterly at peace. Clara smiled as sleep finally claimed her, heart warm and thoughts quiet at last.
Chapter 20: Break the Spell
Clara woke slowly to the morning light, the sheets warm and tangled around her like a blissful cocoon. Sunbeams filtered through the gauzy curtains, laying strips of gold on the quilt at her side. She turned her head and saw the pale patch of sunlight following her – as if the day itself had gotten wind of her good mood and insisted on greeting her. It struck her as wonderfully absurd, and Clara smiled to herself. Of all the mornings in her life, this was a morning for butterflies, and apparently even nature had been invited to the party.
On the pillow beside her were whispers of last night: the faint scent of vanilla from the candle Mark had lit, the ghost of his cologne lingering in the cool morning air, and the curve of a smile still imprinted on her memory. Clara wondered if she was still pressed in the exact position he had left her. She gave a sleepy nudge to check. The bed didn't moan in protest or anything – it just let her know she needed coffee and maybe a new set of sheets. With a gentle groan, she sat up, brushing out the tangles of sleep (and Mark's hand, which was gently grazing her wrist before he must have gotten out of bed). The memory of last night flitted through her mind and brought a slow blush to her cheeks. Their first kiss had come at the crook of a midnight sidewalk, and the second one, well, the second one had marked their rejoined hands with tangled fingers. She could still feel his breath warm on her skin. Ah. Yes. A morning well begun, indeed.
Clara swung her legs over the side of the bed, suddenly aware of her bare feet on the cool wood floor. For a minute she stayed there, gazing out the window and letting the flutter of birdsong and distant summer traffic make sense of waking up in the world again. One bright spot of feathered yellow and gray hopped on the railing outside, chirping a lazy tune as if in direct conversation with her. It was impossible not to imagine that the little bird had been out there, waiting for her – that instead of tweeting the usual gossip, it seemed to hum a tender melody right for her. Clara grinned. If any creature was tuned in to the frequency of happiness, it was that sparrow.
She stretched, high and languid, arms above her head, and the heavy curtain danced before the window in a silent ovation. The sunbeams moved slightly, as if to pat her on the shoulder. Clara blushed at the thought. The universe really was being overly polite.
Stifling a laugh at herself, she padded into the living room with bare feet and absently flipped open her sketchbook, which lay open to a blank page. Last night's afterglow was too sweet to keep bottled up, and drawing was how Clara often processed her feelings. With a thick pencil she began to sketch the moonlit path where she and Mark had walked. The park was speckled with pools of light from antique lampposts, and Clara tried to capture the way Mark's face glowed in the lamplight as he kept talking without paying attention to any one thing. She sketched her own surprise at how comfortable she'd felt next to him, how she remembered the way the breeze caressed his hair, or maybe it was the other way around, but either way, it felt as though the night itself was leaning in to listen.
Across the page, she doodled their silhouettes. By instinct or a bit of magic, the lines came alive with a faint shimmer. Perhaps the very air had not realized the "spell" was lifting. The strokes of Clara's pencil whispered excitement into the still-damp paper, and a tiny sparrow flew out of the side of the sketch as if the image had leapt off the page. Clara blinked at it, pressing a tentative fingertip to see if the glittering outline was real. Her fingertip came back coated in a bit of charcoal and a reassuringly ordinary smudge, but for a split second she had been sure it was alive.
She huffed a little, amused. Magical realism was her gift, but also her curse, in a way. Lately, every butterfly, every sunbeam, even every stray cloud drifting by seemed to be part of her personal support choir. And this morning in particular, everything wanted to sing along.
She scanned the room for the moment's reality check. Mark must have slipped out for coffee – maybe he didn't want to disturb her. His side of the bed was cold, and his white T-shirt folded neatly on the armchair. Clara considered texting him (or checking if he'd posted to Instagram about the night), but she didn't. Decorum (and honestly, comfort) suggested leaving him be. Besides, she preferred to keep this morning to herself. It was… delectable, the way just being in the afterglow of something wonderful felt. No status update could capture that.
Instead, she returned to her sketch. With a few more strokes, she gave the drawn Mark a gentle smile, as if asking for a permanent place in the memory. She felt a surprising warmth that maybe, for the first time in her life, the magic was gently bowing out to let something even better shine. "Real," Clara mused in her own head. Real had its own sort of sparkle, and maybe she didn't need the glitter.
Once her drawing felt right — capturing his crooked half-smile and the confident ease in his shoulders — Clara stood up, satisfied enough. She slid the sketchbook back onto the table with the care of a librarian shelving a favorite novel. Leaning her hip against the table, she let her eyes flutter shut for a moment. It had been a while since she felt this content, this… grounded.
Birdsong filtered in through the open window now, and it felt personal. A cardinal perched itself on a nearby elm, trilling a jubilant tune that could almost have words. Clara imagined the bird was serenading her, making a private concert on the very morning after. She could have sworn she heard it say congratulations in chirping notes.
As though on cue, the sunlight shifted and caught the small silver locket around her neck — a gift from her mother, now warming her throat. Clara's gaze fixed on the pendant. Sometimes she nearly forgot she had that little piece of family charm. But this morning, something about it felt, well, significant. A gentle reminder that love didn't have to be perfect to be lovely, nor did it need flashy tricks.
Maybe she was romanticizing a lot — after all, it was summer and there had been champagne the night before — but in Clara's mind, even the trees themselves applauded this turning point. Little leaves on the ivy outside her window rustled approvingly in the warm breeze. A breeze whooshed by as she finally decided it was time to chase the rest of sleep off. She jumped up and flicked on the radio for some tunes. Soft jazz trickled in, the music warm like honey.
By mid-morning, Clara had showered (carefully avoiding a bubble bath so as not to wrinkle her carefully neat hair) and thrown on a favorite casual outfit — a light blouse and jeans, something that felt pretty without screaming Put Me on Instagram. After last night she wasn't about to broadcast it. She bit back the urge to check her phone. Mark deserved privacy, she decided, and so did she. It could wait for later.
A quick comb of her hair, a swipe of tinted lip balm, and she was ready. She pocketed her phone and sketchbook, and stepped outside, stepping carefully so as not to ruin the supple head of the serpent-silk plant on the sill. (No, she wasn't diabetic; that plant just needed lots of sunlight.)
Outside, the world was fully awake. The sun had climbed higher, but it was still just warm enough to feel like a gentle hug rather than an oven. Clara locked the door and began strolling towards the café near the riverbank where she and Mark had agreed to meet at lunchtime. As she walked, the familiar park around the corner teased at her euphoria by scattering rays across her path. The air smelled of fresh grass and something tangy from someone's barbecue far off.
A blue jay swooped overhead, letting out a victory cry that, to Clara's mind, sounded suspiciously like cheers at a Grand Slam. "Easy, sports star," she muttered under her breath with a grin, gesturing up at the sky. The bird snickered? Or was that just the wind in the leaves? She paused at the fountain. Morning sunlight danced atop the tumbling water, breaking into glittering shards like millions of tiny diamonds that flickered out. It reminded her to walk a bit slower, savor each step. It was somehow deeper than just the afterglow; it felt hopeful, like a new chapter kicking in.
Arriving at the outdoor seating of Bluefin Sushi Grill (her favorite takeout spot), Clara found Mark already waiting. He looked up from his phone and grinned when their eyes met. He waved, a sushi box still clutched in one hand, a little impatient to dig in but genuinely delighted to see her. His sun-kissed skin had a fresh smile that warmed her like their very own summer sunrise.
"Hey," he said as she slid into the chair across from him. The morning had softened his straight hair a bit, a few strands falling playfully into his eyes as if they, too, felt shy. He brushed one back with a gentle hand, and Clara's heart did that thing again, a fluttery jump.
"Hey yourself," Clara smiled as Mark set down the sushi boxes between them. She took in the sight of nigiri and rolls, wasabi and pickled ginger artfully arranged. The mouthwatering aroma of fresh seaweed and vinegared rice teased her. "You got my favorites," she noted appreciatively.
He shrugged, pretending modesty. "I just happen to remember what you liked last time. Figured I'd surprise you."
"Well, you succeeded," Clara teased lightly. The sushi chef had even written their names in script on the take-out container like some formal invitation. The gesture made her laugh. "I don't know if I can call this takeout anymore. This is a full-on picnic."
Mark grinned sheepishly. "Guilty. I thought, why not enjoy it outside? It's such a nice day, might be a waste not to." He gestured with their water cups toward a patch of grass under a blossoming cherry tree and, without waiting, spread the picnic blanket from his bag onto the ground. Clara hopped off the chair and joined him on the grass.
The cool breeze teased the tentacles of her hair, and Clara gave a quick glance up. Several birds had gathered on the branches above, pecking curiously at cherry blossoms. She giggled softly; one even cocked its head and chirped like it was about to drop a lyric right into their lunch. "They really come to the party, huh?" she said quietly, more to herself than to Mark, as she lowered herself onto the soft blanket.
"Join us," Mark joked up at the birds. "The best view and all."
They nestled into a cozy cross-legged position across from each other. The picnic blanket was covered with prints of kooky hand-drawn sushi rolls — apparently Mark's idea of making things theme-coordinated. Clara peeled open her sushi box, dishing out salmon nigiri and a spicy tuna roll. The fish was cool and silky. The first bite brought a flood of tastes: creamy avocado, zing of ginger, a whisper of sea. Absolutely brilliant.
"This is amazing," she said with her mouth half full. She gave Mark a thumbs-up in between a well-chewed bite.
He followed, so they chewed in comfortable silence for a second. "I'm glad you like it." He looked pleased. "Honestly… I forgot how fun this is. Eating together like this, I mean."
Clara swallowed. "It is," she agreed softly. She fiddled with a piece of nori. "Sushi always seems to make things better, doesn't it? You can't be in a bad mood with sashimi."
"I'll keep that in mind," he chuckled, doing another bite.
There was a beat of quiet, comfortable happiness. The breeze lifted, carrying the laughter of children playing nearby, distant and happy. Clara took the chance to break the content silence with a question that had been floating around in her mind: "So… dreams," she began softly, letting her words trail off with a smile. "You know? What do you dream about, Mark?"
Mark blinked, maybe caught off-guard by the sudden leap to such an earnest topic. "Wow, big philosophical question at lunchtime," he teased. "Well, that escalated quickly." His eyes twinkled.
Clara laughed. "Hey, I got my sushi, I'm emotional, what can I say?"
Mark's smile softened, however, when he realized she was half serious. He scooped up a piece of calamari roll. "Um, well… I guess I've always dreamed about something big, like making a difference. Saving the world kind of big. But I'm also really happy just being here, with you." He took his time with the roll before answering. "You know, I used to think I needed grand plans, but I've changed my mind. Right now I'm dreaming of… peaceful evenings like this. A stupid decision to open a ramen shop, maybe. Something fun. But mostly, I just know I want to see where this goes… with you."
Clara felt the warmth of the sun shift; maybe it was a glint from Mark's eyes. Her heart pricked a little. "That's… that's really sweet, Mark," she murmured, her own sushi roll forgotten on her lap. Her words caught a bit. She couldn't believe she was hearing such sincerity. The tail end of a swallow left her a little breathless.
He poked her playfully with his chopstick. "Watch out. Food drop hazard, doctor."
She laughed despite herself. "Right, careful, don't want to accidently drop your lover down a flight of museum stairs." (They both might or might not have thought of that once in the context of the hospital during her nursing shifts – clumsy by choice, definitely.)
"Exactly," Mark played along seriously, and then without warning, his face softened with an earnest glow. "Clara, you know, I think you're one of the most genuine people I've ever met. I know you worry sometimes about… stuff. But talking to you like this, sharing dreams, being with you – it feels like something I don't need to worry about."
He reached out and brushed a damp lock of hair behind her ear. It was a tender, simple gesture. Clara's breath hitched, and all her defenses felt like melting ice cream. "Mark…" she began uncertainly, not sure how to respond.
Right then a little boy ran past their picnic, yanking on his mother's hand. He stopped next to their blanket, looking transfixed by the scene. Mark and Clara were so content in their little world that from the child's perspective, Mark seemed like the most heroic figure imaginable: tall, caring eyes, and the sheer luxury of sharing lunch with a grown-up who looked more like a family man than a college dating buddy.
He gave the boy a warm smile as he passed by. "Hey there, champ!" Mark said in a friendly voice. The boy, mouth agape over his candy-floss stick, grinned hero-worshipping at him. "You're the coolest hero ever!" he blurted out.
Clara blinked. She turned to see the boy tugging at his mother, trying to get back in to speak to Mark. His voice was muffled but emphatic: "Mom, see that man? He's like a superhero!"
Mark just waved humbly and watched the boy run off.
Clara closed her eyes, feeling the full impact of that simple moment. She swallowed, struck hard by how the boy saw Mark — and how she saw him. Mark, hero? It was easier to see it in a child's eyes, in pure innocence. In Clara's eyes he was an amazing man, but she'd never thought of him as superhero amazing. Her heart swelled as she looked at him. There was Mark, tasting the last bite of his tekka roll, a smear of wasabi on his lip (which he quickly wiped with his thumb), completely modest and oblivious to that third party compliment.
She realized she was moved to tears by the sight of it all. The light from above hit him perfectly as if a spotlight had spontaneously activated. The wind rustled, and even the grass whispered – okay, maybe not literally, but it felt that way – as if trying to confirm just how special this was.
Clara cleared her throat softly. "You're kind of a hero," she blurted out, surprising herself.
Mark paused, fork halfway to his lips, and gave her a puzzled look. "Me? How?"
She smiled, cheeks flushing. "I saw you, in that moment… and a little kid saw you. And I saw him see you… it was like I saw you through a hero-lens of some sort. You made someone's day."
He laughed. "Well, I just tied your shoelace that was untied. What kind of hero does that?"
"The kind who does little things that make people happy?" Clara suggested. "I mean… I saw how he looked at you. And I… I love that about you, Mark. That you're like this gentle hero, even if you don't know it."
He gave her a shy half-grin. "I just try to be… helpful, I guess."
This time Clara's eyes welled up properly. She dabbed a corner of her mouth with a tissue. "I'm really happy you're helping me right now."
They finished their sushi in a happy quiet, occasionally chirping with small talk about school or laughable details like how her avocado roll had accidentally a ghost of ghost-pepper heat that they both jumped at. The afternoon lazily made its way onward, and the city noises faded into the background of comfortable conversation. By the time the table was cleared, Clara's heart felt like a house stuffed with warm lights.
"Come on," Mark said as he folded up the blanket. "You still have one more secret place to show me today, you mentioned a fountain, right?"
Clara's smile turned a little wistful as they gathered up the picnic items. "Yeah… There's a fountain at the north end of the park. The older kind, with a statue of a griffin or something. I used to toss coins in when I needed a little hope or good luck."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "A wishing fountain? We are totally doing that, then."
A hint of mischief flitted through her heart at the old superstition. She wasn't quite sure what she would wish for – maybe that Mark's smile never faded, or that somehow she could give him the world. But then she remembered something and felt a pang of protective tenderness. Gently, privately, she fished a coin from her pocket.
They walked to the fountain, the sun now lower in the sky, breathing a golden sunset haze over the park. Clara stood for a moment before the old stone structure, watching the water cascade in arcs. The griffin statue looked at them with stone eyes full of mythic wisdom, and Clara half expected it to wink at her. She doubted it would, but it felt possible. "Make a wish," Mark encouraged her softly, crouching slightly so he could watch her.
Clara took the coin, a simple dime that was her lucky one from childhood, rubbed it on her jacket to clean it (perhaps an attempt to make the wish more convincing). In her mind, she wished not for herself – she already had too much. She wished for Mark, specifically, that the thing she dreaded would never hurt him.
Her thought was clear: May the magic never lie to Mark. Not for his sake, not because she didn't trust him, but because she wanted every single smile of his to be his own. She wanted his eyes to shine for exactly the reasons they did now: genuine, warm, nothing to do with any kind of charm or spell.
She tossed the coin high into the fountain. The arc of it threw rainbows in the water's mist. For a moment, it glittered as it left her hand, and suddenly the coin gave off a small golden glow. Mark's eyes widened. Water splashed. The coin made a soft tink on the pool bottom.
The magic twist was quiet, but it was there – only she could see it. It was her making, finally letting a tiny bit of honest heartfelt wanting slip out. The statue caught a glint from the glow, and the water's surface rippled with concentric rings under the gleam. A single golden fern frond drifting by on the water turned brighter green for an instant, then normal.
Clara felt a gentle shiver run through her – not from the watery spray, but from the importance of what she'd just done. Mark stood back up, brushing some water off his jeans, nonchalant about the dramatic fountain throw. He caught her watchful gaze and smiled.
"What'd you wish for?" he asked, leaning in a whisper.
"Secret," she replied with a grin.
He chuckled. "Typical. You never tell anyone your secrets, do you?"
She shook her head. "It's not that kind of thing. Some wishes are just for me."
A kid's optimistic excitement still bubbled inside her from earlier, so she tried one of her own. With eyes squeezed shut, Clara spun in place on the grass, arms out, muttering softly, "Steady, magic, be nice."
When she opened her eyes, the sun was setting and the city was humming gently. Mark was walking toward her again, having fluffed her hair when he had bent to pull something out of the grass. He shook his head, smirking. "You look like a statue yourself when you're locked onto something."
Clara smiled, brushing an errant grass speck out of her hair. "That was the wish," she whispered, still mostly to herself. "Now if only wishes could make me as graceful as you…"
He laughed and gently hooked one arm around her waist. "Stop it or I might actually fall for you even harder."
She melted a little into his side. Standing there with his arm around her, they watched the fountain quiet behind them. The air was cooling now, but not unpleasantly so. Instead of pausing to feel sad that they had to go, Clara felt a comfortable warmth. The sort that comes from being exactly where you want to be.
"Clara," Mark said softly, after a moment. She tilted her head to him. "I just… I want you to know how happy I am. I know we haven't exactly put any label on this thing, but… being with you? Even if it's unofficial, I feel so lucky. You know that, right?"
She nodded, heart soaring. She bit her lip. The truth was, he was so good to her, she hardly recognized the boy she used to be who batted eyelashes for compliments. Mark saw her just for herself, and it felt astonishing. "I'm happy too," she whispered, meaning it more than anything else she'd said that day.
He sighed with a contented smile, and Clara could see how genuine it was. Real. "I'm really happy to be with someone real," Mark admitted, not taking the teasing tone he sometimes used. He meant it in the best way: sincere, thankful.
The crisp "realness" of that compliment glowed warmer in her chest than any gold coin spell could.
Clara returned home that evening still feeling that gentle warmth blossoming in her chest. It was the day before the actual date of the big six-week anniversary of sort-of-dating, which she'd privately been celebrating since day one. To commemorate it, Mark had offered to help her cook dinner – at Clara's apartment, of course, where she ruled the kitchen jungle. That, she thought with a playful smile, was about as official celebration as one needed.
By the time Mark arrived, the early evening light was spreading through the windows in lazy beams. Clara was already in her favorite spot by the counter, stirring a big pot of tomato sauce. She had chosen spaghetti carbonara as their menu; Mark had declared he was terrible at knife work, so "anything that involves tossing cheese in a pot" would be sufficient for him. On counter, a ball of dough was rising (Mark's handiwork from the day before; he was quietly proud of trying to make garlic bread). She wore an apron with a cartoon cat on it (Mark's effort at a gift to make dinner fun) and had flour smudged comically on one cheek.
Hearing the apartment door open, Clara turned and beamed at him. Mark was carrying a big salad bowl in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. He smelled faintly of soap, like he'd freshened up before coming over. He looked every bit the mature, confident guy that boy had pointed out earlier, and Clara's heart did a somersault as he crossed the room to help.
"Need any help?" he offered, already unlacing his jacket and tossing it over a chair.
"Just steady this angel hair while it fights gravity," she said with mock irritation, gesturing at the noodles riskily clinging to the rim of the pot. Her flour-smear made her look like she'd lost a duel with a ghost pastry chef.
Mark approached and gently took the pot handle. "Angelic pasta, stay calm, I got you," he quipped in a goofy hero voice. Clara chuckled. He put one hand on the counter and swirled it, setting the water boiling with an imaginary flick. She playfully returned the gesture with her wooden spoon like it was his face.
They got to work chopping up mushrooms and tossing greens into the bowl. Mark sliced lettuce so vigorously that half of it flew out of the bowl and onto Clara's shoes. "Cooking's just like archery," he joked. "Sometimes you get lettuce everywhere but where you aim."
Clara snorted at the mental image. The slack of his grin was genuine. "And here I thought you were aiming for the salad," she teased, using the same spoon to plate some of the pasta on her own dish.
When they were cooking, the kitchen was lively. They went back and forth, mixing sauces and seasoning: "pinch of salt here, bit of pepper there." They laughed at each other's cooking techniques. At one point Mark tried to grate cheese and it went everywhere. Clara flicked a handful off his nose and he crossed his eyes to smell it. "Mmm, parmesan!"
There was a gentleness in these domestic actions, an ease that felt comfortable and real. No pretense, no audience, just the two of them making dinner together. Clara loved that. She paused and watched Mark carefully place the final cherry tomatoes and basil on their plates, plating like it was an art piece. If she didn't know better, she would have thought he'd studied fine dining.
As they sat down to eat, the setting sun painted a warm glow around them. Mark lifted his glass of wine with a pretend solemnity. "To us, and six weeks of... this," he said, his eyes shining. Clara realized she hadn't been toasting at all, and raised her water glass enthusiastically. "To us," she laughed.
Clara was about to take a sip when Mark cleared his throat and said, a bit formally, "Actually, Clara, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."
She blinked in surprise. "Oh? Is this an early new-year resolution talk? Are you quitting coffee?"
He laughed softly. "Something like that. No, I just… well, I feel like we should be official. I mean, I feel like you're my girlfriend already." His voice was as steady as he'd ever sounded. He moved a few steps closer. "I was wondering if I could ask you something important."
Her heart started racing. This felt like one of those movie slow-motion moments. But instead of getting nervous, Clara felt mostly excited. She noticed her breath catch and realized Mark's gaze was so earnest it had her attention fully fixed on him.
Then he did something perfectly Mark. Without any dramatics, he pulled out a small folded piece of her own sketchbook from his pocket. It was the one where she had doodled them on dates – their silly caricatures with speech bubbles, quotes from their conversations, and even a cartoon Mark (with a goofy grin and pasta on his head). It was surprisingly well-kept even though she'd only had it on her when they met.
Clara lifted an eyebrow. "My sketchbook?"
He opened it to a blank page that now had a new drawing. It was a cute, cartoonish panel. In the drawing, two stick-figures (one with Clara's curly hair and one with Mark's hairstyle) were standing under a big arch of flowers as if it was a gazebo. Above them, there was a sparkling canopy. The speech bubble over Mark's cartoon figure said, "Will you be my GIRLFRIEND?" Clara's cartoon figure had an enormous surprised smile. The style was like the wedding-gown-panel from her earlier doodles, but instead it was that.
Clara's mouth hung open as she looked from the sketchbook to him and back again.
He closed the book and grinned, sitting back on his haunches slightly. "Didn't have a ring yet, sorry," he said softly, running a hand through his hair. "But I thought this might convey my feelings. I really want to be official with you, Clara. You make me really happy, and I've never been better."
She could feel tears welling again, this time of joy. The thoughtfulness of it—using her sketchbook panel style to ask her — meant everything. It felt like he was asking her in the language they'd shared, humor and sketches and sincerity.
"Yes," she breathed out, suddenly realizing she hadn't breathed for a few moments. "Yes, of course."
In a heartbeat, Mark's grin returned full-force. "Yes? Only yes?"
Clara swept her legs around and leaned forward, hugging him lightly. "Yes, only yes," she said, her voice thick. "I want to be your girlfriend."
He let her hug him for a moment, and she felt the steady beat of his heart against her chest. When they parted, they were closer and their foreheads met, and both were smiling ridiculously. Then he moved to gently kiss her again, and this time with no hesitation, no question marks, just pure soft happiness. It felt like a promise.
They pulled back and just gazed at each other. Clara's eyes were shining so much, she worried it might get streaks on the pasta.
"You know," Mark said quietly, "I didn't use any magic to ask that."
She laughed softly, glancing at her sparkling necklace. "Good. I wouldn't have let you." She squeezed his hand under the table. "Let me do this right."
He squeezed her hand back, gentle as he always was. "Right is having dinner with you," he said simply, gesturing to their plates.
Clara giggled. "You are impossible."
The ring of the dinner bell (well, the microwave timer) broke the moment. Mark stood and opened it, handing her a warm plate of spaghetti as if resuming the normalcy of the moment. "Well, Mr. Hero, shall we celebrate properly?" he asked, handing her fork.
She looked up at him, and it hit her like a sweet epiphany: all along, she had worried that her life was a story with a little too much fantasy — pretty girls turned off the pretty lights, fairy-tale nonsense and all that. But here she was, stir-frying reality with all the love and no camera filters, and it tasted so much better.
Clara held her fork poised. She had a clear head now. No mysterious glint of coin or supportive feather would ever mean so much as this: Mark was hers now in this very real, ordinary moment. And that was enough magic.
"Yes," she repeated after him, because in her heart, that was all that mattered. The story they had was enchanting already, with or without any spells.
They ate slowly, savoring every bite and every glance across the candlelit table. Outside, the sky turned peach and lavender. Somewhere a nightingale sang its evening call. Clara realized she didn't need the extra serenades anymore — hers had arrived in the form of this gentle man, breathing softly in the chair across from her.
By the time the plates were empty, Mark was pulling a small linen napkin over to his hand, ready to tie it around his face like a napkin-bib the way she always did at silly dinners. Clara laughed. "Like I told that little hero kid, you really are something."
He shrugged with a grin. "All thanks to my partner in crime."
Clara nodded, feeling more certain than ever. "Thank you," she said softly. "For being real with me. For… all of this."
He tucked a piece of spaghetti behind her ear (or maybe it was parsley — so romantic). "Anything for my real-girl. Just promise me something."
She looked at him questioningly, eyebrows raised.
He took her hand across the table. "Promise me that from now on, we won't let pretty privileges or magic or any of that stuff do all the work. If someone's here with us tomorrow, let it be because we picked the real story together."
Clara felt tears threaten, but they were out the corner of her eye smilingly. "Deal," she said, squeezing his fingers. "I think that's the best wish I ever made."
Mark leaned forward and kissed her once more, softly. It was comfortable, right, perfect. When they parted again, Clara noticed in the dusky lamplight that Mark's hair had fallen across his forehead in a little messy swoop, and her heart just knotted happily.
Clara realized something with incredible clarity: for the first time, she was ready for Act III of her life without any crutches. The pretty privilege, the subtle magic in her fingertips and voice — that was all gone. She was taking a deep breath and stepping forward for real. And walking beside her was Mark, who caught her when she stumbled and made her laugh and didn't need any enchantment to see who she truly was.
In the final glow of evening, the room felt warm and safe, glowing with the ordinary, honest love they had cooked up together – literally and figuratively. There was still work to do tomorrow, decisions to make, but for right now, Clara was exactly where she needed to be.
Her worries were fried, like garlic in a pan – pungent no more – and what remained was peace. On the table lay two emptied wine glasses, a memory of six weeks, and between them, entwined hands, both bright and steady. Clara leaned back in her chair, content beyond measure. The spell was indeed broken, if there ever was one. And as Mark trailed his finger down the outline of her hand, she whispered one last thing to herself before the night completely fell: This is real, and it is all more than enough.