“Margaret,” I whisper, holding her a little tighter, “you don’t have to face this alone. You can talk to me. Please, let me help you.”

She pulls away slightly, wiping at her eyes. “I don’t want to burden you,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “I just don’t want to think about it anymore. I just want to be here with you, now, in this moment. Can we just… walk? Please?”

I nod, though the worry gnawing at my insides refuses to ease. I’m not sure what’s happening to Margaret, but it’s clear that something is deeply wrong. I want to push her to talk more, to help her confront whatever fears she’s battling, but I know that now isn’t the time. Instead, I offer her a small smile, trying to keep the anxiety from my face.

“Okay,” I say softly, “we’ll walk. But I need you to promise me that we’ll talk about this more later. You can’t keep this all inside, Margaret.”

She nods, her shoulders slumping with what seems like relief. We begin walking again, the path winding its way through the forest, but this time, the silence between us is heavier, laden with unspoken thoughts. My mind keeps returning to her words—the darkness, the fear, the overwhelming presence of death in her thoughts. It’s not like Margaret to be this shaken, to let fear control her so completely.

We continue walking in silence for a few minutes, the soft crunch of our footsteps blending with the sounds of the forest. A bird calls in the distance, and I try to focus on the natural beauty around us. But my thoughts keep returning to Margaret. I want to ask more, to demand that she explain herself, but I hold back. She’s asked me to let it go, and so I will—for now.

Just as I’m lost in my thoughts, Margaret speaks again, her voice cutting through the silence.

“Look,” she says, her tone lighter. “There’s a nest of house finches up ahead. Not that one, silly, the one just above it. See it? They’re cute, aren’t they?”

I follow her finger, and sure enough, there’s a small cluster of finches perched on a tree branch. I smile, grateful for the small distraction. It’s a welcome change from the heavy conversation we just had.

“Yeah,” I reply, my voice warmer. “They are cute.”

But even as I speak, I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. Margaret’s behavior is off today. She’s distant, distracted, and it’s unlike her. I want to help her, but she’s pushing me away, burying her fears beneath a façade of normalcy. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know I can’t let it slide. Not when it’s tearing her apart on the inside.

I pull away from Margaret’s side, letting go of her hand for a moment. I spot a patch of oxeye daisies growing near the base of a tree, their bright white petals standing out against the green backdrop. An idea forms in my mind, and I hurry over to the daisies, bending down to pick the longest stems. I’m going to make a flower crown for Margaret. Something beautiful and simple, a small gesture to bring a little joy back into this day.

“What are you doing?” Margaret asks, crouching beside me, her gaze curious.

“You’ll see,” I reply, offering her a quick smile as I carefully gather the flowers, the stems long enough to make a simple crown.

As I begin to weave the flowers together, I can’t help but hope that, somehow, this small act will be enough to bring Margaret back to herself.

“Oh, you are making a flower crown, aren’t you?” Margaret realizes after I link the first few daisies together into a neat little chain.

“Yes, I am. And just for you,” I reply, looking up and beaming at Margaret.

“Don’t you need to measure it around my head so it fits right?” she asks, examining every movement I make with my hands as I link more daisies together to create the crown.

“Nope. I’ve done these for you so many times that I don’t even have to measure anymore.”

Margaret continues to squat next to me, observing my every move.

“You know, you have sexy hands. They’re very thin, feminine-like. And yet they’re also a bit veiny, but not so much that they look like a man’s hands. They’re very pretty. Oh, and your nails,” Margaret breathes, taking one of my hands away from the daisy crown I’m working on just to rub her thumb over my nails.

“What about them? They’re just… nails. Nothing special.”

“But they’re so pretty and smooth. Mine are short and stubby,” Margaret complains, pulling her hand away from mine to show me her nails, which are short—but they don’t look bad, to be honest.

“I think your nails suit you. I don’t get what it is with you and nails,” I comment, returning to the daisy crown. I’m almost done with it; I just have to add one more to make it the perfect size for Margaret’s head, then I’ll weave the ends together, and it will be finished.

“Here you go, love.”

I gingerly place the daisy crown onto Margaret’s head, adjusting it so it sits properly. Once I’m satisfied, I withdraw my hands and peer into Margaret’s eyes, smiling at her. She beams back, her teeth the same perfect white as the daisies’ petals.

“You look very beautiful,” I say, playing with Margaret’s hair, tucking strands behind her ears while leaving two face-framing fiery red waves on each side of her face. She looks like a very cute, demure girl, the youthfulness returning to her again. Earlier—even before the conversation we had about death—Margaret seemed tired, like her spirit had aged. But the daisy crown brightens her face and brings out the cosmic green of her eyes. The ray of sunshine that comes from her smile, piercing through my heart, makes her look like she’s fifteen again.

“Why, thank you.”

We stare at each other in silence for a few moments, admiring the beauty in each other. It’s almost as if we’re having our own little conversation just by looking at each other—a continuous stream of “I love you” and “No, I love you more.” Or at least, that’s how I imagine it would go.

Margaret sits down on the grass, right next to the daisies and just below the finch nest, and pulls me with her, so I settle down beside her, taking care not to sit on or ruin any of the flowers.

“Come here,” Margaret murmurs, patting her lap. I scoot onto her lap, and she wraps me in her warm embrace. She kisses up my neck slowly, dragging her lips as she goes. I’m not going to lie—it turns me on a little. Then she kisses along my jawline, and finally reaches my cheek, where she plants a long kiss.

She does this often—these long kisses. And usually, while she does, she drums her fingers on my back, as if she’s counting the seconds. But this time, she’s not. Her arms are wrapped tightly around my torso, drawing me closer.

Next thing I know, Margaret finishes the kiss and picks me up, readjusting me so only my head rests in her lap, and the rest of my body lies gently in the grass. Her hand reaches down to my forehead, where she strokes me lovingly.

She’s done this for as long as I can remember. Even as children, she would have me lie down on her lap while she stroked my forehead and the rest of my face soothingly. At first, it was just part of a game—we played pretend family, where Margaret was the mother and I was her daughter. She’d stroke my face to help me “fall asleep,” just like a real mother would. But then she started doing it even when we weren’t playing. Of course, I didn’t mind. I rather enjoyed it, actually.

We were about nine years old. And that also happened to be the time we realized we had feelings for each other.

“What are you thinking about?”

Margaret snaps me out of my thoughts. I’d been zoned out. “Oh, well… I was just remembering how you used to stroke my forehead like this when we were little.”

“Oh, and don’t you remember when I confessed my feelings to you one night? We were having a sleepover at my place, and we were doing exactly what we’re doing now. That is, you lying with your head in my lap while I caress your forehead and the rest of your soft face lovingly. I remember it had been a terrible day weather-wise—it was thunderstorming, and the tree branches were banging against my bedroom window. I was trying to help you calm down, because thunderstorms used to scare you, remember?”

“Of course I do! How could I forget that?” I ask, trying to fathom the possibility of forgetting such a lovely memory. “And when you told me that you loved me more than a friend, I was a little confused. Then I asked if that meant you loved me as a sister. I never told you this, but I knew exactly what you meant as soon as you said it. The reason I asked for clarification was because I thought I was hallucinating or something. I didn’t even consider the idea that you might feel the same way I did!”

I smack my palm against my forehead. Even after all these years, I still can’t believe how naïve I’d been—how oblivious I was to how Margaret felt about me.

“Wow, so you made me feel stupid for confessing my feelings all for nothing?” Margaret remarks, rubbing the spot on my forehead that I just smacked. Though I didn’t hit it that hard, Margaret treats it as if I had, stroking the spot gently like I’d injured myself.

“Augh,” I groan, covering my face with the palms of my hands. Even now, precisely nine years after that moment, I still get second-hand embarrassment.

“Don’t cover your face with your hands,” Margaret tsks, disapproving. She pulls my hands away from my face, where she’s likely met with the burning red blush in my cheeks, making my otherwise pale complexion look like that of a little girl’s porcelain doll.

“What?” Margaret asks, clearly confused by my behavior.

“I just get second-hand embarrassment whenever I recall that memory. That’s part of the reason I don’t like bringing it up.”

“What’s the other part of the reason?”

I pause and take a moment to consider my answer. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I don’t like remembering that memory. It just doesn’t sit well with me. Maybe...

“Well?” Margaret presses, growing impatient, interrupting my train of thought.

“Um, I’m not quite sure. I’m still thinking.”

“Is it because of what happened after?”

I furrow my brows, confused. “What do you mean, ‘what happened after?’”

“Don’t you remember? You were crying because you knew it wasn’t possible for us to be together. And I remember some time after that—just a few days—you came to tell me that your mom said she would never accept you being with another girl. That she thought you were being delusional, confusing the love you have for me with true love. She thought you were joking and just brushed it off. You were so hurt after that, I remember. You were crying then, too.”

Just then, that memory comes back to me, haunting me just a little.

Margaret opens her front door, her cheery smile met with my tear-stained face.

“What’s wrong?” Margaret asks, ushering me inside and quietly closing the door behind her.

“I—I… my mama—” The words trip over each other. I can’t string together a proper sentence. I just stand there, blubbering, a mess of tears and noise.

“Come to my room so we can talk. I don’t want my parents to see you like this,” she whispers, gently grabbing my hand and leading me through the quiet hallway. The light filtering through the windows casts golden beams across the wooden floor, but all I can focus on is the warmth of her fingers wrapped around mine.