Our Infinite Fates

by Laura Steven

“Erm, thanks,” she said slowly, unconvincingly. “What—erm—what is it?” Dylan’s cheeks flushed red, and he suddenly became very interested in the label at the corner of her blanket. “Well, you’re not allowed to bring flowers into hospital these days, so every time I saw one on the farm that reminded me of you, I took it home. Dried it and pressed it. And, erm, there you go.” Curious, I peered over Gracie’s shoulder at the pressed flowers. Dylan had arranged the petals—pink and blue and violet and yellow—into the shape of a violin. Except he was not a particularly gifted artist, and the shape was clumsy, the bow too small, the body too wide. And yet it was perhaps the loveliest thing I’d ever seen. “That is unbelievably tragic,” said Gracie, stuffing it under her pillow, but she had to clear her throat shortly afterwards. I didn’t miss the way she looked up at the harsh ceiling light, blinking furiously.

TBIS WAS SUCH PEAK WRITING HELLO I LOVE THIS SCENE???