The Last Tale of the Flower Bride

by Roshani Chokshi

never used to notice time passing, but my indifference was one-sided. Time watched us spit our baby teeth into our palms, pull sequined dresses from Tati’s closets, and pretend we were monsters. Time followed us to school every morning and afternoon. It sat on our shoulders while we dreamt of faeries, heard us sigh when we were lulled into sleep, traced where our knees touched across Indigo’s green bed, smelled our bones lengthening in the afternoons, and watched how as the years blurred and softened, so did we.

She looked like the nostalgia that settles in your ribs at the end of a story you have never read, yet nevertheless know.

A piece of me grieved that I was wrong, but another part—one with lengthening teeth and huge, wet eyes—was profoundly relieved. Giddy, even. Because if I could be wrong about something that had felt so sure and so vast, then what else could I be wrong about?

I would always love her. Even when she hurt me. Even when she held a blade to my throat. Perhaps especially so, for no one else had ever bothered.