SURRENDER

            I poke another daisy onto Miles's hair. It's not quite long enough and too straight to hold onto the flowers and two fall when he turns his head from the surface of the lake. 'Stop moving,' I complain, but Miles only smiles. 'But I wanna look at you.'

With my cheeks burning, I pick up the last yarrow flower and tuck it behind his ear. I pluck the two fallen daisies from the planks and gently place them back in their place. He looks pretty with the flowers in his hair, the white petals contrasted against black strands in a way that's almost reminiscent of the night sky except also the complete opposite.

They all fall into a halo around him when I drop against his chest. My knees clash against his as I shove my face into his sternum. 'If God had any sense of justice, They'd reverse Bible and turn me into one of your ribs.'

A laugh ribbons from Miles. 'Then I'm glad They don't.'

'You don't want me to be your rib?'

'How am I s'posed to date my own bones?' The amusement in his voice is more boisterous this time but it isn't cruel, he isn't going to call me a freak. 

'So you don't love me.' My face sets on fire. I snap upright and shift a little away from him so that our knees lose contact. 'No, sorry, I didn't mean–! I just– It was a joke.'

Miles smiles to let me know it's alright, that he knows. He moves forward and presses our knees back together. Without a word, he takes my hands and turns them so my palms are open to the sky. I stare at him and, sensing my eyes, Miles glances up and shrugs a single shoulder — I just wanna look at them. He traces the dark lines in my skin.

'I think I will.'

'Huh?'

'Love you.'

The final parts of me that have remained solid through the afternoon melt. It's surprising that I don't seep like ice cream into the gaps between the planks; Miles turns me into a Sweetzone orange slice that'll turn to goo in the sun but I don't mind. The rough skin I've wrapped myself in would be much nicer replaced with sugar.

My lip between my teeth is what corners me back into a solid state. I try to focus on his hands studying mine but the question knocks against my molars until I release it. 'What about your mum?' His thumb falls still on my knuckles and a second hangs in the air like a raincloud before Miles looks up, eyebrows pinched. 'What's she gonna think if you don't go to uni?'

He shrugs. 'She'll be angry about it, but then she'll realise that she needs me around.'

            When we stagger through the door to Barua's Market hours later, I still can't walk straight. The chime of the bell is as distant as those from the church. The tiny crevice at the back of my mind capable of coherent thought notes to be thankful that only four other shoppers are adrift between the shelves, because, moments later when we reach the sweets shelf and, with no established plan to do so, each grab the other's pastels, I can't help but bend over with laughter.

It pours out of me without a single obstacle. The packet of liquorice Fisherman's Friends crumples in my fist as I grab the shelf for support. Miles ushers me to collect myself with uneven whispers, pulling me upright to grab my free hand and cram the Parma Violets tube into it.

'Do you wanna be my boyfriend?'

My laughter ends with the flick of a switch. I stop breathing altogether only to gasp for breath like a man pulled to the shore seconds before drowning.

I glance down the aisle to check we're alone and match his whisper. 'Aren't we supposed to go on a date first?'

'Why can't we go after?'

'I think we're supposed to do it first.'

Brow furrowed, Miles's eyes shift to the ceiling for answers. 'Okay... well, considering my life isn't a chemistry lab exam, I reckon it don't matter what order I do things in, like.'

A giggle starts in my chest but diffuses at the back of my throat. As though his words are a cold draft, I turn my head and bury it in my shoulders as a lump builds up in my throat again like a knot of yarn that tugs threads from the base of my stomach, growing until I can't swallow it back down.

My whisper scathes through it, barely audible. 'Are you sure you want a clinically insane boyfriend?'

'Aye, now that you put it like that, no. I'm revoking the offer. It's revoked.'

I throw the crumpled packet of Fisherman's Friends at him which only makes him laugh. Second attempt: I shove him. 'Dickhead, I'm serious.'

Miles picks up the pastels, grinning at our shoes. With a glance around to ensure our privacy, he steps closer to nudge my flip-flops with the rubber of his trainers. 'I want you to be my boyfriend. I want to be your boyfriend.'

Like spraying dishes with too much washing-up liquid so foam bubbles out of the sink, he gushes with weightless giggles from the thought. But the foam soon dissolves and leaves him with nothing but soaked clothes. He toys with his flower-pattern friendship bracelet. 'If... you're okay with me not being out to anyone but my mum, and her being less than enthusiastic about it, then–'

'Course I'm okay with it. It's not your fault.' The words have slipped from my tongue before any semblance of self-awareness catches them and my cheeks burst aflame.

Tilting his head, Miles bites down a smirk. 'Exactly.'

You're a bare hypocrite, is what he's saying. Or whatever his northern-isms would turn that sentence into: you're dead a hypocrite.

He's right. I've got no choice but to laugh and accept defeat.

'Okay. I'd like to be your clinically insane boyfriend.' The word spurs the need for me to scream and bounce on the spot and I fall into him to stop myself. Miles brushes my braids over my shoulder. The packet of Parma Violets melts in my fist. 'I'd like it a lot.'

'Calm.'

'Grand.'

I love the way you borrow my words. I love the taste of yours on my tongue, to suckle on them like the pits of dates to ensure I don't waste even a filament of saccharine goodness.

The shuffle of slippers warns of Mrs Azad's approach seconds before she turns into the aisle and we flinch apart, both feigning acute interest in our respective pastel packets. My salaam and wave much too enthusiastic to pass for casual, she watches us through narrowed eyes that think these-kids-are-up-to-no-good as she passes.

Miles waits for her to reach the till before he turns to me, inclining his head closer to whisper. 'We could go on a date tomorrow. I'll make dinner.'

I toy with my cross. 'I've got therapy.' My voice is even quieter than his.

'After then. Or before.' How does he respond as though it's a dentist appointment? Is really that normal to you? 'Or Saturday. Whenever works for you.'

When I venture to find his eyes, there's no fear in them and my heart swells at the same time as the metallic spider at the back of my head attempt to weave it into a cage. 'It's at three, so I guess after is fine.' An afterthought rolls in like a storm cloud to a blue horizon, and I add, 'As long as my parents give me permission.'

'They will.' Miles doesn't let the words land before he elaborates. 'I've already asked them. As long as you don't miss any of your prayers, your dad said.' When my lips don't as much as twitch at the humour in his tone, Miles pushes off the sweets rack. 'I know it's important for you and I don't wanna put you in the position where you could only be with me if you're disobeying them. So... I asked first.' His voice returns to a joke, 'We have their blessing–'

I tackle him in a hug without warning and Miles nearly loses balance, stumbling a meter back with me hung around his neck until he finds footing. The shock renders him rigid but just as I'm about to pull away and apologise, he melts into the embrace and wraps his arms around me.

Tears flood from my eyes into his tee still damp from the lake water I poured onto it earlier. I grip the fabric with all my might, the Parma Violets rolled between my right hand and his shoulder. 'Thank you.'

'It's nowt.' He knows I'm not talking only about my parents anymore, yet this is still his response: affectionate frustration.

Will my pride recover after I tell Dr Colas she was right like she always is? That maybe other people aren't inaccessible silhouettes that pass through my ghost hands but my most important resource of understanding myself, that connection to them is the very thing to make me solid again, that I don't have less of life when I share it with someone but twice the amount?

My face burns at my utter loss of decorum, and my eyes glue to the floor when I pull away from him. Mind blank of anything funny to say, I go to turn away, not sure what to do next. I never have to figure it out. His hand grabs mine to pull me back to press a kiss to my temple. Shy and quick, but I swoon enough to fall over if it weren't for his support.

Please don't ever let go. Will you hold onto my hand when I get drowned in contemplation about if I'd rather be an animal or a machine? Will you walk me through the funhouse? I know I get scared by the smallest things and it's a bit pathetic but I'll feel a lot safer with you around.

There's nothing I want for the future than for all twenty-seven bones of your hand to hold all twenty-seven in mine. What's time in the face of skeletons?

My seconds will all be lost to the inevitable current but I can heal from the sense of grief over things I've never experienced and the regret of everything I could have, and with work, I can understand that new seconds always lie ahead, just waiting for me to experience them. I will love all of them, with both halves of me.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: thank you all so much if you've made it this far. hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it <33 You can go leave a review on StoryGraph if you like.

the sequel is out! it's from Miles' POV, set a few years later when they live together.