Chapter thirty four; Beneath the cherry lights

The city hummed with a kind of electricity that only early summer brought—warm air that lingered on bare skin, traffic rolling slow and lazy through dusky avenues, and skies stained in strokes of coral and plum. Lila stood outside the Midtown Bookhouse, her fingers clutching the straps of her linen tote, heart thudding in rhythm with the buzz inside the glass doors.

Tonight was the night. The official launch of their book. The culmination of all the nights spent dreaming, creating, doubting, and returning. Beneath the Cherry Lights was no longer just theirs—it now belonged to anyone who had ever tried to find themselves in the arms of someone else and somehow discovered their own name in the process.

River joined her on the sidewalk, dressed in his usual understated style—black button-down, rolled sleeves, a vintage film camera hanging from his neck. His eyes searched hers, reading her like a favorite passage.

"Nervous?" he asked.

"Not about the book," she admitted. "Just… everything else."

River slipped his fingers through hers. "Then let's go in together."

The event space had been transformed into an intimate gallery. Framed photographs from the book lined the walls—each paired with verses from Lila's hand. Twinkling lights hung from the ceiling, reminiscent of the ones that gave the book its name. A soft instrumental played in the background, muffling the low murmur of conversations.

Lila hadn't expected such a turnout. Editors, writers, photographers, even strangers who had followed her words online for years—they were all here.

And then there were the unexpected faces.

Her mother.

It had taken years for Lila to rebuild that fragile bridge, but somehow it stood now, strong enough for her mother to cross the city and take a front-row seat.

River's parents were there too. Chloe, his sister, wore a subtle grin as she handed out copies of the book. Lila caught her eye, and for once, Chloe didn't look skeptical—just proud.

An hour in, the host took the mic to introduce the artists. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us for the launch of Beneath the Cherry Lights, a photographic and poetic journey through heartbreak, healing, and hope. Please welcome the voices behind the vision—Lila Hart and River Gray."

Applause rang out.

Lila walked up with River, every step steady despite the tremble in her knees. She stepped to the podium first.

"Hi," she began, her voice soft but sure. "This book wasn't supposed to happen. At least, not like this. It started as a letter I never meant to send. Then became a photograph I never wanted taken. But somehow, those broken pieces found each other—and they found us again."

She paused, eyes flicking toward River.

"Beneath the Cherry Lights isn't about falling in love. It's about choosing to stay. To show up. Even when the lights go out."

River stepped up next, pulling the mic slightly lower. "I used to believe stories were best captured in moments—shutter clicks, frozen seconds. But Lila taught me that some stories don't live in images. They live in between them. In the pauses, the silence. The ache and the after."

The applause was quieter this time—reverent.

Afterward, people wandered through the exhibit, sipping wine and admiring the blend of verse and vision. Lila drifted near a cluster of college students debating the meaning of a stanza beneath an image of a rainy alley.

> "She didn't run because she was lost, She ran because no one asked her to stay."

They read it aloud like scripture, and Lila felt something shift inside her—a weight lifting.

She had never imagined her words would matter to anyone but River. And now they lived in the mouths of strangers.

River approached her, holding two glasses of sparkling cider. "They love it," he said.

She smiled, lips curving with pride. "Do you?"

He leaned in. "I love you."

The night ended with them walking through Central Park, the city alive behind them. They paused beneath a familiar row of cherry-blossom trees—bare now, out of season, but still luminous in the amber glow of streetlamps.

River turned to her, hand in his pocket. "I was going to wait until the right moment. But this is our story, and we've never done things traditionally."

He pulled out a small, velvet box and opened it. Inside was a ring—simple, elegant, a small garnet stone nestled in silver.

Lila's breath caught.

"I'm not asking you to marry me right now," he said. "But I'm asking you to let me walk beside you. Through every chapter. Every rewrite. Every silence."

She didn't cry. Not because she didn't feel it—but because the joy was too complete, too whole to spill.

"Yes," she whispered.

And the kiss they shared then wasn't grand. It was quiet. Certain.

Three months later, they stood on a balcony in Florence.

A writing residency had offered Lila a six-month stay in Italy to mentor emerging poets. River, camera in hand, had followed without hesitation.

Their days were slow. Mornings filled with ink-stained fingers and sunlit strolls. Afternoons painting their apartment with laughter and dreams.

The world no longer needed to know them. But they knew each other.

One evening, Lila opened her journal and wrote:

> "Love isn't loud. It doesn't roar through galleries Or shake cities awake.

Sometimes, Love is a hand on your back In the quiet Reminding you You're not alone."

And beneath the cherry lights—real or remembered—they kept writing, together.