Night With Lanterns

"Sometimes we're not falling in love—we're remembering how to let ourselves feel safe again."

Campus buzzed with noise and energy.

The Spring Lantern Festival, hosted every April by the university's cultural committee, had transformed the quad into a soft-lit dream: stalls lined with paper flowers, handmade candles floating in bowls, strings of golden bulbs dancing between tree branches. Students milled around in cozy sweaters, sipping matcha lattes and laughing under the stars.

Yuna stood at the edge of it all, wrapped in a cream cardigan, her dark braid resting over one shoulder. Mina was beside her, holding two festival tickets and grinning like a child who'd just been told she could eat dessert for dinner.

"We're here," Mina said dramatically. "Amongst the people. In the wild."

Yuna laughed. "Do you ever stop being theatrical?"

"Never. It's how I cope with my inner angst."

They wandered toward the lantern table, where students were encouraged to write a wish or confession on a floating paper lantern and set it afloat in the koi pond near the art building.

Yuna picked a lantern.

Her fingers hovered over the pen.

"What are you writing?" Mina asked, peeking.

Yuna smiled. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I'll find out one way or another."

But Yuna didn't answer. She only looked toward the pond, heart quietly full, and wrote:

"I'm not waiting to be saved anymore. I'm learning how to stay lit."

Eli arrived later, his coat unzipped, curls falling over his forehead, hands stuffed in his pockets like he wasn't sure he should be there.

When he spotted Yuna, his whole face changed—softened in that way it only did when he saw her.

"I thought you might skip this," she said, walking toward him.

"Too many people. Too many lights."

"And yet here you are."

He smiled slightly. "I heard you were glowing tonight. Had to come see for myself."

She reached for his hand without a word.

And he let her take it.

They walked slowly through the festival. Stopped at a stand where someone sold homemade candles in tiny glass jars—lavender, citrus, pine. Yuna picked one labeled "Rainy Morning" and turned to Eli.

"This smells like your apartment."

He leaned down and inhaled. "You're right. I might be a cliché."

"Or consistent."

"I prefer emotionally mysterious."

She grinned. "You're not as unreadable as you think."

They kept walking.

At one stall, they played a memory game—matching images under overturned tiles. Yuna lost. Twice.

"I'm an academic, not a strategist," she said, mock-pouting.

"Don't worry," Eli replied, "I'll let you win when we arm wrestle."

She nudged his side. "I'll hold you to that."

Later, they settled on the grass near the koi pond, watching lanterns drift and spin slowly on the water's surface.

The air smelled like roasted marshmallows and spring dust. Distant laughter rose in soft waves.

Yuna leaned her head on Eli's shoulder.

He went still—then relaxed against her.

She didn't speak.

Not at first.

Then: "I don't think I've felt this kind of peace in years."

"Maybe never."

Eli turned to look at her. "You deserve it. Every ounce of it."

"I used to think I had to earn calm," she said. "That I wasn't allowed to have it unless I was perfect."

"And now?"

"Now I think… calm is part of healing. Not a reward. A necessity."

He nodded, quiet.

But Yuna noticed the slight shift in his posture.

The way his hand tightened.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

Eli hesitated.

Then, softly: "Sometimes I worry that I can't give you enough."

She sat up slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know how to love… loudly. Or easily. I'm always afraid I'm not showing it right. That I'll lose you because I'm too… quiet."

Yuna stared at him.

Then, slowly, she reached out and cupped his jaw with her hand.

"You don't have to love me loudly," she whispered. "You love me in the way you check if I've eaten. The way you remember my coffee order. The way you listen, even when I say nothing."

Eli's eyes glassed over, just slightly.

"I've never asked you to be perfect," she continued. "I just asked you to stay."

He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead against hers.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said.

The festival wound down around them. Lanterns flickered against the pond. Students danced near the main stage to an old indie song that barely held rhythm.

Eli stood and extended a hand.

Yuna blinked. "Are you—do you want to dance?"

He shrugged. "We can just… sway."

She laughed, took his hand.

And they did.

Under the lights. On the grass. No music at first—just their steps in sync, her head against his chest, his hand cradling the small of her back.

"I like dancing with you," she said softly.

"Even when I step on your foot?"

"Even then."

When he walked her home later, they stopped just outside her apartment.

Yuna looked up at the sky, stars scattered and soft.

She turned to him.

"Come inside," she said.

Eli blinked. "Are you sure?"

"I just want… quiet. With you."

Inside, they sat side by side on the couch. Shoes off. Lights low. Her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

"Did you write something on your lantern?" she asked.

He nodded.

"What was it?"

He kissed the top of her head and whispered, "I wished for courage to love you fully."

Yuna's eyes closed.

"I think," she murmured, "you already are."

She didn't sleep easily that night.

Not because of fear—but because of how much had changed. How open she'd become. How close he felt.

And in the still dark, she wrote in her notebook:

"He doesn't save me.He just sits beside me long enoughfor me to save myself."