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Van’s first words after the nurse left were, “We’re not going home.”
Her voice was still weak, frayed at the edges, but the intent was sharp enough to cut through the stale hospital air.
Taissa froze, halfway through folding the discharge papers. “Baby, we can’t stay here,” she said, leaning closer so her shadow fell over Van’s bed. “You need to sleep in your own bed. Somewhere that smells like you, not like bleach and strangers.”
Van’s eyes, too clear for how pale she looked, fixed on her. “That’s not what I mean.” She shifted against the pillow, and Tai could almost hear the effort in the movement. “I mean—no more waiting for the right time. We don’t have that anymore. We’ve already spent enough years pretending there’s something better to wait for.”
“Van—”
“I’m not saying this to scare you,” she went on, voice steady in that way that only comes after the decision’s already been made. “I just don’t want to waste another day acting like we’ve got forever. We don’t.”
Tai’s throat tightened. “We can’t get married,” she said quietly. “Not… officially.”
A small, tired smile touched Van’s mouth. “Then we do something else. Something that’s ours. Doesn’t have to be legal. We’ll know, and that’s enough.”
The drive back to Van’s was quiet except for the hum of the road under the tires. The city blurred past, rain streaking the windshield in long, silver threads. Tai kept glancing over—Van was leaning her head against the glass, watching the lights pass like she was trying to memorize them.
They didn’t talk about where exactly the idea had come from, or when they’d both silently agreed that this wouldn’t just be another night together. It was there in the way Van reached over at a red light and squeezed Tai’s hand like she was testing reality. It was there in the quiet kind of smile that meant she wasn’t thinking about the hospital anymore.
Inside, Van’s apartment felt altered, like it knew something was about to happen. The lights were low, the rain pattering softly outside.
She went to her bedroom and came back holding a coil of rope, worn and rough in her hands. Tai blinked at it.
Van gave a half-shrug. “You said no rings. So.” She threaded the rope between her fingers, frayed edges catching the lamplight. “This… means more, anyway.”
Tai didn’t have to ask why. The texture of it, the weight—it was the woods pressed into the present, their history looped into something tangible. Nights in front of fires, knots tied in silence, makeshift ties meant to hold fast because losing each other out there wasn’t an option.
Van cut the rope into two pieces, then tied their wrists together, knot snug but not cruel. “You can’t lose me now,” she said softly.
They sat on the floor in front of the couch, knees touching, the candlelight catching in the curve of Van’s smile. They spoke vows without thinking, their words unspooling like old songs they both knew.
“I’ll stay,” Tai said, voice low.
“I’ll keep you warm,” Van answered, almost like she had before—before there were walls, before there were beds, before they were anyone but girls who needed each other to survive the night.
For a moment, Tai could hear the trees in the room: the sharp hiss of wind through branches, the crackle of wood breaking under the snow’s weight. She blinked, and it was only the rain again.
They ate cross-legged on the floor—bread, cheese, a bowl of soup Van could manage without getting sick. The radio played something slow and scratchy from the corner.
Halfway through, Van set her mug down and stood. “Dance with me,” she said.
Tai smiled faintly. “You sure?”
Van nodded, holding out her hand.
They swayed in slow, uneven circles, the rope pulling between them. Van’s chin rested on Tai’s shoulder, her breath warm and steady. Outside, the rain tapped harder against the glass. For a flicker of a moment, Tai saw them at nineteen—dirty, exhausted, swaying to a rhythm only they could hear. Back then it had been to keep warm. Tonight, it was to remember.
Later, curled together on the couch, Tai said it like she’d been holding it in all night. “When you go, I’m going too.”
Van’s brow furrowed. “Tai—”
“We’re not supposed to be apart,” Tai said simply. “Not now. Not after everything.”
Van didn’t argue. She’d already told Tai she didn’t want to waste time, and she knew the truth in her voice.
They danced one more time. They lay down under the flannel, still bound by the rope. Neither mentioned the quiet countdown they’d both started—thirty days, maybe less, until Van wouldn’t feel like herself anymore. Until she would decide to go.
Van didn’t see the second amber bottle on the nightstand, staring at her like a ticking clock.
It wasn’t until later, long after Tai’s breathing evened into something too still, that she understood. She pressed her forehead to Tai’s and didn’t move.
The rain had stopped. The rope was still tied.