#write things

"Wait. You what?"

Tom used his free hand to scrub his face, scrunching his eyebrows toward Elliot's scowl.

"Well now I feel like maybe I shouldn't have shown you first."

"You do know Clove, right?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Elliot's disgusted look turned slowly to amusement as he tossed his head back, crossing his arms with a hearty laugh.

"Tom. If you're going to do this, you've got to do it right. And that thing...that might make her think you're joking."

"It's supposed to be a joke. It's a placeholder! I thought the joke of it would be perfect. I dunno...different. I don't want to be cliche."

"That's fair. But I really think she'd just want something simple. Like, not traditional or anything, but simple."

"You don't think I'd get that without getting the real one too, right?"

"So this isn't it?"

"Nah, of course not. I got that from the cheap section at Target. I told you, it was a joke. Except now I think I'm skipping that part on account of your reaction."

"Okay….where is it? What is it?"

"Some earthy, vintage looking thing. Has a stone on it. Not like a rock, though, like one of those crystals she has by the bed. It's beautiful. It's in my car."

"Can I see it?"

Tom nodded and turned toward the parking lot, leaving Elliot on the old cedar plank bench in front of the apartments.

Inside were boxes, packed full and stacked high to the ceiling, decluttered closet contents scattered along the kitchen counter. Photo frames arranged by size on four racks along one wall, Clove's gentle touch and glaze stained fingertips dusting overtop. Through the open window, they could hear the faintest chime of her humming, old and new songs they'd danced to in the living room, faint ghosts now in the breeze.

The lease to her new studio - slash - shop and their little home nestled above lay alone on the kitchen table, signed by both parties, excitement bursting within the walls they'd learned their love.

"We're going home,"] she thought, unaware of the true happiness that would come, but beaming with her own idea of what it could mean.

Back on the bench, a few breaths short of tears and that awkward sentimental chest sob, Elliot composed himself as Tom handed him a much smaller box, one hand stamped with black ink for a logo, the same scent of ancient books coming from within.

And it was. Beautiful, that is, perfect for her.

All at once, his mind replayed the moments in between the tragedy. Every nightmare she'd held him through, every second she reminded him that they weren't alone. Her laugh and the way she'd let him win at most things, always, the best and the worst of their petty fights. Her arm around his shoulders when she told him that she'd love him no matter what, the banter they shared. The love, the love he watched bloom between them, every moment, every second-

"What do you think?"

Elliot wiped his eyes and smiled over to Tom, his voice like delicate wisps of fog in the air.

"I think it's perfect. I think she's going to love it."

Tom's eyes crinkled as he turned away with emotion, swiftly clapped into Elliot's embrace.

"This is really happening."