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🖤
One Year Later
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The cemetery was quiet in the morning.
Not because no one came.
But because the people who did never spoke.
They just stood — like they were afraid any sound would wake the ghosts.
A breeze slipped through the trees, curling past the stone angels, lifting the edges of old flower petals.
Two headstones sat side by side.
One cracked.
One flawless.
Both worn with time, weather, and grief.
The name Maya Grace Lane was carved in soft, sloping script.
Beside her: Elias River Cross.
Someone had placed a pair of black gloves between them — the kind he used to wear.
And a single white lily, tied with red ribbon — the color she loved.
---
A girl stood at a distance.
Sixteen. Maybe seventeen.
She had deep brown skin, tight curls tucked beneath a black beanie, and eyes that looked like they'd seen too much for someone so young.
She stepped closer, cautiously, like approaching royalty.
Then she crouched in front of the graves.
> "So it's true," she whispered. "You both really died for each other."
She brushed a bit of moss from Maya's name.
> "People talk about it like it's a warning. 'Don't fall in love like them.' 'Don't become obsessed.' 'Don't die for someone who hurt you.'"
She looked at Elias's headstone.
> "But I think they're scared. Because no one ever loved like you two did."
---
She reached into her coat.
Pulled out a folded paper — torn, aged, the edges burned slightly.
She smoothed it across the grass.
It was a letter.
From Jax.
She read the first line out loud:
> "If anyone finds this — know that I never hated her. I hated that I wasn't enough to be her everything."
She let out a soft, sad laugh.
> "You broke three hearts, Maya. Yours, Elias's… and his."
She looked down.
Between the graves was a small, leather-bound journal.
Tied in black silk.
She opened it.
Inside were pages of Elias's handwriting — harsh, slanted, angry.
> "I didn't love her gently."
> "I touched her like I was trying to erase the world."
> "I destroyed her to keep her."
And finally:
> "She smiled anyway."
---
Tears slipped down the girl's cheek.
Not because she knew them.
But because she understood them.
> "My sister used to tell me stories about you," she said softly. "She said you were legends. A boy who hated too loudly. A girl who forgave too much."
She stood.
Brushed dirt from her jeans.
And stared at them one last time.
> "Thank you," she whispered.
> "For showing me what love really looks like when it doesn't care about surviving."
---
She left the journal open.
Let the wind flip the pages.
As she walked away, the sky cracked open with soft rain — the kind that felt like tears and forgiveness.
And somewhere far off, unseen by the living, a boy and girl watched.
Not in flesh.
Not in body.
But in memory.
In locket and leather.
In blood and lilies.
In the space between hate and devotion.
> Maya and Elias didn't survive.
But their story never died.
And that's what love like theirs becomes, in the end.
Not ashes.
Not warning signs.
But legacy.
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