The sun dripped through the cottage's slatted windows like honey, slow and golden and too warm to be comforting. I sat curled on the edge of the bed, knees to my chest, notebook closed tight beside me. I hadn't opened it since the kiss. Since I'd written Milo's lips onto mine… and the universe had obeyed like it was mine to command. My fingers still trembled when I remembered the look in his eyes wide, dazed, like he didn't know why he'd done it. Like he wasn't entirely there. And maybe… he wasn't. The guilt tasted metallic. Sharp. "Celine?" Lena's voice came from behind the half-open door. She sounded like herself again breezy, unbothered, unknowing. "You coming? We're heading into the village." "Yeah," I lied. "Just grabbing my shoes." Outside The island had shifted overnight. Not in any visible way, no. But it felt different. More alert.
The air hummed. The trees whispered. We walked single file down the forest path, tangled roots beneath our feet. Lena led the way, radiant in white linen, her hair braided into a crown. Milo walked silently between us, arms swinging loosely, his T-shirt clinging to the kind of body gods are sculpted after. Sun-kissed bronze skin, dark lashes, and that unbothered, devastating jawline. I didn't let myself look too long. We reached the village mid-morning. It looked like a page torn from a dream bamboo stalls with hanging spices, carved statues at every corner, bursts of color and fabric and song. Locals smiled, waved. Some stared. Then a child tugged at my wrist. He couldn't have been more than seven. Curly hair, skin like caramel smoke, eyes that burned too old. He handed me a red string and said, in a language I didn't know I knew: He ran before I could ask what he meant. We wandered the market. Milo leaned in close to examine carved masks; Lena twirled to the rhythm of a nearby drum circle. I stood still, the red string looped loosely around my wrist, heart racing. Then I felt it. Milo's fingers brushed mine just for a second, unintentional, maybe. But I turned to look at him and he looked away too fast. Lena was watching. Her smile flickered. Just a little. That night, I didn't write. I couldn't. The notebook lay silent on the shelf, glowing faintly in the candlelight. But my hand itched. And deep inside, a question echoed: What if you wrote something better?
The market was alive. Not just busy alive. Like the whole place breathed in rhythm with some ancient drumbeat echoing under the earth. Scents of roasted cassava, sea salt, and something floral I couldn't name curled through the air. Laughter spilled from open doorways. Colors clashed in the most beautiful ways scarves, spices, woven mats, painted masks. I walked a little behind Milo and Lena, letting the sound wrap around me. The red string the little boy had given me still hung loose around my wrist. And then I saw them. Other writers. I swear I could tell from a mile off. The way they moved half distracted, half enchanted. As if every detail might become a sentence. There was a girl with white braids in a spiral notebook frenzy, sketching symbols into the margins. A guy with a feather quill tucked behind his ear, deep in conversation with an elder in long indigo robes. A tall, pierced woman in a velvet cloak stood in the shadow of a palm tree, watching me. Just watching.
"What… is this place?" I whispered. Milo stepped beside me, his voice low. "Some kind of creative retreat, I think. I heard one of them say the island calls people when they're ready." "Ready for what?" He didn't answer. We passed a central fountain, where children danced in circles and an old woman stirred a pot of something that glowed blue. A younger woman with a baby strapped to her back handed us warm coconut bread, smiling without saying a word. Then I heard someone yell my name. "Ravenna?! No freakin' way!" I turned Aaliyah, a wild, poetic soul I'd once shared a writers' forum with. She wore gold hoops the size of her fists and a sunflower scarf. "I KNEW I saw your name on the list, girl. What the hell are you writing magic too?" I blinked. "Wait what do you mean, too?" She lowered her voice, eyes gleaming. "Don't pretend. You've seen it, haven't you? You write it… it happens." I didn't answer, but something in my silence made her grin wider. "Be careful," she whispered. "This place doesn't do edits."
Meanwhile, Lena was busy flirting. With a blond Adonis of a poet. His name was Lucien, apparently. He spoke in a deep French accent and gave her an origami rose. I watched them from across the crowd. The way she leaned into him. The way Milo looked away. And then our eyes met. Milo's and mine. It lasted two seconds. Maybe three. But it said everything. Later, as the sun began to set in molten orange, a voice rang out near the temple steps. A local elder stood there, arms raised. "The island welcomes the storytellers," he declared. "But remember… you are not the only ones writing the future. "Every head turned toward the mountains beyond. And my skin went cold.
The stars above the island weren't stars. Not really. They shimmered too close, too red, like embers suspended in the sky. The villagers had lit dozens of torches, forming a wide circle in the clearing behind the temple. At the center, a bonfire towered like a flaming god, reaching high enough to kiss the darkness. Drums pounded. Low and slow. Boom… boom… boom.
The rhythm didn't just echo in the clearing it took over my body. My chest. My throat. My thighs. Everything inside me vibrated with that ancient pulse. I stood near the edge of the circle, wrapped in a thin white cloth a market woman had pressed into my hands. It was translucent in the firelight. I hadn't realized that until I saw Milo staring. He looked away when our eyes met but not fast enough.
Lena had already joined the dancers. Her hips moved like water, fluid and glowing. Lucien was with her, shirtless now, carved like a god from Olympus, every line of him gleaming with sweat. She let him touch her waist. The flames cracked louder. "You, okay?" Milo appeared beside me, his voice quiet. Protective. "Are you?" He didn't answer. Just watched the fire. And then the elder raised a hand and everyone stopped. "The fire reveals your heart," he intoned in the island tongue, translated by a young priestess beside him. "It shows what you hide. It burns away your fear. If you cannot write the truth… the island will write it for you." The priestess stepped toward me. "You've been chosen to speak." My breath caught. "What?" "Step into the firelight, storyteller." Dozens of eyes turned to me. Some curious. Some jealous. Milo's… worried. Lena's… unreadable. I stepped forward. The heat hit me like a wave. And the moment I opened my mouth; it wasn't me speaking.
"There is a man I want to want me back. But he's already spoken for. And still…He looks at me like he'd burn everything to touch me once." I gasped. I hadn't planned to say that. I hadn't even thought it. But there it was. The fire roared higher, like it approved. Milo took a step forward. "Rev" The crowd cheered, drowning him out. Someone placed a bowl in my hand shot, red liquid with gold dust. "Drink. Seal the words." I drank. And everything changed. The music turned feverish. Bodies pressed together. The air felt thick, hot, wet. Like desire had become scent, clinging to every inch of my skin. Milo grabbed my wrist. "Come on. We need to talk." He dragged me away from the fire, away from the noise, down a trail lined with flickering torches. We stopped under a fig tree, its leaves shimmering silver. His breath was ragged. "That thing you said back there…" he started, voice tight. "It just came out," I said quickly. "I didn't mean" He stepped closer. "Yes, you did." My back hit the tree. His hand came up fingers against my jaw. Warm. Rough. Gentle. "And I've been trying so hard not to want you," he said, voice barely above a growl. "Because Lena… because we're friends… because it's wrong. But this place… this fire… you" I reached up and kissed him. Hard. Hot. Desperate. The fire wasn't behind us anymore. It was inside me.