Lightning illuminated the entire neighborhood, momentarily exposing the secrets kept by the shadows. The wind whistled as it aggressively, effortlessly whirled the rainwater. Tree branches swayed from side to side and leaves were quickly washed into the gutter lining the sidewalk. The weather was strangely fiercer than usual. A savage storm crowded the murky sky, casting a foggy mist. Thunder roared ferociously and rain poured, drowning the tight-knit community of West Haven.

Catherine Fitzgerald's sleep had suddenly been interrupted by what sounded like yelling. She sat straight up, reaching for her eyeglasses on the nightstand near the bed. The elderly widow shuffled toward her kitchen and peered out the bay window, trying her best to see what was happening at the house next door. In an attempt to avoid being branded a nosy spinster, she usually kept the shades drawn as only a miserable recluse would—but something in the pit of her stomach had begun to tug and twist. Over the years she had learned to trust her instincts, so she stood on the tips of her toes like a ballerina, eyes carefully squinted with focus. The downpour was far too dense to see through.

It was one o'clock in the morning when the widow Fitzgerald entered her kitchen. She searched through the cabinet for her prescription arthritis medication and fixed herself a warm cup of cinnamon cider. Just as she lifted the cup to her lips to enjoy the first sip, she dropped it. The china shattered at her feet, spilling its contents all over her pink cotton slippers. A piercing chill crept in and it raised the hairs on the nape of the widow's neck. Something had frightened her. It sounded like gunfire. Catherine Fitzgerald gripped her chest, fearing the unthinkable. She was certain, absolutely positive, that it had echoed from the home right next to her own.

It was 1:11 a.m. Most of the neighborhood slept soundly. At last, all was still in the LaVan residence. Nothing but dead silence remained from the chaos that had owned the last passing minutes. Malcolm could no longer feel his heart beating. The temperature all around him had gradually dropped. A peculiar numbness was rapidly taking over, climbing from his feet all the way up to his face. He tried, desperately, to lift himself from the floor, but he was unable. Strength abandoned his limbs; breath deserted his lungs. There was a significant amount of blood surrounding his body, but there was no longer any pain. The only thing Malcolm could feel was his life slowly slipping away—but death had never been a more distant thought. At last they lay quietly together, faces melted into a peaceful, painless stillness.

Malcolm's eyes were finally closed. He need not open them. He didn't have to see her face to know that she was near. He could still smell her sweet scent lingering. The end of his life was so close that he could exist only in his consciousness. Thank God emotions are better felt than spoken; even if I wished to speak, my voice fails me. If fate has found me fortunate enough to spend my final moments next to her, then I declare this the most beautiful defeat a man has ever had the pleasure of enduring. Death has finally arrived to free me; to death I am obliged.

An unfamiliar voice cried out, muffled but audible: "My God, what happened here? Someone get the paramedics in here right now! We may be able to save this man's life!" If Malcolm could have yelled, he would have. No, do not touch me! I beg you, let me go. Let me die here beside this diamond, this precious gem of mine. Is that too much for a desperate man to ask? Why? Why show me this glimmer of hope only to have it shrivel and wilt before my eyes like a thirsty, neglected weeping willow? The fault is mine to claim, believing that one sub-rosa romance could end the suffering of two people. Forgive me, Diamond.

At last defeated—tears like battle wounds scarring my face. There were still a few tears left on the cheek of her cold, precious face, too. They hadn't had a chance to completely escape the thickness of her lashes before she slipped away. She pondered: Perhaps this is what crossing over feels like. I feel such peace, but why has my mind not yet cleared? My heart is not yet frozen; there is a warmness still dwelling within me, the same warmness this man used to resurrect me when I was still alive. Yes, like being wrapped in the wing of a phoenix. Yes, there is a feeling inside still very much alive. My time, my precious time, finer than the sand sifting inside an hourglass—gone now. Oh, so many regrets; so much time wasted. How many moons have come and gone, wasted on inevitable battles, searching for some truth in a lie? How many nights have gone by restless, tossing and turning over things I knew I could never change? I will accept that this is the end; no sense in fighting. No, I refuse to fight—but I pray that death does not separate me from my memories. Please don't let me forget him, his heartbeat like a lullaby in my ear. He is still near, I can feel it. We have never been freer, like two birds too weak for the sky and yet we fly. Yes, we were like two doves flying low to the earth, but then a storm came without warning. Please don't look back, don't look back and see that you may have to soar on alone. Keep flying, please keep flying. The weight of the rain trampled down on me and I was devoured by the thunder wailing against my feathers. I could have been yours forever, happy simply crying at the sight of the sunlight rising, shining against your face. Happy simply tracing your lips with my fingertips while watching you sleep. And if we were to ever go to bed angry, I'd still wake reaching out for you. If only I could take your hand in mine; I do not wish to walk alone. If only I could admire those eyes just one more time—those eyes, nearly penetrating my soul, setting free the things I kept inside: my fears, my hopes, my weaknesses. I also admire the stars, but I will never know what it feels like to touch a star's glory. Roses are pretty, they entertain the eye, but for a lifetime with you these hands will never grip the stem of another flower. For a lifetime with you, I will never look to the stars again.

Their lives had been reduced to nothing more than a whisper spoken from death's lips, gracing fate's ear; and that fate had been sealed, not by a kiss placed ever so gently on love's lips, but by tragedy consuming an undying, undeniable bond.

* * *

The Fourth Grade

I've always loved you; can you imagine such slavery? Witnessing the likeness of an angel in a dream, but waking to the same nightmare: not having you beside me. Before beauty had a chance to grace the eye, before lips had the opportunity to speak a name so sweet, I have loved you. Can you imagine such insanity? Two strangers, lone wolves howling at the same moon—can you hear it as clearly as I can feel it? It was always you—the one. The loneliness was dark, but then there was you: light like that of a rare, precious stone.

With what can love be measured? With what can the depth of love be measured? It was a question far too complex to cloud the mind of a child, but still—there it was, left unanswered in the back of young Malcolm's head, provoking both confusion and curiosity.

It's perfectly normal for people to set goals and try their very best to eventually reach them. Most goals are the result of simple daydreaming—daydreaming that takes place in the careless, idle mind of a child. Some children set career goals. Little girls dream of becoming Miss America or the next big pop star to appear on the covers of magazines across the globe. Little boys hope to play professional sports or own multibillion-dollar businesses. Others play house. Some children find it difficult to dream past the present. They can only dream of indulging in candy the moment their parents aren't looking, or of racing full-speed to the nearest swing at recess, or of ways to avoid naptime.

Malcolm's mother warned: "Love? Why would you be worried about something so silly? You're way too young to understand it, so stay as far away from it as you can. My child, do not be so easily distracted by things that shine. Never seek shiny things, or else you'll always find world-weariness."

How can love be measured? Can it be determined by the number of tears on one's sleeve? Is it defined by precise levels of selflessness or perhaps sacrifice? By the number of promises broken or secrets reserved? Maybe it's measured by the time it takes for one to become brave enough to let someone see straight through one. Can it be measured by the time it takes to mold an introduction into a conversation and a conversation into a connection? With what can love be measured? Is age a factor? Isn't love, being pure, meant to lack perversion? Is it not at its best before unnecessary factors creep in to complicated emotion, before people twist love to fit their own definitions? Perhaps love is at its strongest when it springs from a place deep down inside, a place otherwise undiscovered.

"But Mommy, she shines." He loved her. He always had. Her name was LaSydia "the Diamond" LaVan. She was deemed "the diamond," a title not self-proclaimed but very much deserved.

Mademoiselle,

Time is but a mere number, inevitably increasing as we move forward in our lives. It does not possess the power to change how I feel—the way I've always felt. I am cursed by my own lips, unable to say what lives in my own heart.

Sincerely yours, The one who reaches out for you at dawn

It was angelic, almost heavenly. It was soft and consoling. It was the sound of music drifting along, melodiously, as if tightly intertwined with the passing breeze. The sunset had settled a cool, comfortable temperature along the beach. Malcolm sat peacefully on a large stone partially submerged in the galloping waves. It was one of his favorite places to be after a rough day. He hated the long, rough days. They always left him feeling severely overworked and underpaid.

Malcolm marveled at the scenery as the retreating sun left tangerine and lavender marshmallow smears across the sky. It was a sight to see. Most times he'd be there all alone, free to focus on the ocean—to filter his head, clearing his mind of all unnecessary thoughts or worries. Some days he got lucky.

Once every blue moon, a young lady would emerge. She, too, fancied the tranquility of the waves rushing against the sand. She was quite impressive, to say the least. She never wore a swimming suit or pranced around in skimpy, revealing threads. She went only to play the violin in peace. She was a very talented woman. On more than one occasion she'd secretly helped Malcolm. Some days, she performed in a way that made him appreciate things. Some days her music tugged at his unresolved emotions or brought buried memories to the surface. On days like that, he would weep. Malcolm didn't mind his own tears. Expressing his feelings never made him feel less of a man or ashamed—besides, he had never met her face-to-face. She was never close enough to witness him crying. He was almost certain she'd never even noticed him there, perched on his favorite stone. There had always been a great distance between the two of them, but still he considered her a friend. She never turned toward him, not once. Maybe her face was horribly disfigured. Maybe she was shy or ashamed of her talent.

The workday had gone on longer than Malcolm had predicted. His calloused hands were achy, his back was sore, and his muscles were ready to tap out; he walked at a snail's pace. He pushed open the door to his hollow one-bedroom apartment. A strong odor rushed toward his face, causing his nose to crinkle. "Number one on the to-do list: take out the trash," he mumbled to himself with a sigh.

Loneliness had a distinct coldness, like midnight in midwinter. He hated the empty feeling provided by his bachelor lifestyle. There was never anyone to greet him at the door, anxiously awaiting his return. The answering machine never recorded an urgent message; the world never required his presence or opinion to keep spinning. He was the only one to blame for empty milk cartons left in the refrigerator. Dirty dishes in the sink were the result of his own negligence. His own goldfish had preferred death over his companionship.

A devastating depression was circling up above, preparing to land and devour. Malcolm had grown accustomed to lonely, and lonely had befriended him in a way that joy never had. It was easier that way, not expecting love. If he tricked himself into believing it would never exist for him, he could never be disappointed when it never came to his rescue.

Malcolm peeled off his work attire and tossed it aside, leaving his uniform wherever it landed. He showered and set the table to dine alone. Malcolm jerked open the fridge to find nothing worth indulging in. "Number two: take out the trash. Number one: buy more food." A frustrated expression settled on his face as he riffled through all the kitchen cabinets. There was a jungle in his stomach, a great hunger worked up from all his manual labor. He could attempt to overpower it or head to the local grocery store to seek nourishment. Malcolm looked down at his watch. It was getting later by the second—way too late for decent fast food. The grocery store was his only option. He grabbed his car keys and jacket.

He parked in his usual parking spot and grabbed a stray shopping cart near the entrance, as he always did. He gave the homeless man crouching next to the soda machines a few dollars, as he did each time they crossed paths. His initial plan was to stock up on a few treats and then return to his deserted apartment for some uninteresting late-night television, and then tomorrow he'd do it all again. The night was uneventful until he remembered that he was fresh out of fruit.

Malcolm pushed his cart around the supermarket, gathering various goodies here and there. He tossed a couple of loose grapes in his mouth before deciding not to purchase any. He was standing slightly hunched over, carefully sorting through the ripe nectarines, when he heard an odd clicking sound, loud enough to echo throughout the entire supercenter. It sounded like a pair of high heels tapping against the granite flooring of the store. It stopped abruptly. Malcolm turned around to see the backside of a curvaceous woman. She was standing directly behind him, examining the plums and Granny Smith apples. He innocently admired her silhouette, but only for a moment. Just as he turned to walk away, a unique scent seized his senses. It wasn't the pomegranate. It wasn't the pineapples. Malcolm paused and inhaled deeply. It was strangely memorable. Why was it so distinctive—as if adroitly imprinted on his brain, like the first time a child hears its mother's voice, or the recollection of a first bruise? It smelled like a January morning. It smelled like a June afternoon. It reminded him of an October sundown. It was somehow all of those seasons simultaneously. Malcolm looked over his shoulder to gaze at the woman again, but her back was still turned to him. He could see that her hair was lengthy and the color of fallen pinecones. Her calves were amazing; in fact, her entire body appeared to be in great shape. He observed a tiny musical symbol tattooed on her ankle—a treble clef. It was barely noticeable; one would have to be staring to spot it.

Malcolm casually strolled next to her, trying to catch a quick glimpse of her face, but she moved. She hummed a catchy, upbeat tune as she continued shopping. Trying to be inconspicuous, Malcolm threw a couple of apples in his cart without properly bagging them. The mystery woman strolled over to the cantaloupe, holding one close to her face, observing the outer texture. Malcolm saw watermelon close by. He darted toward the melons, trying to get close to her. Before he could clearly see her face, she moved again. She wasn't avoiding him on purpose; she was simply preoccupied. He found her lack of awareness cute. It was like they were dancing with one another, only she didn't know she had a waltzing partner. Finally, the young woman stopped again near the cucumbers and squash. Malcolm kept his distance as only a skilled hunter would, never taking his eyes off the prey. Noticing carrots nearby, he flew in. What did she look like? He had to know. He was almost beside her again when a man approached her side. Malcolm stopped dead in his tracks; the groceries flew to the front of the buggy, crashing against the metal. He pretended to be fascinated with bananas as he eavesdropped.