The next morning, Mina didn’t come to the cedar tree.
By afternoon, Eren had counted all the cracks in the stone steps behind the chapel. Twice. He tore up leaves. He threw stones into the creek without watching where they landed.
By sunset, he walked the village three times.
And then he saw her.
In the far field, near the schoolhouse, chasing a hoop with a stick. Not alone. She was laughing, running with another boy. A taller one — Lucas. Blonde hair. Loud voice. The kind who always took up too much space.
Mina tripped and fell, and Lucas reached down to help her up.
She took his hand.
She smiled.
Eren turned and walked away.
That night, the sky was cloudy. He didn’t light a candle. He sat beneath the cedar tree, the earth still faintly warm from the sun.
He had the marble now.
He’d waited until she forgot it on the bridge. Took it before anyone else found it.
He pressed it to his forehead.
It wasn’t warm.
But it was hers.
And now, it was his.
The next day, she came back.
She had a basket with a napkin covering the top.
“I brought you something,” she chirped, plopping down beside him.
He didn’t look at her.
She set the basket between them and pulled off the cloth.
Inside were two tiny buns, dusted with sugar.
“From the baker,” she said. “I asked for two because I said you were my most special friend.”
He turned to her slowly.
“Am I?” he asked.
“Are you what?”
“Special.”
She blinked.
“Duh. You’re my Eren.”
That name again.
My Eren.
She says it so easily. She doesn’t understand it means she gave me away.
They ate in silence.
When she wasn’t looking, he dropped one of the crumbs into his pocket.
He would keep it with her marble. With the ribbon. With the drawing she made on accident and left behind two months ago.
When she finished her bun, she lay down in the grass and stared up at the sky. Her fingers plucked at the red string still tied between their wrists.
“It’s getting frayed,” she said. “Should we change it?”
Eren looked at it.
“No.”
“But it’s old.”
“It still holds.”
Mina rolled onto her side to face him. “You’re so serious all the time.”
He didn’t answer.
“Sometimes,” she said softly, “I think you look sad even when you smile.”
He blinked.
“Why?”
Because she smiled at other boys.
Because she left him waiting.
Because she said forever like it was a leaf on the wind.
“You don’t need anyone else,” he whispered.
Mina tilted her head.
“Why would I?”
That night, Eren returned to the cedar tree with a knife.
A small one — his father’s fishing blade.
He pressed the blade against the bark and carved two letters:
M. E.
Not big. Not where anyone could see. Just enough.
Enough to be real.
Then he opened the little wooden box he kept buried beneath the tree.
He added the marble. The crumb. The newest piece of her ribbon she’d left tied to a weed.
The box was full.
He stared at it.
Then whispered, “You belong here.”
YOU ARE READING
Butterfly Strings
RomanceA 7-year-old boy who's already showing deep, obsessive attachment A 5-year-old girl who is sweet, innocent, and unaware of the boy's growing obsession She was the girl who saw the world in colors. He was the boy who only saw her. Mina never knew the...
