The Inside Diaries

Rouen

Melanija sighed heavily, sitting upon one of the outdoor patio couches, sinking into its cushioned texture.

"Penny for your thoughts, dear?" Morgana drew near, seating herself across, plunking a tray of baked oatmeal 'traybake' and glasses of coconut water atop the reflective glass table before them. Seven candles of various shapes and sizes decorated the porch, along with the cozy glow of myriad stringed lights and three separate wrought iron light sconces hanging along various beams here and there.

"A friend of mine," the writer spoke, reaching for a glass. "Her cat is on his second surgery, and he may not have very long to live. Rouen. The cat. And she—well—she's been through so much. Heartbreak, on the path to having kids, if you know what I mean," throwing the aged crimson-haired woman a glance.

Being the island's one magical obstetrician and foster carer and whoever knew what else, came with certain experiences big and small, wonderful or tragic, joyful or otherwise. Morgana oft cringed whenever she saw social media announcements of pregnancy. So much could go wrong. Besides, what a pregnancy announcement was, was just that—an announcement of pregnancy. Not birth. Given her decades of work in women's health, she understood there was a delicate distinction between the two categories.

"I'm so sorry to hear, my sweet," answered Morgana as Melanija took a sip.

"Yeah. Thanks. And—oh. Wow," the younger woman murmured. "That's really delicious—" she paused, savoring the succulent beverage. Freshly-ripened coconut, straight from the source. "Anyways—I guess—it's just that I'm here. But some of my friends are out there. And the real world's not been very nice to them lately. I wish there was something I could do...but what do you do in the event of pet demise?"

"Just talk to her, probably," Morgana spoke aloud with sagacity. "And let her know she's not alone."

"I know—"

Morgana studied the writer's visage. "Clearly there's something else on your mind..."

The writer could have denied that assertion in part or in full, but after a moment's hesitation, uttered a single word. A name. "Fernando," she all but whispered.

Ah. "A gentleman? The one who—" fixed that laminate flooring?

"Yeah. Him."

"Heard from Matias you two were going steady?"

"Well—" Melanija reached for an oatmeal bar, taking a nibble. Chocolate chip, oat, roast walnuts, raisins...and was that cinnamon? "It's—complicated—"

"Oh?" Morgana raised an eyebrow. "Do tell—"

"I mean," Melanija backtracked, "it's not a time warp sort of thing. More...he wants me to move in with him."

"And you said no?"

"I..." Melanija blushed, glad that the setting sun obscured her visage for once. "Actually, I...ran away."

"Did he upset you? Hurt you?"

"Not hurt—just—I like my solitude, just me and Catticus. I love waking up and writing, where I live. Even if I don't own it, it feels like mine. My home."

"And he insinuated your priorities were lesser as you didn't own Azores land? That boy ought to have a good talking to—" the crimson-haired woman rose, equal parts indignant and outraged, as Melanija shook her head.

"Morgana, whatever, it's fine, really, I—we're not really talking. Wanted the dust to settle."

"Has it?"

"Has what?" Melanija took another bite of her oatmeal bar.

"Has the dust settled?" Morgana asked pointedly as Melanija answered in the negative.

"Honestly...no." More conversation followed as to Melanija's exact predicament as the tray of oat bars dwindled to crumbs.

"...So you and Catticus are apartment-hopping and house-sitting and spending time with dear older Morgana to escape talking things out? How's that going to solve anything?" The older woman asked point-blank.

Melanija flinched. Morgana really could be blunt sometimes. "I have this fight-or-flight thing I do. I hate confrontations. I just—I'm—I'm not ready."

"Is anybody ever?" Morgana replied.

"I mean, you and Matias," Melanija spoke suddenly. "You guys ended things, you ended up taking multiple jobs, you were successful all by yourself—"

"No, child, I most certainly was not." Morgana sighed. How was it the youth of today let quarrels bury their longings of love so? Did they not learn from the trials and tribulations of generations past? "Sure," she admitted aloud, "in the conventional sense. But when I left after a misunderstanding, or several in a week...once the sleep-deprivation had settled, I realized what a mistake I had made—let me finish!—I had an ache of loneliness half a mile wide, and scores deep." She blinked rapidly, recalling slammed doors, emotionally wrought conversations, and finally, mealtimes spent alone in the office, the workaholic she was.

"Why didn't you go back to Matias years ago?" Melanija asked softly.

"Because..." Morgana paused, collecting her thoughts. "I had this foolish sense of pride. Arrogance, really. And when I had a mind to, months and months hence, it was too late."

"You mean...?"

Morgana nodded. "He'd already begun courting someone else. Grew fairly serious by the looks of it. So I threw myself into my work even more and lost touch with the day-to-day goings on unless strictly work-related. Then...then you happened."

The writer whispered. "Marcella."

"Yes, Marcella, and Henry, and their need for a family while they built their own. Guidance. And so—finally—Matias gave me a second chance. And I, him."

Melanija smiled. And they lived happily ever after.

Or something like it.