Page 8 of The Last Love Story

And then, one day, we moved across the country, and my parents went from working in the government to working at the farms. My dad stopped making dumb jokes and my mom stopped speaking up for people in the grocery line when the distribution specialist tried to give the poorer families the wilted cabbage. It used to embarrass the hell out of me back then.

If they were who they used to be, I could march in and demand to know why they did this. Why they lied. I could cry in front of them and ask them what we should do, and they’d know what to do.

But I know I can’t do that.

I slip the lockbox back into its place, but it lands with a strangely metallic thump. I reach into the box and draw out an ancient computer designed to be portable—my grandma always called it a laptop. I haven’t seen it in years. I stare at it for a moment, then reach down and wrench it open. At first, nothing happens, no matter how many buttons I press, but then I remember it needs power. I feel around in the box until my fingers find the wire I’m looking for.

When I connect it into the wall, it chimes and the screen glows.

There’s only one program on the home screen—a little green icon withIRon the front. Image Refiner Pro. When we first moved to Post Angeles, my parents thought that if I worked hard enough at school, I might be able to build a life for myself, rise up in the ranks. Get myself a safe military post, flying drones or managing intel from this side of the ocean. They got me this laptop, back when they still had a little bit of hope left.

I stare at it for a moment. The screen is so old that I can see the ripples of power sliding up and down beneath the surface, almost like a heartbeat. It’s waiting for me to do something.

Something I haven’t done since the last time I was scared.

As I click, the screen sputters and then turns white. A file folder pops up:WitS.I click it, and documents populate, each with a name on them.

Dreams. Lake Swim. Chipped Concrete.

I scroll until I find the one I was thinking of—

Starlight.

I open the file and look at the story I started writing eight years ago.

He wasn’t the kind of boy who would tell you how he felt, and I knew that. It made sense. His whole life, he’d been trained to keep his emotions in check.

Orion looked down at her, his green eyes sparkling with unsaid words.

Saffron knew that he wouldn’t tell her what was going through his mind. She would have to read it.

He leaned closer.

All of a sudden, the sound of a grinding engine split the air, and Saffron and Orion jumped apart.

“No,” she said, turning and breaking into a dead sprint.

She knew what was happening, and she knew he was close behind her.

They were going to cut down The Tree.

The one in the greenhouse observatory where they’d sit and watch the stars. The tree where they met as kids, became friends, and then became something more.

Saffron sprinted down the metal hallways of the ship, lurching to a horrified stop as she beheld the men in orange work vests revving their chainsaws.

“No!” she screamed, and then Orion was next to her. No, he was passing her.

He was running at the tree. He threw himself against the trunk before scrambling up into the branches.

The men on the ground yelled out their protests, but Orion didn’t care. He smiled at her, throwing the words out over his shoulder.

“They’ll have to take me down with it,” he called.

She knew two things: he meant it, and she loved him for it.

I stare at the words, the boy’s voice echoing in my memory. It’s so different now—not as pure, and not as hopeful. But it used to be full of life.

They’ll have to take me down with it.