A sweet, woody aroma wafts into my nostrils and I can't help but inhale deeply. It's fresh, slightly earthy, yet light in a way that it keeps its lingering floral scent, beckoning me to long for more. Lavender. For me and my soul, this flower's perfume is soothing and undoubtedly relaxing. In its embrace, it makes me feel more at home than my actual home.

  In this garden of butterflies, where it's always spring season and where the nightingales are evermore chirping and singing, where the birch and oak trees let their branches swing along with the whistling wind, where grass grows evergreen every step I take, I feel at home. Yet, when the scent of lavender, my absolute favorite, enters this domain, I don't feel at home. I feel at peace.

  As soon as I hear light footsteps tread into my direction and come to a halt, my lips curl into a slight smile. There it is. The scent of lavender. Warm rays heat up my skin and I flutter my eyes open, only to squeeze them immediately. Contrasted against the dazzling sun, I still recognize the silhouette towering above me. It belongs to the only other person being present in this lonely, evergreen garden.

  "Mariposa, look!" he happily calls out in his melodic voice.

  I prop myself back up on my elbows, shielding my eyes with my hand. Muerto is standing there, illuminated by the sunlight, accompanied by a swarm of butterflies. Colorful, different shaped wings - blue, green, red, yellow, purple; so many I've lost count - circle and dance around in a beautiful, entrancing waltz. It's as if all those little creatures are drawn to him, initially lured in by his ethereal beauty, staying and sticking to the place where his heart of gold lies.

  The sight is beautiful. He is beautiful. Words can't do him justice to the point it's hard to tear my eyes off him.

  "They really do like you," I whisper, afraid to scare the tiny creatures away if I dare to raise my voice. If possible, I'd like to feast my eyes on Muerto without him knowing for a bit longer.

  Slowly, he kneels beside me. None of the butterflies leave his side. They just silently follow him, resting on his exposed shoulders, his hair and limbs. To me, it appears they're sticking even closer to to he purple fabric, to his skin's lavender scent. I envy them in silence and properly sit cross-legged on the soft grass.

  "Seems like it. Take a look at this one."

  He inches closer and shows me his hand. One blue butterfly in particular, notably bigger than its peers, sits on his outstretched index finger. Serenely, it flaps its azure wings, but the creature doesn't fly off. Muerto lifts his other hand's finger, but I gently guide his hand away from the little one. My heart skips a beat, but he doesn't seem to notice my slight tremble as our hands touch. Instead, he shoots me a perplexed glance.

  "They say not to touch them because of their delicate wings," I explain, suppressing the urge to do just what I warned him not to do. Reluctantly, I let go of his hand and the instant loss of warmth lets me regret my decision. "Their wings are so thin you can risk destroying them with a single touch. When you do, so they say, you're going to have dust on your hands right after."

  My thumb instinctively rubs over my index finger. A faint memory of that feeling of thinly coated powder on my skin comes to mind. I know because of the immediate guilt right afterwards to have crushed and hurt something so beautiful, even when I hadn't meant to in the first place. That day had taught me an important lesson: Desire can be destructive, if not handled with care.

  "So that's the origin of the myth, then," Muerto concludes with a nod. He lowers his hand to his side. "I better be careful."

  I nod in earnest. "Yes, you should."

  Without him noticing, my gaze trails down his facial features, while he simply eyes the butterfly on his finger. Starting at his hooded, forest green eyes that take my breath away and keep secrets from me I'd like to get to the bottom of, I eye the soft curve of his nose and cheekbones. I don't make it any further as I get stuck on his rosy lips. He is no longer smiling, I come to notice.

  There is this silence between us that I can't decipher. Usually, when he comes to visit me in this garden, we have no shortage of topics to discuss. Right now, it's different. He's been too quiet this whole time, too focused on the butterflies. It makes me uneasy. Something is on his mind and I can tell. Even though he wears it gracefully, I can't bear the unusual pensiveness on his face.

  "You have something on your mind," I say gently.

  Muerto raises his eyebrows in surprise. "What makes you think so?"

  Instead of his, I point to my own mouth. "You've stopped smiling for no reason."

  Caught, he quickly averts his eyes for a second. As if uncertain, he bites his lip. His shoulders slump. I can tell he's trying to muster up courage. Muerto meets my gaze again, this time more determined.

  "I have to make a confession. It's something I've been avoiding to tell you, but it's really important that you know."

  I just blink at him, although I chafe in impatience. "I'll listen."

  My heart repeatedly beats and I don't understand why. His words worsened it, they resonated with me and made my body react on its own. Maybe it's hope. I don't want to even think, let alone say aloud, what I'm hoping to hear. Nonetheless, my heart can't deny that I secretly wish for it. That I long for three specific words.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Muerto inhales deeply and the words come out tentative. His gaze is kind, but firm.

  "Mariposa, I'm getting married."

  The instant he utters these words, all the butterflies around him hastily shy away. With them, so does my hope. He looks at me in confusion, as if I would know the explanation to their strange and sudden shift in behavior. It's the least of my concerns as my thoughts somersault violently. At first, I don't know how to react. I've known him since early childhood, known of his lover, even met her a few times. She's nice, a worthy match in attractiveness, a perfect fit for him in every aspect as far as I can judge. But the thought of him in a suit, next to another woman, soon to be wed, terrifies me. I come to realize I'm as fragile as the little creatures we are surrounded by.

  If a butterfly turns to dust at a single touch, then it only takes those few words for me to teeter on the edge and my whole world to crumble.

  When I meet his eyes, I can see the nervousness in them, not the anxious kind, the one you get when you're so excited you can't keep it to yourself anymore. It painfully dawns on me. What I truly feel is of no importance. Muerto has his future all planned out without me. He is happy with his choice. With her. This is all that counts. If my silent suffering is the price, then so be it.

  "Congratulations on getting married. I'm happy for you." I lie and clasp my hands together.

  On the outside, I probably look happy, a goofy smile plastered on my lips, giddy with excitement. On the inside, I'm a miserable mess, wishing to scream in agony.

  "Thank you." His expression of thanks doesn't soothe my pain. Neither does his genuine smile or his lit up green eyes.

  "Why did you wait to tell me?" I ask, trying to mask my sadness as disappointment. Out of reflex, I edge closer to him. "I thought I'd be the first you'd tell."

  Muerto looks away and his fingers play with the blades of grass. He slightly inches away, repositioning, so that there is more space than I'd like between us. "She... My fiancée asked me not to until we were certain about our engagement. Superstitions about bad luck."

  So that's it.

  "I see," I reply, having caught onto the sublime message. I bite my lip. "What will the wedding's color scheme be?"

  "Lavender."

  I swallowed hard. My voice falters. "It's a nice color."

  "It is."

  We fall silent again. With nothing left to discuss, I just silently watch grasshoppers hop by, bees bounce from flower to flower and lastly, I notice no more butterflies circling and floating around us. They have disappeared, just like the previous idyllic atmosphere between me and him.

  There is this feeling, this motion inside me I can't shake off, no matter how hard I try. It's threatening to break out, to spill over and my first instinct is to keep it suppressed as best as I can. My hands wander to my stomach, the place of my complaints. It's as if every one of them have migrated to my body. The butterflies. I feel them inside. How they crawl around and gently flap their wings to whirl around like tiny little tornados. They've always been there, ever since I can remember. Always acting up when I needed them to be quiet the most. Slightly, I shake my head.

  They're wrong. I'm wrong.

  I quickly glance at Muerto. Too busy with ripping out the blades of grass beside him, he hasn't noticed them yet. This is my chance. Within seconds, I've decided on the solution to my problem.

  I have to kill the butterflies.

  I cross my arms and clutch tightly, dig my nails into my stomach, push them further inside, until I feel them drill into my fragile flesh. It hurts. More than I'd like to openly admit. My muscles tense, they convulse in pain and my ribs are possibly the last resistance against my endeavors. I press my arms harder against my belly, my mind struggling against my own body.

  I'm crushing them. Slowly. One by one. Inside, I feel them suffocate, fight for their lives. Their tiny little voices are crying out to me, begging to be spared, to be given the slightest chance. Desperately, I can sense them flap their wings, but their attempt is futile. I can't leave them be. Them breaking out only brings disaster. They all must die. Every single one of them.

  I feel guilty, ashamed and embarrassed at the same time. My throat desires to cry out, my heart wants to weep, my body wants to writhe in pain. Yet, I remain as silent as possible despite the discomfort. Maybe only a few minutes have passed, but I have already reached my breaking point. No longer able to hold back, I finally gasp, somewhat relieved. I did it. I really did it. I killed the butterflies. With a nervous gulp, I take a look at my hands. There is no blood, no ripped wings or husks for me to shake off. Instead, there is only a powdery, thin coat that stains my hands - dust.

  "Why are you crying?"

  Muerto's soft voice rings out to me and I snap back to reality. At first, I have a hard time understanding just what he means. Only when my trembling hand caresses my cheek, I can feel the wet spots. I hadn't even noticed. The tears run down uncontrollably. No matter how hard I try, how many times I wipe them away with my long sleeves, I can't stop them from falling.

  "I'm just so happy for you and wish you the best in life. You'll be a great husband."

  Another half-lie he will hopefully just believe. There is no longer the need to speak the truth. My eyes dart nervously around and widen. I can't believe what I see. The garden of butterflies, where it was always spring season and where the nightingales were evermore chirping and singing, where the birch and oak trees let their branches swing along with the whistling wind, where grass grew evergreen every step I took, no longer feels like home. Everywhere I look, the evergreen has faded to deep gray, flowers have started to wither and the birds are keeping silent, no longer bestowing us with their lovely tunes. I chuckle, but it's a pitiful one.

  "Look, even the butterflies know."

  And when a few butterflies rest on top of my hand and the spot where my heart lies, I don't feel better knowing I've just killed some of their peers. I don't know if they're mocking or trying to console me. When the big blue butterfly, in my eyes simply the same shade of gray, from earlier lands on my abdomen and refuses to fly off despite my attempts to carefully shoo it away, I internally curse my fate. It knows the price I paid.

  "Thank you, Mariposa," Muerto says, a sincere smile tugging at his lips. He's cheerful. I think I loved when he's cheerful. "You really are the best friend I could ever wish for. I hope we stay friends, even if we might not be able to see each other that much after my marriage."

  The butterflies on my skin silently weep. Just like me, they are fools who are going to miss the scent of lavender. For eternity, we are doomed to yearn for something in our sights, but out of our reach.

  I smile faintly. "Yes, I hope so too, Muerto."

  Muerto never returned. Left behind am only I, in this fading garden of butterflies. A fool who fell for the scent of lavender. A victim whose wings were touched and turned to dust.