When The Lights Go Out
1218 Words
The rain started just before closing.
Not heavy.
Not dramatic.
Just steady enough to keep people from lingering outside.
Inside **Petals & Promises**, warm yellow lights reflected against glass windows streaked with water. The shop smelled like roses, eucalyptus, and something faintly sweet — like endings that weren’t sad.
Amara checked the clock.
6:47 PM.
“Seven minutes,” Sofia announced dramatically, tying her apron loose. “And I am leaving you to your engineer.”
Amara didn’t look up from the bouquet she was wrapping.
“He’s not mine.”
“Not yet.”
“Sofia.”
“What? I’m manifesting.”
Adrian, who had been reviewing the updated garden sketch near the window, pretended not to hear — but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Sofia grabbed her bag.
“Don’t stay too late,” she told Amara with a pointed look. Then to Adrian: “Don’t break her heart.”
Amara nearly dropped the ribbon.
“Sofia!”
“I’m kidding!” she laughed, already halfway out the door. “Goodnight!”
The bell chimed.
And then—
It was just the two of them.
---
Author’s POV:
There is something intimate about a place after closing hours.
When the world outside dims.
And what remains is softer.
More honest.
---
The rain grew slightly stronger, tapping rhythmically against the glass.
“You don’t have to stay,” Amara said quietly, finishing the bouquet.
“I know.”
He didn’t move.
She glanced at him.
“But you are.”
“Yes.”
No excuses.
No explanations.
Just yes.
---
They worked side by side on the sample arrangement for the memorial entrance — white roses intertwined with pale blue hydrangeas.
Adrian handed her stems when she needed them. She adjusted spacing with careful fingers.
Their movements began to sync naturally.
Like they’d done this longer than a week.
“Your spacing’s off,” she murmured gently.
He leaned closer to look.
“Our spacing?”
She glanced up at him.
He was closer than she expected.
“Okay,” she corrected softly. “Our spacing.”
He smiled faintly.
“Better.”
---
A sudden flicker overhead made them both pause.
The lights blinked once.
Twice.
Then—
Everything went dark.
The shop fell into shadow, illuminated only by faint streetlight filtering through rain-streaked windows.
Amara froze.
“Brownout,” she whispered.
Adrian instinctively reached into his bag.
“You always prepared?” she asked softly as he pulled out a small flashlight.
“I build things,” he replied. “I plan for failure.”
The beam of light cut gently through the darkness.
Shadows stretched across walls of flowers.
The shop felt smaller now.
Quieter.
More intimate.
---
“Wait,” Amara said, moving toward a shelf. She grabbed a small box and opened it.
Candles.
One by one, she lit them.
Soft golden flames flickered between glass jars and flower vases.
The shop transformed.
Less business.
More dream.
Adrian watched her move in candlelight.
She looked… different.
Softer.
Almost unreal.
“You do this often?” he asked.
“Brownouts?” she smiled faintly. “Sometimes.”
“And you just stay?”
“I always stay.”
He studied her face.
“You really don’t run.”
She looked at the rain outside.
“Running doesn’t stop the storm.”
---
They sat on the floor near the counter, sample bouquet resting between them.
The world outside felt distant.
Muted by rain and darkness.
“Can I ask you something?” Adrian said quietly.
She nodded.
“Who left?”
Her breath caught.
She didn’t ask how he knew.
People who’ve been left recognize the signs.
“It was a long time ago,” she said carefully.
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
She traced her finger lightly along a rose petal.
“Someone who promised to stay.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“And didn’t.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Silence settled.
Not uncomfortable.
Just heavy.
“Did you love him?” Adrian asked.
The candlelight flickered against her eyes.
“I loved the version of him who said he wouldn’t leave.”
That hurt more than anger ever could.
He understood that too well.
---
“And you?” she asked gently. “What are you not saying?”
The question lingered longer this time.
He leaned back slightly against the counter.
“My father wanted me to leave town again.”
Her brows knit softly.
“Why?”
“Bigger projects. Bigger opportunities. Abroad.”
“And?”
“I stayed.”
Her heart skipped.
“For now,” he added quietly.
There it was.
The fear.
Unspoken but alive.
“You plan to go?” she asked, trying to sound neutral.
“I don’t know.”
Honest.
Dangerously honest.
The rain grew louder.
Almost like it was listening.
---
The candle between them flickered stronger as wind brushed against the windows.
“If you leave,” she said carefully, “don’t promise you’ll come back.”
His gaze lifted to hers.
“I wouldn’t promise something I’m not sure of.”
“That’s good.”
“But,” he continued, voice softer now, “I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”
The room felt smaller again.
Her throat tightened.
“Goodbyes don’t make it easier.”
“No,” he agreed. “But they’re kinder than silence.”
That line hit somewhere deep inside her chest.
Kinder than silence.
Because silence was what she got before.
No explanation.
No warning.
Just absence.
---
The rain softened.
The candles burned lower.
And somehow, the distance between them had shortened without either noticing.
“You’re different when the lights are out,” Adrian said quietly.
She blinked.
“How?”
“You don’t hide as much.”
She swallowed lightly.
“Maybe it’s easier not to pretend when no one’s watching.”
“I’m watching.”
Her breath stilled.
He didn’t look away.
And for a moment—
It felt like something was about to be said.
Something fragile.
Important.
He shifted slightly closer.
She didn’t move back.
The air between them grew warmer.
Her heartbeat grew louder.
Then—
The lights suddenly flickered back on.
Bright.
Sudden.
Real.
Both of them blinked.
The spell broke.
---
Amara stood first.
“I should clean up.”
Professional.
Safe.
Adrian slowly rose too.
“Yeah.”
They moved around each other carefully now.
Aware.
Too aware.
At the door, he paused.
“Amara.”
She looked up.
“Yeah?”
“I’m not planning on leaving.”
Her breath caught.
“But if I ever do,” he added gently, “you won’t hear it from someone else.”
Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
“Okay.”
It wasn’t a promise.
But it was something.
He stepped outside into the rain.
This time—
He didn’t open his umbrella immediately.
He just stood there for a second.
Letting it fall.
As if testing something.
Then he walked away.
---
That night, Amara didn’t write poetry.
She just stared at the ceiling.
Repeating one line in her head.
I’m not planning on leaving.
Planning changes.
People change.
Circumstances change.
But still—
Hope slipped in quietly.
And hope was always the most dangerous thing of all.
- Writer
