The exhibit had ended, but the ripple it left behind echoed through the city's creative corners. People spoke of the vulnerability in River's photos, the lyrical ache in Lila's words. Their collaboration had become more than art—it had become a conversation. One that others wanted to be part of.
Lila received invitations to read her poetry at open mics, cafes, even a university seminar. River was commissioned to do a photo series on modern love. But through it all, their apartment remained their sanctuary. The place where love was quiet and sacred.
They spent long evenings sprawled across the couch, trading books, writing side by side. Lila's poetry began to speak less of heartbreak and more of becoming. Her words were softer, wiser, steeped in hope.
One Sunday morning, River found her at the dining table, hunched over her notebook, sunlight gilding her hair.
"What are you working on?" he asked, wrapping his arms around her from behind.
She leaned back into him. "Just something… personal."
He kissed the side of her head. "Can I read it?"
"Not yet," she said with a smile. "You'll know when."
Later that week, River received a message from a publishing house.
"Are you sitting down?" he asked her, pacing in the kitchen.
She glanced up from her tea. "River, what is it?"
"They want to publish a book. Of us. The photos and your writing. A whole collection."
Her jaw dropped. "What?"
He handed her the phone. "Read it."
She scanned the email, hands trembling. "They said it moved them. That it felt raw. That people needed this."
He knelt in front of her. "What do you think?"
"I think… we say yes."
The next few months became a whirlwind of meetings, layouts, edits. They argued over font choices and cover designs, but laughter always followed. The book's title came naturally—Beneath the Cherry Lights.
"It started everything," Lila had said. "That moment under the lights. That's where we began."
The launch party was held in a small independent bookstore, fairy lights strung across beams, guests sipping wine as soft piano played. River wore a tailored suit, Lila a flowing dress the color of spring rain.
When she stepped up to read, her voice didn't tremble.
"This is a piece from the beginning," she said, eyes meeting River's. "But it's also the end of the girl who didn't believe in love."
She opened the book and read:
> "I met him in a photograph. In the space between light and shadow. He saw me when I didn't know I needed to be seen. And in the hush beneath the cherry lights, We became a story worth telling."
The applause was thunderous, but all she heard was River's whisper in her ear afterward:
"You saved me too."
When the last guest left and the bookstore dimmed, River pulled her into a slow dance right there between the shelves.
"What now?" she asked, head on his chest.
"More," he murmured. "We keep writing it."
So they did.
Each day a new page. Each look a new line. Each kiss a promise.
And always, beneath the cherry lights.