“Bella?” called the nurse. I stood up and waved my hand once. She wasn’t one that I recognized.

She led me to a back room, where I filled out some computerized forms that I had grown very familiar with. The nurse left me alone with the forms. Some of the questions were awkward and private, like how many sexual partners I’d had in the last six months, or if I had any issues with my heart or lungs. I knew that when she came back, the computer would only draw her attention to questions where my answers were unexpected.

All my answers were boring. I had never been flagged–but the nurse would respect my privacy as much as possible while I filled it out, so that if I had an interesting answer I’d feel more comfortable putting it down.

Also, she had other things to do. It was a busy place. I finished the survey quickly.

When the nurse came back she reviewed everything the computer told her was important–nothing–then she pricked my finger to get a small blood sample. She took my temperature and my weight. She made me sign a consent form. The nurse herself was doing this with a practiced, fluid ease, a real phlebotomist. I wondered if any question would raise a flag for her, to shock her out of the track she was on. I could ask her questions.

But when she asked, I told her I had no questions. By nature I’m unassuming. I don’t bother people just to see their reaction.

“Alright, Bella,” she said. “If you aren’t sick, why are you wearing a mask?” One of the survey questions was about my current health, and I’d said that I wasn’t ill.

“A precaution,” I said. “I don’t want to get sick, either.”

“Okay. You realize it is a crime to lie, on these forms?”

“Yes,” I said. If she wasn’t new, if she knew me, this wouldn't have been an issue.

“Alright, then. Last thing: left or right arm?”

“Let’s do the right one this time.” She led me to a bed, and started giving me the usual spiel about squeezing to keep my blood flowing, and how the donation would go. “I’ve done this like fifteen times,” I told her.

Some phlebotomists would see that as permission to skip the details, and just get the work done. Others preferred to follow the routine. I couldn’t really blame them. Ignoring the boxes on a checklist was perilous, especially as far as health was concerned. This nurse was the latter type, so she politely said she was obligated to explain every time, and then went on checking boxes.

She rubbed the pit of my elbow with alcohol. Sixty seconds later she stuck a needle in, and my blood began to flow out into a bag. She asked me to call her if I had any concerns, and I nodded.

For a few minutes there was only the sound of machines.

I exhaled. This was like the easiest way to do good for the world, but because it was slightly dangerous and a little gross, it was underutilized.

“Do you donate often?” asked a woman from the bed next to mine. I glanced over at her. She was young, perhaps a junior in college, like myself. I wasn’t good at guessing age. She had two long, thick blonde braids on either side of her head.

“Every chance I get.”

“How long have you been doing it?” she asked. I frowned.

“Two or three years.”

“Wow! It’s my first time.”

“I can tell,” I said. Hearing her over the machine was difficult; regular donors didn’t bother with speaking. “I’m glad you’re here, though.”

“Saving lives!” she said. “If I had known it was so easy, I’d have started sooner.”

I tried to respect strangers as much as possible. While donating blood, that might mean being silent. Silence came easily to me. But when someone was nervous and wanted to talk, it could mean the opposite, couldn’t it? Anyone who said things like “I like saving lives!” so innocently would get my attention.

“You know, they sometimes use this blood for experiments, instead of giving it to those in need.”

“All the better,” she said. Test passed; she knew her blood wasn’t sacred, and probably thought pretty highly about scientific knowledge.

“What’s your name?” I asked. She told me, and asked for mine. “I’m Bella. You look like a fellow student.”

She was; she was studying agricultural science, actually, and was a sophomore rather than a junior. I was happy with how close my guess had been. We chatted a bit about the chemistry of fertilizer. She explained that she was from a farming community, but the knowledge of plants and how they turned air and earth into food was compelling to her.

I appreciated that. My favorite part about being a student was that the other students would sometimes want to nerd out. I was feeling an instant connection with this agricultural student.

We finished our blood donations at about the same time, and she followed me out of the campus clinic. If she wanted to be friends I was amenable. I hardly ever started a conversation myself, so I had to hang onto those that others started. That was a habit I was trying to break.

Before I could think of a way to continue the conversation, my new friend started asking me questions.

“You didn’t say your own major,” she said.

“Microbiology.”

“How’d you choose that?”

“Well, I wanted to be a mechanical engineer at first, but I decided halfway through that there was a disease I wanted to eradicate instead.”

“That’s intense,” she said. “Which disease?” I smiled, knowing the answer might be the end of our conversation.

She was looking at me with a curiosity that was sadly rare among the students at the college. Many of them were going through the motions, rather than passionate about their endeavors, but the passionate ones were the ones I liked best. It almost didn’t matter what they were passionate about–just that they were striving. I hoped that she’d understand my own passion.

“Hanahaki,” I said, watching her closely.

“Hanahaki?” she said, incredulously. “Whatever for?” A look of confusion painted her face. To me it seemed more curious than accusatory. Whether her curiosity would become distrust was the next consideration.

Hanahaki had a positive association for just about everyone. Their parents, or their friends, or they themselves had felt it and love together, for the first time. Popular culture reflected this.

So someone who went against it wasn’t so much untrustworthy, as weird. Weird could be worse. People wanted rules for interacting with each other, predictable tracks to run along. If you were weird, you weren’t predictable. Also, I knew from experience that seeing hanahaki as a tragedy was difficult for most people. Most people didn’t experience it that way, after all.

They would say it was necessary for young people to have a clear signal about how it felt to be in love. They would say it was necessary to spur people to act on their feelings, when appropriate. They would say that the suffering counteracted the joy of limerence, to help people remain balanced. They’d make any excuse they could, for that damn disease.

I tried to keep the anger from my voice. She had said nothing of the sort.

“I don’t think people should get physically ill when they first fall in love,” I said. “And then they pay a cost for that for the rest of their lives, in terms of lung capacity, which is actually a major tragedy when you think about it.”

“I suppose I never thought about it,” she said.

“The cost is way bigger than most people realize.” I explained how lung capacity was tied to many other measures of health and success. As I went on she started to nod, and I felt relief. I wasn’t certain yet if I really wanted her as a friend, but at least she could be one.

“So you want to help humanity.”

“Exactly.” I was particularly driven about hanahaki; might as well take advantage of that and do some good at the same time.

“You’ve chosen a weird way to go about it. Still… it’s kind of… heroic?” Well, the young lady was definitely my friend by then!

“Thank you,” I said.

“I don’t have anything motivating me like that,” she said, rubbing the back of her head.

“Oh, I wouldn't say that,” I said. “That you care about fertilizer is also heroic. All our lives depend on fertilizer.”

“That’s not why I care about it,” she said. “I just find it interesting, is all. I’m not out there to change the world or anything.”

“The people who usually change the world are more like you, than me, I’d say.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she replied. “Surely wanting to change the world counts for a lot?”

“If you want to change the world, you end up doing the same things as all the other idealists. Only people chasing their passions, their genuine passions, change the world. And only some of the time, but if you are chasing a genuine passion, it doesn't matter to you one bit whether you change the world or not.” I felt the need to add that chasing your passion whole-lungedly was actually a terrible idea for most people, but it seemed like she might know that already.

“What about money?” she said.

“Oh, well, of course you need money to survive. Chasing your passion can be very destructive advice. But whether at work or at home, your passions can make their own time. Humans are too complicated to be defined by just one endeavor.”

“Not everybody is able to pursue their passions,” she said, persisting. “Some are struggling just to survive.”

I shrugged. “I wouldn’t tell someone to change who they were to be more like me, for example. I think people should be true to themselves even if they just want to survive, even if they just want to live in anonymity.”

“Even if they don’t care about changing the world.”

“Especially then, actually, since ‘changing the world’ is a goal that basically always fails.” I thought about telling her ways one could identify places where one could change the world, like doing utility calculations, or searching one’s soul, or looking for political points of tension to pull against orthogonally–but she had said she cared about fertilizer. None of those ideas would appeal to her.

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

Maybe we’d talk about them later, instead. Not because they mattered to her, but because they mattered to me.

“I don’t quite understand,” she said. “Do you want to change the world?”

“Not directly. I just want to eradicate hanahaki, or help that endeavor in some way.” You didn’t have to be the center of attention to make a positive difference, either.

“Same thing!” I hadn’t given her my real reasons, so she didn’t get it. However, it was too soon for me to be so open… I wasn’t comfortable.

“Maybe, but if it changed nothing except for hanahaki being gone–my name not even attached to the cure–I’d take that and be happy. Anyway.” I checked my watch. We were almost at the campus park and she had followed me the whole way. We’d soon have to part ways. “Do you live on the north side of campus?”

“Nah, I’m in the dorms. I just figured I’d follow you so we could keep talking. I take it you live there?”

“No, I live with my boyfriend,” I said. “In a house.”

“Nice,” she said. “I wish I had a boyfriend. A house too, now that you mention it.”

“You may not believe this, but I’m actually a bit of an expert on how to find a date.”

“Really! I thought eradicating hanahaki was your primary concern?”

“I’ve many things I care about, of course,” I said.

“So, if you had to boil it down to just a few pieces of advice…”

I was in my element.

I talked about meeting as many people as possible. I told her about caring about people’s lives, but mostly letting people do their own thing; if their lives were compatible with yours, you’d be drawn together like magnets. I mentioned confidence, and how (if done right) it puts people at ease so you can get right down to the business of getting to know them.

She nodded along, fascinated. Normally I hated attention on me, but she had earned some trust from me, and was giving me none of the cynical disbelief I had come to expect from academics hearing about dating. She was relentlessly attentive.

I told her that if they’re happy when you’re happy, and if they’re sad when you’re sad, it’s a good sign. Emotions should be syncing, not at odds with each other.

I told her about finding areas of commonality, in terms of hobbies and activities, and areas of difference. Preferably, interests you didn’t share would be things you could work on often and independently, so you’d always have something new to talk about–but you wouldn’t have to miss out on time together for those other interests, either. On the other hand, you could try out their interests and see if they would be a good fit. At the very least that would allow you to understand the other person better. Trying to understand, through action and communication, was everything.

I told her about how it was important to know what was important to you, and to be flexible on everything else. Pick dealbreakers, be open about them, but not too up-front lest people think you were putting them through tests.

“People hate being tested,” I said. “As much as possible you should let it be a natural progression, but sometimes you don’t have time for that, and you’ll just have to ask them questions to test how they feel.”

“You have given it a lot of thought!” she said. “I should be taking notes, hahah.”

“There’s an idea,” I said. I should make a write-up to give to people, or maybe a blog post.

“So you’ve put all of this into practice?”

“In a manner of speaking,” I said. “I’d admit that it’s mostly other people who have used my advice… but to good effect! Speaking of which, here comes my boyfriend.”

Milo was walking over the grass toward us at a sedate pace. I had intended to meet him there, alone, but time had gotten away from me and I was still talking.

“Bella,” said Milo. “Who’s this?” I introduced them.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said. She shook his hand. Milo was very thin, and he always wore a mask just like I did. Sometimes people who noticed his thinness were put off, which was tragic, because pretty much any reason for extreme thinness was deserving of sympathy. To be honest, he looked kind of like a drug addict–just way too thin.

Milo counteracted the effect by being well dressed and well groomed, but I could see that she had noticed. She seemed a bit curious, rather than distrustful, which was another hint that she wasn’t judgemental.

Milo could see it too, and had a propensity for bluntness. “I’ve had a lung transplant,” he said. “Probably going to have another, at some point. Don’t worry, I’m fine now, even though I prefer to wear a mask.”

That was a bit of a lie; he wore the mask to avoid inhaling hanahaki spores as much as possible. Calling that a preference was an understatement. He wasn’t currently sick, but he had to wear the mask or die.

I wore one for the same reason. My risk of infection was far lower, but I loved him.

“I didn’t know they did lung transplants.” Her eyes snapped to me. “Oh. Huh…”

I lifted a hand, as if to say ‘there you go’. Some part of me expected her to be put off; a lot of people were, with illness. Illness meant complication, it meant inconvenience. “We were just talking about the underpinnings of romance,” I said.

“Funny that you should mention it,” he said. “I have an idea for a novel that I want to run by you. Although…” he looked at her; she was a third wheel. “Maybe that should wait for later.”

“I don’t mind,” she said.

“Are you sure?” he said. “I tend to get into these tirades about my writing ideas, it’s really not the best time for an introduction.”

“You and Bella have a lot in common,” she said, and I beamed at her.

“Let me know if you get bored,” he said. “Why don’t we walk around the park, as we talk? What is your major?”

Milo got much the same speech she’d given me, but then he brought up his novel again. Milo gave her some basic plot ideas; this novel would be about a group of explorers who had to make hard decisions as their provisions ran out. Two of them would have a secret romance; it would drive the plot, alongside the threat of starvation.

The topic veered toward food security, which was very interesting to our new friend. I could tell that Milo was giving her a chance to speak, instead of dominating the conversation, and I appreciated it. We walked around the park a few times.

Whenever Milo went out, he tried to do as much as possible. As much walking, as much shopping, as much talking. Going out was an ordeal; he had to make the most of it.

Eventually she excused herself, but not before I’d gotten her number. She’d offered to meet up for lunch. I’d declined, because I didn’t want to take off my mask. Instead we were going to hang out in the library and study together.

Milo and I set off toward home. We walked along the river trail.

“Now that she’s gone, let’s really talk about the novel,” said Milo.

“That’s not very nice,” I said.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He looked at me. “I didn’t push her out of the conversation, did I?”

“Not at all.” I hugged him. “Thank you.”

“I appreciate that you are trying to make more friends.” Milo himself seemed happy with very few. He mostly didn’t see them in person, as a matter of necessity.

For the things I wanted to accomplish, I might need to lead a large group of people. That would require skills that I didn’t have, and that college was oddly bad at training. I was practicing for it. It was sort of like how Milo had tried to turn himself into an extrovert. I wouldn’t push quite as hard as he had, though.

“I’m glad you appreciate it,” I said. “I’d tell you my social endeavors are all for your sake, but that’s not quite true.” He chuckled.

We talked about his novel, much more deeply than he could with a stranger. We had a shared vocabulary; we knew each other well. When we got back to the house, he straightened up and asked if we could turn around.

“Not ready to go in?” I asked.

“No…” he said. He waved at a neighbor. My parents had rented out their house and moved to the countryside. I sometimes wondered if they had been giving us space, or if they just wanted a change of scenery. “Let’s walk back along the river?”

“For you,” I said. He knew I enjoyed the walks, too, but Milo was practically addicted to them.

“I’m sorry I’m stuck at home most days,” he responded. “Once more places get on board with UV air purifiers…”

“It’s fine, dear. What’s for dinner, by the way?”

“I was thinking of lasagna and salad,” he responded. “And by ‘thinking’, I mean that I put the lasagna in the crock pot three hours ago, so…” he looked ponderous. “We could technically put it right in the refrigerator after it’s done, if you want something else.”

“Nah, that sounds lovely.” Lasagna was my favorite thing of his. He handled almost all the cooking, but simpler fare always came out best.

I rubbed Milo’s neck, right next to his shoulder. I wanted to give him a quick kiss, but the masks meant it should wait until we got home. Instead, I took his hand.

“Thank you for supporting me.”

“Of course,” he said. “It is one of the most important things I do.”

“I might not cure hanahaki.”

“I might not care about that, in the slightest,” he said. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said. “I feel like I operate at one hundred and twenty percent because of your help.”

Milo took care of everything at home, and helped me study, besides. He was in a remote program for biomaterials science, part time. As time went on our degrees diverged more and more, but that just gave us more to teach to each other–more things to talk about. Our relationship had gone on long enough, by then, that we needed new things to tell each other.

“I’m truly a better person because of you,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I wouldn’t donate so much to charity without you, for example.”

“I wish I could go donate blood with you,” he said. “I’m not using, like, half of mine, you’d think they’d take it off my hands.” He was making a joke, of course; if you had breathing issues you couldn’t afford to lose any blood, nor would they let you donate.

“Blood off your hands?” I said. “Oh gosh, I’m dating a murderer.”

“Only in Bloomcraft 2. That game sucks, by the way, I should quit playing it.” Milo limited himself to once a week, on Saturday, with his old friends. Playing with friends made it synergistic.

“It’s a new release?”

“Four months ago, actually.”

“Keep doing it, if it makes you happy.”

“That’s true.” He squeezed my hand. “If I wrote faster, our income might be a bit higher.” His fourth novel had been the big break, and the popularity it brought meant that the fifth did better too. “I was thinking we could go up to twenty-five percent?”

“I think we should save more,” I said. “For when the UV system needs an overhaul.”

“Good point,” he said. “Gosh, it’s nice to have to worry about that.”

“It is,” I said. We continued walking in silence, hand in hand. I thought a bit about the hanahaki spore detectors, which we’d installed in the house and the car. They’d made our lives feel a lot safer. They were a recent invention. Dozens of people with sarcoidosis were surviving, just like Milo; the market was growing.

“I feel the same,” he said, continuing our conversation from before. “I’m only an author because you spurred me on. But you also help me with other things, like the ceramics.” Milo had started spinning pottery on a wheel, not for income or to help anyone–just because he wanted to. I was the one who went out to get materials. For a while he’d been doing some smelting and casting, but this new hobby was safer. I was relieved he’d decided to switch, even though I’d support him in any endeavor.

“I like it when you’re happy,” I said.

“I’m not sure I’d even still be alive without you.”

“I like it when you’re alive,” I added, and he gently yanked my hand. He had technically died, for a few minutes, when things were dicey. Bystanders had seen him fall at the hospital and had carried him the last few feet while he was unconscious, straight to the nurses, who attached him to a machine that would keep him alive until a transplant was available.

We joked about it, because that was the only way we could come to accept such things in our lives. Yes, I liked it when he was alive.

“Me too!” he replied. “But… I’m just so glad we have each other.”

“You’re acting weird,” I said. Milo looked out over the water, falling silent again. We walked for a time.

I knew what was going on. Milo had a new story idea, and his thoughts were entirely consumed by it. Sometimes he’d get a consternated look on his face and stare off for minutes at a time. His writing was all he could think about, in those moments, and that was fine.

I thought that spinning pottery was good for that. He could think while he spun. Anything synergistic in our lives would be boosted, just like this walk that was both a date and a bit of exercise. I imagined that his novel would feature a relationship like our own, where the protagonists skated by, narrowly avoiding a disaster.

But then Milo said something that made me think I had been wrong about his thoughts.

“Bella, I love you,” he said. “More than anything.”

“I love you too,” I said. We said it often; every time we parted, and every time we thought about loving each other. Some people said those words lost their value, if said too much, but it seemed to me like the opposite was true. Loving each other had become fundamental to who we were. Every time we said it, another moment and another place became more integral to our love.

This was a place we had traveled often. Milo stopped by a bench on the river. Immense cherry trees cast shade on the bench. Cherry trees had a complicated meaning, for us: the love they symbolized was tainted with suffering. However, it was a suffering we’d helped each other overcome. We had sat there often, until that place was a part of our relationship.

Winter was finally coming to an end. The sunshine and some loose petals were falling into the water, and the breeze was gently blowing. I wondered if he wanted to go home, finally.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he said. “A long life, filled with many things, some unexpected, some planned.”

“Of course,” I said. “I feel the same way.” He smiled.

“Well… I was in the backyard, the other day, when I noticed something had blown in on the wind.” He pulled a small box out of his pocket, then turned to me. “I think it might actually be yours?”

He opened the box and showed me the ring of metal inside.