Light bulb/Knife

The evening was surprisingly warm for late autumn. The air, not yet frozen to a crystalline fragility, smelled of wet leaves, coffee from a street cafe, and something elusively sweet—vanilla, perhaps. Lightbulb walked slightly ahead, her blond hair peeking out from under her hood and glowing softly in the lantern light. She was talking, gesturing with her hands, and Knife hung on her every word, even though this evening wasn't about plot at all. She's too beautiful when she smiles, he thought absently. And too far away, even though she was walking just two steps away. The lights in the park where they usually strolled were already lit. The paths wound between old oak trees, and Knife suddenly realized with horror that they were almost to the fork in the road—the place where he always said goodnight to her and turned toward his neighborhood. If he doesn't say it now, he never will. "Lightbulb," his voice sounded hoarse than he intended. He cleared his throat. "Wait." She turned quickly, as usual, and a hint of surprise flashed in her gaze. Knaif had been standing under the streetlamp, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, but now he took them out. He clenched and unclenched his fingers—icy, though he wasn't cold at all. "What's wrong?" asked Light Bulb, tilting her head to the side. "Are you cold?" “No,” he breathed out. “That’s not it.” The silence between them grew thick. Somewhere in the distance, tires crunched on the asphalt, but here, in the small island of light from the streetlamp, only the two of them existed. Knaif took a step forward. Then another. The light bulb didn't retreat—she just looked at him, her lips slightly parted, the little suns of the garlands reflected in her large eyes. "Listen..." he began, then faltered. His tongue seemed frozen to the roof of his mouth, even though he'd been preparing this speech for two weeks. He'd been going over the words in the shower, at work, even while waiting in line for coffee. And now all that was left was this second—and her warm breath on his cheek. "I... I don't know how to speak beautifully. But I want you to know." The light bulb was silent, not rushing—it knew how to wait. In fact, it could do many things he couldn't. For example, it could shine without a flashlight.