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"Why did you bring me here Anne?"
It's a grove she's never seen before, but then again, Anne had always been able to find the secret hidden places no-one else could. Some time ago Diana had realised that she saw beauty in everything. Even her.
The truth is that before Anne, Diana had been alone. Not physically; she’d had friends, of course she had, but although she doesn't often admit it, she had never felt like she had truly belonged with the girls at school.
They were nice, sure, but there was always something missing. They smiled and laughed and cried, but they didn't spark and flicker like potassium in water when Diana prodded at them. When she asked them questions, even about books and their weekends and their ideas, she always knew what the answer would be before she even asked. Then, when they began talking about boys, Diana knew that what she felt was not normal. Was never going to be normal.
But that was before Anne.
Diana sometimes likes to fancy that she, if given the option, could split her life into two parts: Before Anne, and After Anne. Anne had come into her life and inserted herself into every tiny crevice, with her stories and her fiery hair and spirit, leaving no molecule of Diana unplundered. Diana was no longer her own; she was conquered. No, that wasn’t right . Through Anne, Diana became only herself, no longer anyone else’s. She is alive, she’s bubbling with ideas, she is freed.
Her soul sings for Anne with every breath. For flower crowns made during the long summer months, their faces dappled with warm sunlight that shone through the cracks in the boards of their book club meeting-house. For Diana's head resting on Anne's lap, her freckled hands carding gently through Diana's hair as she rambles on endearingly about her newest story idea.
For the feeling of Anne's hand in hers, wading through the river that runs around Green Gables, the icy cold biting at their ankles and catching on the hems of their dresses, clutching, soaking through incessantly.
For the reverent look on Anne's face when Diana had agreed to be her bosom friend, forever and ever.
Diana believes sometimes that the planets move for Anne.
In the grove where they are standing, weeds whisper and stroke gently at their legs, almost knee-height now that Spring is well underway. Their hands are intertwined, and Anne's earnest green eyes are like sirens in the murky oceans, calling out to lovelorn sailors before drowning them.
Still, she does not reply.
"Anne?" Diana queries lightly.
Eyes darting furtively, she hesitates; an unusual sight on the usually confident Anne, Diana notices. When does Diana not notice Anne?
Stiltedly, Anne says, "I wanted to show you what my stories feel like."
Diana's brow furrows. "Anne, you can't feel a story," she replies confusedly. Anne's face scrunches even further and she makes the noise of impatience she always makes when Diana fails to understand a concept of the imagination.
"No, Diana," she says slowly- but not as though she's explaining herself, as she so often must, merely as though the words themselves are painful. Diana barely notices, preoccupied as she is with the delicate feel of Anne's hands clutching her own, and the light glimmering through the trees which has caught on Anne’s windswept flyaways and created her a halo, or a crown of fire.
Diana muses that either of those would be a crown appropriate, though neither would quite match up to Anne’s true soul - a rather silly, romantic notion that she is suddenly sure must have been absorbed from Anne’s own brain as a result of their close proximity.
"I mean- well, the thing is that-" Anne starts, then cuts off abruptly, stomping her foot against the dirt in a childish show of annoyance.
Diana laughs. She can't help it, Anne is acting funny and she doesn't know what's happening but she can't force herself to conjure up any feelings of upset or fear. She trusts Anne.
When she looks up again, Anne is staring at her, seemingly transfixed. Diana's laugh stutters mid-inhale, and her breath catches in her throat at the sudden intensity in the eyes of the girl before her.
And the thing is, from the moment they had met Diana had known one thing: Anne was always a waterfall of attention. She gave and gave and gave, neverending, endlessly moving and redirecting.
Being her closest and dearest friend, Diana is proud to say she has had tastes of the strength of Anne's attention before, even considering herself to be one of the main objects of Anne’s focus day-to-day; but nothing compares to this moment.
Having Anne's undivided attention is like standing under the waterfall, allowing the full weight of the water to cascade onto you, pulling you down, somehow staying upright and praying you don't get swept away by the current. It’s overwhelming. It’s transfixing. It’s everything.
Diana knows she has always craved Anne's attention. Despite this, she's never been entirely sure why until now.
Vaguely, Diana notices a strand of hair escape her ponytail. She doesn't fix it. Neither does Anne. They're standing closer now. Diana realises with a start that she could lean foward a few inches and connect their lips, if she really wanted to.
She sort of really wants to.
She thinks Anne does too.
Then, as the invisible string which has always bound them begins to finally, blissfully tighten, a nearby bird squawks.
Diana, unprepared, jumps, eyes widening and hands tightening on Anne's momentarily, but before she can turn to look for the source of the distressed sound, Anne reaches out, lightly grasps Diana’s chin with a gentle hand and pulls her in for a kiss.
Galaxies implode behind Diana's eyelids. Anne's fresh scent of wildflowers and chalk consumes Diana and fills her with a rising warmth which blisters from her top down to her toes. Her lips are petal-soft, and she makes a soft noise of surprise when Diana, being somewhat shorter than her, buries her hands into the lapels of her jacket and pulls her down fiercely to kiss her back.
Finally, when they need to breathe, they separate, but Diana keeps her forehead pressed against Anne's. With their hands intertwined and Anne’s flyaways lightly tickling the edges of her face, Diana suddenly feels that she cannot imagine herself without Anne.
They whisper love confessions into each other's mouths in that hidden grove, surrounded by weeds and sunlight.
Diana tells Anne she makes her feel extraordinary.
Anne whispers, you are, you are, you are.