FICTION | LOVE AND MARRIAGE | SHORT STORY | HAPPILY EVER AFTER
Naan had always prided herself on having a plan — a perfectly crafted agenda for every part of her life. But all it took was one rogue soccer ball and a slip of her running shoes to throw her routine into chaos — and into Willis’s strong arms.
It was supposed to be just another Sunday jog for Naan, a way to clear her head from the week’s intensity. Willis was only there by chance, filling in as a substitute coach for his nephew’s soccer team. But the moment that ball rolled into Naan’s path, it felt like a cosmic nudge they couldn’t ignore. All smiles and warm eyes, Willis apologized, even as Naan tried to hide her irritation. Then he cracked a goofy joke about trying out for the national team, and she found herself laughing instead of fuming. Funny how the universe works.
They stood on the sidelines, chatting about everything from quirky indie films to obscure poets they both loved. By the time the last kid was picked up, they were already planning their first date.
Three weeks later, after endless late-night texts and lazy afternoons, Willis casually suggested they move in together. Naan had laughed — half nerves, half excitement — but the idea burrowed into her mind and heart. Soon, they found the perfect apartment: quirky and charming, with creaky floors and sun-drenched windows that made mornings feel magical. Six months later, they exchanged vows at a cozy seaside ceremony — nothing grand, just close friends, family, and a lot of love — a perfect reflection of their shared values.
But soon after they tied the knot, Naan started noticing Willis’s habit of leaving half-empty coffee cups around the apartment. She rolled her eyes and stacked them in the sink without a word. But on the ninth day, she caught him red-handed. “What’s with all the half-finished cups, Willis? Planning an art installation?” she teased.
Without missing a beat, Willis pulled her into a hug, laughing. “Just trying to keep up with your unfinished books everywhere,” he shot back. They both laughed, the tension easing into a shared joke. That night, they snuggled up on the couch with a fresh cup of decaf for him and a Kindle book for her, silently vowing to finish what they started — cups, books, and all.
Three months into their delayed honeymoon, their first real disagreement caught them off guard. Naan was eager to attend an indie film screening two hours away and, the next day, a poetry reading by a famous author in town. Willis, despite appreciating their shared hobbies, was more interested in exploring the local scene on this trip — trying new foods, wandering through markets, and soaking up the everyday life of people in this city.
“Look, I know this is our thing, Naan,” Willis said, trying to keep his tone light but unable to hide his frustration. “But I didn’t come all this way just to sit in dark rooms watching movies or listening to poets we could see back home.”
Naan felt her temper flare but paused, taking a deep breath. “Okay, how about this: we see one movie at the theater within walking distance of the hotel, skip the poetry reading, and sign up for an architectural and food tour to explore the city together. Deal?”
Willis’s tension eased, and he grinned. “Deal. And hey, maybe we’ll stumble upon some street poetry or a film crew shooting in the wild — art in the middle of everyday life.” They sealed the compromise with a kiss.
Life flung rocks onto their path from time to time, but they maneuvered around challenges by acknowledging the issues and compromising on the solutions. However, during their third year of marriage, Willis’s job demanded more travel, straining their connection. Naan felt her loneliness grow deep, and Willis felt his disconnection widen.
They thought they had mastered compromise, but this time, it felt like the distance was growing faster than their love could bridge it.
A mutual friend suggested they see a therapist.
“I feel alone, even when he’s here,” Naan confessed in one session.
Willis fiddled with his ring. “It’s not like I want to be gone. I’m doing this for us.”
Dr. Martinez nodded. “What do you need from each other right now?”
Naan sighed. “Consistency. Calls, texts — just to feel connected.”
Willis nodded. “I’ll do better. I want to. And when I’m home, I’ll be present.”
Small gestures — daily calls, sticky notes of love — became their lifeline, keeping them connected even miles apart.
At the party for their sixth anniversary, friends marveled at their connection. “You two still act like newlyweds,” someone remarked. Willis just smiled, squeezing Naan’s hand a little tighter.
“Can you believe we’ve made it this far?” Willis whispered later that night.
“Yeah,” Naan said, resting her head on his shoulder. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”
As they neared their ninth year, they continued checking in — not just about work or dinner plans, but their dreams, fears, and everything in between. They kept seeing their therapist from time to time, not because they had to, but because they wanted to keep growing together.
Nine years and three months later, they recreated one of their early dates, watching *Il Postino: The Postman* and reading Pablo Neruda’s poems to each other. Naan looked at Willis, her heart full.
“You think we’ll ever get tired of this love?” she asked softly.
Willis leaned in, kissing her forehead. “Not a chance,” he whispered, his voice filled with the certainty they had nurtured over the years. They sat there, holding hands, knowing the best was yet to come.
Naan smiled, realizing that, while life didn’t always go according to plan, loving this man was the one thing she’d do over and over again.
© Scarlet Ibis James, 2024: All Rights Reserved.
One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII
By Pablo Neruda
Translated By Mark EisnerI don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body.I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.(Source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49236/one-hundred-love-sonnets-xvii)
Tennis 🎾 is on my mind, dear reader.
When you finish read this play of Naan and Willis, turn your head as Nancy and Bill lob their marriage shot: https://medium.com/microcosm/how-the-number-seven-became-a-symbol-of-their-love-story-97b920e9075c?sk=82bddc67066ba44ece2522871c3276fc.
Suffice it to say, theirs bloomed fast and died slowly.