We've been neighbors for six years, but I still don't know her name.

I know her smile doesn't reach her eyes when Morgana and I pass her on our morning walks. I know the jerky rise of her two-fingered wave in response to my cheerful "Morning, neighbor". I know specific spoiled-banana-brown of her lawn when scanning my side of the quiet neighborhood road. I know the glow of her TV at four am.

But I still don't know her name.

I mention this to my partner at dinner.

"She's an oddball," he says.

"Do you think she's lonely?" I put more lasagna on my plate and ignore the chunk of zucchini that falls off the table and into Morgana's waiting mouth.

"Lot's of people are lonely."

I nod. "But do you think she's, like, really lonely?"

He shoves another too-big noodle into his mouth, nodding in time with me. "Have you ever heard her say a word?"

"No." I gaze out the window, across the thin stretch of dead grass that separates our homes.

Her TV flickers through thin curtains, making her silhouette hazy. She rises and walks to another room like maybe she knew we were talking about her.

"I want to do something."

My partner plays with his wedding ring, twisting it around his finger as he sucks a piece of basil stuck between his teeth.

Basil.

I rise from the table, open the cabinets, and pull ingredients.

Sweet basil.

Beeswax.

Dried lemon peel.

Cardamon.

Ginger.

Chile powder. Yes. This will need as much boost as I can get.

A strand of wick and a mason jar.

I rush to my bowl of tumbled stones and submerge my hand, groping through the selection until that spark—that spark I can't explain to anyone but feel from the ridgy bones in my spine straight through to the tiniest vessels hugging my lungs—tells me when to grab.

Citrine. Three smooth, sunshine-yellow citrine stones and a speckled piece of jade. Perfect.

I swing the porch door open and arrive among the dancing fireflies who have made my wildflowers their home. I search through the untamed bramble until I see my patch of daisies reflecting moonlight.

Careful, reverent, and whispering words of gratitude to the night, I remove a single flower from its bed. I have what I need to start our first conversation.

The next morning when Morgana and I greet the sun, I hear my neighbor's labored sigh addressing the day.

We approach. She gazes at us with brown eyes shadowed by hundreds of sleepless nights.

"Morning, neighbor," I say, holding out the candle. "I wanted you to have this."

She cradles it like it's a baby bird.

"I was thinking of you. Daisy, lemon, and citrine for the sunny mornings we see each other. And jade—" I point to the single green stone—"to remind you of me. Jade. I'm always here if you ever want to chat."

She holds it under her nose and inhales. A smile—the biggest I've ever seen—grows with the intake of her breath. "It smells great."

Morgana and I head down her driveway. I wave. She raises her two-fingered farewell in return.

That night, while mincing garlic at the dinner table, I catch the flicker of a candle in her living room window and a handwritten sign in bold marker:

THANK YOU - Daisy

************

This tiny story is a bit of hope--that if you ever need to talk, there are always people who are willing to listen. Wattpad has partnered with BetterHelp.com to bring stronger mental health to readers across the Wattpadiverse. With a little magic, a lot of friendship, and a great big ball of love, maybe we can make the world a more connected place.

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Thinking of you 

❤️L