The Creature Between Us

“—I think so,” Niam said, staring at the thing between us.

Everyone said you could tell how strong a love was by how beautiful its creature looked.

Some were delicate things—translucent birds that perched quietly between clasped hands, their wings flickering like candlelight. Others resembled small foxes made of smoke and warmth, curling neatly at their owners’ feet, breathing in sync with them. There were stories of rarer ones, too—creatures that glowed gold, or sang, or never needed to be seen to be felt.

I believed all of it.

Until ours arrived.

It had landed with a dull, unexpected thump on the café table between us. One of those small tables that made it impossible to ignore how close our knees were. The afternoon had been ordinary up until then, the sky pale, the air too soft to belong to any particular season.

Now it didn’t feel ordinary at all.

It was…small. Round in an uneven way, like it had been put together without a clear plan. Its body shimmered faintly, not with the soft glow I’d seen in other people’s creatures, but with an inconsistent, flickering light, like it couldn’t decide how it wanted to exist. A few periwinkle feathers protruded from it at strange, uncanny angles, as if they had grown in places they didn’t quite belong.

It blinked.

Then it sneezed.

A tiny spark popped out of it and fizzled midair.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

“…Is that—” I started.

“I think so,” Niam repeated, quieter this time.

I had seen them before, of course.

Not like this.

Once, on the train, a girl sat across from me with something small and glowing cupped between her hands. It barely moved, just breathed, soft and steady, like it belonged there. People kept glancing at it, then at her, like they were witnessing something rare and delicate.

I remember thinking, that’s what it’s supposed to look like.

Ours sneezed again.

A spark hit the table and fizzled out.

I stared at it. Then at Niam.

This couldn’t be right.

The creature made a strange, hiccuping sound and immediately began trying to climb the edge of the table, slipping, scrambling, knocking into my glass hard enough to make the water slosh.

“Oh—hey, wait—” I reached out instinctively.

It grabbed onto my finger.

Not gracefully. Not gently. It clung like it had every intention of falling but refused to accept the outcome.

Niam laughed.

Not a polite laugh. Not the quiet kind he used around strangers. It was sudden, bright, a little surprised—like it had escaped him before he could stop it.

And something in my chest shifted.

We learned quickly that our creature—our love—had no interest in behaving.

It didn’t perch. It didn’t curl. It didn’t glow in that soft, enviable way that made people sigh.

It moved.

Constantly.

If we sat too far apart, it would stretch itself thin, its small body elongating in a way that looked deeply uncomfortable—until it snapped back with an indignant squeak and launched itself toward whichever one of us it thought was responsible.

If we got quiet—not in a peaceful way, but in that careful, uncertain way people do when they don’t know what to say next—it would begin to fidget. First a shuffle. Then a twitch. Then full, restless pacing, knocking into things, demanding attention.

Once, in a bookstore, it climbed an entire stack of novels just to throw itself dramatically between us when Niam got distracted reading a blurb.

“It’s dramatic,” I muttered, trying to scoop it up before it could cause more damage.

“It’s expressive,” he corrected, crouching beside me.

“It just knocked over six books.”

“It felt ignored.”

“It was ignored.”

“That’s the point.”

I looked at him.

He wasn’t joking.

The creature, as if pleased with this defense, made a soft, pleased chirring sound and curled, awkwardly and imperfectly, around his wrist.

Other people noticed.

Of course they did.

At a small gathering one evening, where couples drifted together in quiet clusters, their creatures resting like living ornaments between them, ours refused to sit still for more than three seconds.

A girl across the room had something delicate and luminous—winged, barely visible unless it moved. It hovered between her and her partner like a secret.

“Yours is so calm,” I said, trying not to sound like I was comparing.

She smiled, pleased. “It’s always been like this.”

At that exact moment, ours made a loud, indignant noise and attempted to climb up my shoulder, slipped, and took a small decorative candle down with it.

The flame went out.

Someone gasped.

I closed my eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” I said quickly, reaching for it. Heat crept up my neck as I said it.

“It’s okay,” Niam said, already moving. He picked the creature up gently, steadying it as it wriggled in his hands.

“It’s just—” I started, lowering my voice. “Why can’t it just be…normal?”

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

For a second, everything stilled.

The creature froze.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just…stopped.

Its flickering light dimmed, uneven and uncertain.

And something about that felt worse than all the chaos it had ever caused.

We left early.

Neither of us spoke much on the walk back. The city felt quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that settles between people instead of around them.

The creature stayed still.

Too still.

It hovered low between us, close enough that either of us could have reached for it.

Finally, I said, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” Niam said.

But he sounded like he was thinking.

“Do you wish it was different?” I asked.

He didn’t answer right away.

The creature shifted slightly, its small form pressing weakly against his hand.

“I think,” he said slowly, “it just…feels what we don’t say out loud.”

I swallowed.

“That sounds inconvenient.”

He smiled a little. “Yeah. It is.”

The creature let out a soft, uneven hum.

He continued, quieter now, “But it also means it doesn’t let things sit there and grow…wrong.”

I looked at it properly then.

Not at how it compared. Not at how it failed to be elegant or soft or easy.

At how it had always reacted.

Immediately. Honestly. Loudly, sometimes—but never falsely.

When we were happy, it buzzed and flickered like it might burst apart from it.

When we were unsure, it moved closer.

When we drifted, it refused to let us stay that way.

It had never pretended.

It had just…been.

I reached out.

Slowly this time.

“Hey,” I said softly.

The creature blinked up at me.

Its light flickered—faint, but trying.

“I don’t need you to be quiet,” I murmured. “Or pretty. Or…anything else.”

It tilted its head.

“I think I just didn’t understand you.”

For a second, nothing happened.

Then—

It let out the smallest, strangest sound. Not quite a chirp. Not quite a sigh.

And climbed—carefully, this time—into the space between our hands.

It didn’t settle neatly.

It never would.

But it stayed.

Warm. Uneven. Alive.

Niam’s fingers brushed mine as we both adjusted to hold it.

And this time, when it shifted—when it flickered a little too brightly, when it moved in that restless, unpolished way—

I didn’t flinch.

Later, at another gathering, surrounded again by soft, glowing, perfect things—

ours darted forward first.

It wove between us, circled once like it had somewhere important to be, then settled briefly—just long enough to press itself between our joined hands—before shifting again.

Someone laughed, surprised.

“It’s so… lively,” they said.

I smiled.

“Yeah,” I said.

“It is.”

And for the first time, I didn’t wonder what it would be like to have something quieter.

Because this—

this bright, inconvenient, honest little thing—

was ours.