A year later, the memory of that night, their fugitive time together, felt like a dream. An illusion. Still, on her return to Shimla the following summer season, Tara found herself lingering on the platform, searching, like a fool, for Jimmy’s face, listening for his voice. Hoping that eventually one of the soldiers she passed would be him. Wondering, always, if he remembered her—if her voice and smiles were fading away like a photograph left in the sun. If he had kept her amulet or if it had been forgotten somewhere, small and insignificant as it was. She contented herself with life as it was because she knew no other way to live. But she always hoped, perhaps, for one more stolen minute, a glance, a wave, a sparkling jolt of recognition.

Tara understood, whatever seed of hope she carried, that they would never see each other again. That the watery image in her peripheral vision was not Jimmy, but a phantom. Her pragmatism made the days and nights more tolerable, but it could not insulate her from the stark cruelties of life. So on one bright July morning when she happened to pass through Shimla Town Hall, a passing glance at the day’s newspaper left on a bench made her knees buckle. Tara’s eyes fell to the headline, and the words jumped from the page, tiny daggers that drew blood: Connaught Rangers Mutiny. British Put Down Uprising of Irish Troops in Solan. Court Martial. Fourteen to Be Executed. And there in grainy shades of gray was his face. James Daly. And his words, “I will soldier no more for England.”

She could not scream or let her tears overcome her. Not in this public place. Or fall to the floor like a widow, for she was not that. She was merely a girl who had met a boy. And for too brief a moment, they had dreamed.

The Coward’s Guide to Falling in Love

The Coward’s Guide to
Falling in Love

Caroline Tung Richmond

My name is Juliet, but I’m definitely no Capulet.

I wish I’d grown up in a place like fair Verona, but I’ve spent my whole life in the same boring suburb of Washington, D.C. I’m not Italian either, and I don’t live in a fancy villa with servants and stables and masquerade balls. My family is Chinese-American and my parents drive Toyotas. I do have my own bedroom at least, but it doesn’t come with an attached balcony where a handsome boy can call up to me after midnight. I’ve never even been kissed.

But I have been in love. He might not be a Montague, but I’m kind of really hoping that he’ll play the part.

I just have to be brave enough to ask him.