Spring unfolds soft and green in the park, and the old wooden bench is half-hidden by new vine growth—tender tendrils reaching for the sun, leaves still pale with youth. I set down my sketchbook, leaning back to watch a sparrow hop across the bench’s armrest, when a voice breaks the quiet: “Mind if I sit? The other benches are still wet from rain.”
I look up, and my breath catches. She’s holding a book, her hair tied with a yellow ribbon that matches the daffodils nearby, and her boots are dusted with grass. “Of course,” I say, shifting to make space. She sits, and I notice the way her fingers brush a vine tendril off the bench—gentle, like she’s greeting an old friend. “I come here every spring,” she says, nodding at the vines. “They grow so fast this time of year. By summer, they’ll cover half the bench.”
Her name is Liora, and she’s a horticulturist who works at the community garden down the street. “These are English ivy,” she says, plucking a small leaf to show me. “They cling to wood because they need support—but they never strangle what they grow on, not really. They just… stay close.” I smile, flipping open my sketchbook to a drawing of the bench I started last week. “I’m a illustrator,” I say. “I come here to draw the vines. They’re the only thing in the park that feels like it’s growing with me.”
We meet there every weekend after that. In April, we bring coffee and watch the vines unfurl new leaves; in May, we pick dandelions and blow the seeds toward the bench, laughing when they stick to the ivy. One afternoon, I’m sketching her as she reads, and she looks up, catching me. “Is that me?” she asks, leaning over. I flush, but nod. She takes the sketchbook, her fingers brushing mine, and smiles. “You made the vines look like they’re hugging the bench,” she says. “Like they don’t want to let it go.” I lean in, my voice soft. “Maybe they’re not the only ones.”
Summer comes hot and bright, and the vines wrap around the bench like a green blanket. We bring a picnic—sandwiches, strawberries, lemonade—and sit with our legs tangled, the ivy brushing our ankles. Liora tells me about her childhood, how she used to grow sunflowers with her mom; I tell her about my dream of publishing a book of illustrations, all set in this park. “You should do it,” she says, feeding me a strawberry. “These vines—they’re your muse, right? They tell a story.” I kiss her then, slow, the taste of strawberry sweet on her lips. The vines rustle in the breeze, like they’re cheering.
Autumn turns the leaves gold and red, and the ivy darkens to a deep green. We bring blankets to the bench, huddling close to stay warm. One evening, I pull a small box from my bag—inside, a silver necklace with a tiny ivy leaf pendant. “I made it,” I say, my hands shaking. “For you. To remember… this bench. Us.” She gasps, touching the pendant, and tears fill her eyes. “I love it,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I’ll wear it every day.”
By November, the vines lose their leaves, leaving thin, brown tendrils wrapped around the bench—bare, but still clinging tight. I take Liora’s hand, leading her to the bench, and get down on one knee. The ivy tendrils curl around my wrist, like they’re holding me steady. “Liora,” I say, “these vines taught me that love isn’t about being perfect. It’s about clinging to each other when things get hard, about growing together, not apart. Will you marry me? Will you let us be like this bench and these vines—always together, always growing?”
She nods, crying, and I slip the ring on her finger—a band shaped like ivy, with a small emerald in the center. “Yes,” she says, pulling me into a kiss. “A thousand times yes.”
That winter, we bring a small wreath and hang it on the bench, the ivy tendrils still wrapped around the wood underneath. We stand hand in hand, watching snow fall on the bench, and Liora rests her head on my chest. “Next spring,” she says, “the vines will grow back. And we’ll be here, watching them.” I kiss the top of her head, my arms around her. “We’ll be here every season,” I say. “For every new leaf, every fallen petal, every snowflake. This bench is ours. And so is forever.”
The ivy will sleep through winter, then wake up in spring, reaching for the sun again. And we’ll be there, too—sitting on our bench, holding hands, growing together, just like the vines. Because love, like ivy, doesn’t fade when the seasons change. It just waits, and comes back stronger. It clings tight, and stays close. It becomes part of the story—our story—written in green, under the sun, on a bench wrapped in vines.
