I knew Nova loved me too when we joined at the hip. It was a Sunday morning. I crept out of bed so as not to wake her, but my left side was stuck. I peeled back the comforter and there were our hips, glued by flesh and muscle. From then on, everything we would do, we would do together. To celebrate, we bought dresses at the couples-only clothing store and joked we were the start of a paper doll chain.

Lonely strangers congratulated us on the street. Hip-joined lovers nodded our way in coffeeshops. Carpenters—single by choice—made our home fit for two. We transitioned to remote jobs. We lived side by side, sharing the same routine. I’d peer over her shoulder to read what she read. I read faster than her, so I’d twirl her hair until she turned the page or swatted my hand away. I made sure we only watched shows we both cared to watch. I stopped visiting my friends since she’d rather stay home. Small sacrifices for our love.

Nine months in, we were in bed with sleep weighing heavy on our eyelids. We were scrolling on our phones when I brought up the idea of sharing one phone between us. Nova’s eyes widened and she sat up so quickly it hurt.

“No. I need something that’s just mine,” she said, holding the screen against her chest.

“What’s the big deal? There’s nothing to hide,” I said.

I imagined us as Plato’s soulmates. One person, no longer two. The only secrets we had were our thoughts.

“Mia,” she said with pleading eyes.

I nodded, though I couldn’t understand. Ever since I was a little girl, I marveled at my synchronous parents. Looking back, I never saw them as separate people. They even died at the same time, as if their hearts were fused.

I knew Nova fell out of love when I woke to a sharp pain. In Nova’s hand was a knife gleaming in the streetlight. Then she was gone. My hips trembled in our blood-soaked sheets. I stayed like that until the sun rose.

In the emergency room the doctor said, “Looks like a bad breakup. We’ve been getting these cases a lot recently.”

“This shouldn’t have happened. We were meant to be,” I said.

“Your partner didn’t think so,” the doctor mumbled, her latex gloves prodding the cut.

“Will I be okay?” I asked. I needed someone to say it.

The doctor fixed her eyes on mine and said, “You’ll heal.”

After a bandage and prescription, the doctor told me, “I’ve heard some people reconnect with their partners. Love is pain, right?”

Her husband scoffed next to her as he filled out her paperwork.

For months, my hips search the dark. Again and again, I dream Nova and I are made of paper in a world where scissors don’t exist.

Late night trips to the convenience store become routine. One night, on my way to the back fridges, I see Nova. She’s in the candy isle searching for a KitKat, her favorite. She brushes her dark hair behind her shoulder and wears a relaxed smile. I’m pulled toward her like a late autumn leaf drawn to the ground. I stop myself when another woman comes into view. She tugs Nova toward the chips and I realize they’re linked.

Breathless and empty handed, I return home.

My hips finally give it a rest.

Valentine Sargent is from saguaros and orange trees. She currently lives in New York City. She holds an MFA from Chatham University and has been published in Hex Literary, Porter House Review, and Honeyguide Literary Magazine. Valentine loves fruit, board games, and sitting under trees. You can follow her on Twitter @valentinesarg28