As
real as Pete and Carl not fucking each other. God, I miss the
libertines
Beta: Lisa.
Summary: It's very simple, I had two choices : Get on the plane, or let him go.
It's very simple, I had two choices : Get on the plane, or let him go.
It sounded simple enough when he told me this over the phone while breathing heavily and gasping out how much he loved me and all these other fancy terms of endearment, as well as when we met behind the old building down by the cafe and he handed me the tickets. 'Don't disappoint me,' he urged silently, kissing me on the cheek soundly and then looking around to make sure no one saw us before slipping out of the ally with his hands in his pocket and his head held downwards. Was he ashamed to be with me? I wasn't too sure, but what he was asking me to do, to drop everything and run away with him like in all those other romanticized novels, was something completely different. That's when I realized that it wasn't as simple as I thought it to be.
When I had first met him he was hunched over a typewriter, pen behind his ear and what seemed to be an endless amount of paper behind him. His tie was slacken, his brows were furrowed and he looked plainly drained. The sad part was that this was in his own parents house, and a kid his age -he was 18- well, shouldn't he looking for a job or going to college? No, not him. He was typing...something up, and looking very intent while doing so. As I greeted his mother in the main hall she waved a careless hand at him and smiled at me with thin lipstick, "Don't mind him, he's always writing something. This best thing you can do is not disturb him. Now where I want you to work at is the dining room first, and then move to upstairs...." It was an odd job, honestly, a friend of mines hooked me up with it. It was a dare. At least, it started off that way. My friend dared me to work that this house in question due to the fact of the boy who inhabited it.
The one who couldn't talk.
There was a lot of speculation over this, some people said that he was mute, others claimed he talked perfectly well. Some people said that he used to talk, but ever since a childhood accident, he lost the will to speak. Whatever the right answer was, most of the kids were fascinated by him and had never gotten a chance to meet him face to face; he was home schooled, his mother made sure of it. So here I was, standing inside of this mansion, fixing things and painting things around the house just to get a glimpse of the mute kid. Plus that, and the pay was good.
The first few weeks of me working there were quiet, painfully quiet. The air was thick, laden with silence incept for the incessant tick tick tick of the keys on his typewriter clicking into place. Occasionally he’d stop and look at me, I could feel his burning gaze in my back as I unscrewed light bulbs and adjusted window frames. Sometimes I would spy on him, blatantly, out in the open and watch him as he filled page after page. I often wondered what he wrote about, but the room that he worked in was locked every night and even his mother didn't have the key. He had the only copy.
I'd often end up catering to him, part of his mother's wishes while the parents were away on business trips. I found this ridiculous, due to the fact that there was nothing wrong with his body, we was fully mobile; he almost seemed amused when I would walk up to him every day, looking at me with those hazy green eyes while I asked him if he needed everything. I knew the answer and so did he.
Silence.
This went on for another month. During that time the family got used to me and I practically forgot all about my friend's dare of studying the mute kid. The pay was good and they even reserved a guest bedroom for me, so if I was having troubles at home I could always spend the night there. I wasn't exactly needed anymore when they hired a maid by the name of Sophie, but she treated me kindly all the same as if I was part of the family and asked me to help around the house occasionally when I could.
It was nearly two months after I came to reside with their family that the boy spoke to me. It was a whisper, actually, gentle and quiet, as if he was afraid of speaking to me and shattering the spell that had become our silent friendship. I turned around, looking around the empty house to see no one and looked at him in shock, "Did you just talk?" He shook his head and smiled at me devilishly, going back to his typing again. But I knew I heard something, I swear it. I still don't know what he said, but I know I heard him say something.
Later on that day I slipped into his room while he was asleep on the couch, inching towards his piles and piles of papers that were now scattered around haphazardly, as if he had gotten into a fight with it. He peeked one eye open as I bent down to pick it up and smiled," You're rather nosey, aren't you?"
I froze half way down, turning to look at him. Ah! He could talk. I knew it, I knew it. But it felt so odd to have his voice vibrate through my ears, and it took me a second to register that; and it was long enough for him to be bending down in front of me and gathering the papers off the floor. He shot me that innocent, childish smile before it dropped from his face completely and he went to go lay down on the couch again. "Don't touch my papers."
I stood there dumbfounded, too confused to say anything else, and left the room.
---
"You say Alexander actually talks?" I ask his mother was she swirls around a glass of wine between her nimble fingers. It's past midnight, her husband is asleep, Alexander is down the hall typing away and Sophie is gone for the night. I love talking to his mother because she is so colorful, it's hard to completely register the fact that Alexander came from her. She sighs soundly, looking at her glass with a sullen look on it and then turns back to me. She begins to answer, pauses, opts not to and instead takes a leisurely sip of wine. As she pulls away I see her lipstick stains on the glass.
"When he wants to. Once a year, or along those lines." She exhales, fondly looking at the glass again. "We have no clue why it happened, one day when he was 7 he just...stopped talking completely. He wasn't angry, he wasn't sad, he was just....blank. Painfully blank. We took him everywhere, the finest doctors and shrinks we could afford and nothing. No results what so ever. All he does is type on that damn typewriter of his and I have NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT HE'S WRITING ABOUT...." She yells out the last part for dramatic effects, I'm sure, So Alex can hear her and I suppose he does because the banging on the typewriter becomes louder. She looks at me, places down her glass and grabs the whole bottle instead. "Why, has he talked to you?"
I falter for a moment before taking her glass and sipping it, shaking my head. " No. Why would he?"
----
"I never found out why kids were so fascinated with me. " He sighs out and I nearly jump from the ladder I was on because his voice fucking startled me. I look down, trying to get my footing before finishing screwing in the light bulb on the ceiling. I try and make my voice casual as I reply, " Well, have you ever met someone who hasn't talked their whole life and there's nothing wrong with them?"
"Oh, Nicholas." He laughs gently, turning around in his chair to look up at me. He has on a dapper black vest, silver buttons down the middle and chain dangling from the side. His legs are crossed as he folds his arms on the table and leans into it, face down and pouting. " That's easy for you to say, you've been around them all your life. You are lucky. I'm sure all the adventures you have had with these friends of yours...well..." He blew a stray strand of hair out of his face and sighed, closing his eyes, " At least you had the opportunity."
"You could have it to-"
"I rather not." He cuts me off, getting up from his seat. My eyes followed him through the hallway and down to the kitchen as he continued to talk, " Take you, for example. Nicholas, you have been watching me for what...several months now, but you haven’t told anybody that I talk to you. Why? Are you trying to do me a favor, or am I not as interesting as you thought I was?"
His voice echoes around the lonely house and I frown, sitting on top of the 10 ft ladder, thinking. That was a good question. Why was I still here? I mean, besides the free housing and money, why was I really here? And why hadn’t I told anybody yet? I think I knew the answer, but I wasn’t going to reply. He came down the hall with two cups of tea in his hands and placed them on the desk where his papers were stacked and looked at me with an raised eyebrow. "Well...?"
"Am I supposed to answer you?" I ask, almost afraid to come down the ladder.
"No, you’re supposed to join me for tea." He says this quietly. I look at the two cups of tea and sigh, stepping down the ladder slowly and sat down next to him in the other chair. I was sore from all the work I had to do today since Sophie was pregnant and on a leave of absence; I had to clean the oven, the whole kitchen, up stairs and down stairs, wash the car, change all the broken light bulbs inside of the house, make sure Alex was in good health and fix the leak inside the bathroom,- which I still haven’t figured out where it’s coming from- then, lastly, cook dinner. He smiled at me, raising his glass, " Chin Chin."
---------------------------
He became my best friend.
Do not ask how or why, because I do not know, but all I know is that one day when everyone was out the house and he was banging away on that typewriter I pulled out a vinyl from the family’s cabinet and brought it, along with the record player, into the main living room and turned it up. And as soon as the music floated into his ears he looked up at me, startled for once, jumped out of his chair and pulled me into his arms, " I love this song!" He gasped out, twirling me around the marble tiles on the floor. "How did you know?"
I didn’t know, but it felt so good to see him really smile for the first time without cruel intentions that I didn’t care. " A good guess."
--------------
Years went by, two to be exact and Alex was the only person I talked to and I was the only he talked to. He let me read his papers; pages upon pages of essays and theories, the most beautiful poems I ever set my eyes on, stories of love and lust, sins and salvation, quotes and lyrics. He told me of his dreams of meeting someone just like him or becoming an entertainer, a dancer, a writer, something, anything that could make people feel something. Or better yet, make them think.
We’d go out together, not like the obvious couple or anything - were we even a couple even though he’s told me how much he’s loved me and how we’ve shared a bad several times? -, have drinks, talk and write together. We’d muse over love and lust and life, dance under the stars when no one was looking and seldom, depending on how giddy we were, would steal kisses over bottles of vodka and wine.
However, on the night of his birthday his parents caught us inside of his bedroom.
Automatically my head shot under the covers, and he sat up fully, running a hand through his shaggy hair. He glared at them, but didn’t speak.
"Alexander...what is the meaning of this!?" His father asked, shocked beyond belief. His mother, on the other hand, was more disappointed than angry. "Oh Nicholas..." She sighed, that same, longing sigh as Alexander did years ago. Did she expect something from me? Was I to be a quick fuck to her? I have never touched her skin with impure intentions, so why would I start now?
A little repulsed, I sat up fully and grasped Alex’s hands under the sheets. His father began yelling at us, saying obscene things but we weren’t listening, we were plotting our escape. His mother moved from the entrance of the doorway, devastated, and disappeared down the hall, probably to where she kept her stash of wine. The father left as well, storming down the opposite way and down the stairs, right towards the room where Alex’s typewriter was at.
Alarmed, we shot out of bed together and raced down the steps, Alex whispering about how he better not harm any of his work, how he couldn’t handle it. But his father went right past his typewriter, into the cabinet and pulled out his gun. Alex stared his father down, almost daring him to shoot, and I wavered, still clutching his hand tight. "Nicholas, we trusted you...how could you turn our son into this...-" Just as he was about to spit out several rather violent and hateful words Alex yelled out," He did not do anything to me, I love him!"
And that was when the gun went off.
------
I didn’t see Alex for a year after that.
A lot of people say that after his father shot at him -missing completely and hitting the wall right behind me only to ricochet off of it and smash several wine bottles- that he moved away and emptied all his money from the family bank account before his father could get it. Some say that he drowned in a river while running away. All they do know is that every single paper he ever wrote was cleared from the house before his departure.
I moved on, slowly picking up old lifestyle habits again. I hooked up with old friends, went back to doing odd jobs and even found someone new to date. It wasn’t the same though, there was always that burning feeling in my heart whenever I spotted someone with smoky green eyes, or someone with autumn-strawberry-noir hair.
One day when I was looking at the raindrops outside my phone rang. With bleary eyes I reached over and picked it up," Hello?"
"Hi." I could hear the smile on the other line and I nearly fell out the chair, it felt so odd to hear the familiar voice again. "Alex!?"
"Who else would it be?" He asks and I nearly snap at him, " That’s not funny, Alex. It’s been a year, do you know how worried I’ve been about you...peopl-people said that you were dead. Why didn’t you tell me where you were! Gott, I missed you so..." I grip the phone in my hand, looking out the window sullenly. I was so angry at him, so upset and disappointed with how we were separated from each other, but it felt so good to hear his voice again. On the other line I heard him breathing slowly and I realized how hard it must have been on him to be separated from me as well. Lowering my eyes I whispered, " Alex?"
"Yes...I’m sorry, Nicholas. I really am, I just didn’t want my father to come after you-"
"Too late for that."
"He did?"
‘Yeah, several times actually." I sigh, running my hand through my hair. " Where are you?"
"I can’t tell you...they may be listening...but...Nick, are you happy here?" He asks it quietly, the small, insecure and unsure voice surfacing again. I look around the cluttered apartment and shake my head, "Not really."
"Would you want to come and be with me?"
"Do you have to ask?" I smile, and I know so does he.
"Meet me at the old building..."
---------------------
So that’s what happened, and here I am now at the airport with my ticket inside my hand.
It’s not as simple as it seems, me dropping everyone and everything just to be with him. I feel I need to tell him that. I have to. I don’t want him to think that it’s his fault for me not wanting to go, regardless of how unhappy I am, this is where I was born and raised. Why would I want to leave here?
I look at the ticket before I hear the clicking of boots running up the terminal. I look and spot him running towards me, scarf trailing behind as he runs and engulfs me into his arms, kissing me soundly in public; against prying eyes and sneers. I sputter for a second, melting into those eyes of his and run a hand through his hair, kissing him again softly. He smiles at me with that brilliant smile and sighs happily, " I knew you were going to come, Nick. I just knew it."
You see, this was supposed to be the part where I told him that as much as I loved him I couldn’t go. That I couldn’t leave. That I belonged here. But, looking into his eyes I just couldn’t find the words. And to be honest, I couldn’t care less. "Why would you even doubt that I would?"
He wrapped his arm around my waist, looking up as they call our flight and guides me down the corridor. " I didn’t."
Beta: Lisa.
Summary: It's very simple, I had two choices : Get on the plane, or let him go.
It's very simple, I had two choices : Get on the plane, or let him go.
It sounded simple enough when he told me this over the phone while breathing heavily and gasping out how much he loved me and all these other fancy terms of endearment, as well as when we met behind the old building down by the cafe and he handed me the tickets. 'Don't disappoint me,' he urged silently, kissing me on the cheek soundly and then looking around to make sure no one saw us before slipping out of the ally with his hands in his pocket and his head held downwards. Was he ashamed to be with me? I wasn't too sure, but what he was asking me to do, to drop everything and run away with him like in all those other romanticized novels, was something completely different. That's when I realized that it wasn't as simple as I thought it to be.
When I had first met him he was hunched over a typewriter, pen behind his ear and what seemed to be an endless amount of paper behind him. His tie was slacken, his brows were furrowed and he looked plainly drained. The sad part was that this was in his own parents house, and a kid his age -he was 18- well, shouldn't he looking for a job or going to college? No, not him. He was typing...something up, and looking very intent while doing so. As I greeted his mother in the main hall she waved a careless hand at him and smiled at me with thin lipstick, "Don't mind him, he's always writing something. This best thing you can do is not disturb him. Now where I want you to work at is the dining room first, and then move to upstairs...." It was an odd job, honestly, a friend of mines hooked me up with it. It was a dare. At least, it started off that way. My friend dared me to work that this house in question due to the fact of the boy who inhabited it.
The one who couldn't talk.
There was a lot of speculation over this, some people said that he was mute, others claimed he talked perfectly well. Some people said that he used to talk, but ever since a childhood accident, he lost the will to speak. Whatever the right answer was, most of the kids were fascinated by him and had never gotten a chance to meet him face to face; he was home schooled, his mother made sure of it. So here I was, standing inside of this mansion, fixing things and painting things around the house just to get a glimpse of the mute kid. Plus that, and the pay was good.
The first few weeks of me working there were quiet, painfully quiet. The air was thick, laden with silence incept for the incessant tick tick tick of the keys on his typewriter clicking into place. Occasionally he’d stop and look at me, I could feel his burning gaze in my back as I unscrewed light bulbs and adjusted window frames. Sometimes I would spy on him, blatantly, out in the open and watch him as he filled page after page. I often wondered what he wrote about, but the room that he worked in was locked every night and even his mother didn't have the key. He had the only copy.
I'd often end up catering to him, part of his mother's wishes while the parents were away on business trips. I found this ridiculous, due to the fact that there was nothing wrong with his body, we was fully mobile; he almost seemed amused when I would walk up to him every day, looking at me with those hazy green eyes while I asked him if he needed everything. I knew the answer and so did he.
Silence.
This went on for another month. During that time the family got used to me and I practically forgot all about my friend's dare of studying the mute kid. The pay was good and they even reserved a guest bedroom for me, so if I was having troubles at home I could always spend the night there. I wasn't exactly needed anymore when they hired a maid by the name of Sophie, but she treated me kindly all the same as if I was part of the family and asked me to help around the house occasionally when I could.
It was nearly two months after I came to reside with their family that the boy spoke to me. It was a whisper, actually, gentle and quiet, as if he was afraid of speaking to me and shattering the spell that had become our silent friendship. I turned around, looking around the empty house to see no one and looked at him in shock, "Did you just talk?" He shook his head and smiled at me devilishly, going back to his typing again. But I knew I heard something, I swear it. I still don't know what he said, but I know I heard him say something.
Later on that day I slipped into his room while he was asleep on the couch, inching towards his piles and piles of papers that were now scattered around haphazardly, as if he had gotten into a fight with it. He peeked one eye open as I bent down to pick it up and smiled," You're rather nosey, aren't you?"
I froze half way down, turning to look at him. Ah! He could talk. I knew it, I knew it. But it felt so odd to have his voice vibrate through my ears, and it took me a second to register that; and it was long enough for him to be bending down in front of me and gathering the papers off the floor. He shot me that innocent, childish smile before it dropped from his face completely and he went to go lay down on the couch again. "Don't touch my papers."
I stood there dumbfounded, too confused to say anything else, and left the room.
---
"You say Alexander actually talks?" I ask his mother was she swirls around a glass of wine between her nimble fingers. It's past midnight, her husband is asleep, Alexander is down the hall typing away and Sophie is gone for the night. I love talking to his mother because she is so colorful, it's hard to completely register the fact that Alexander came from her. She sighs soundly, looking at her glass with a sullen look on it and then turns back to me. She begins to answer, pauses, opts not to and instead takes a leisurely sip of wine. As she pulls away I see her lipstick stains on the glass.
"When he wants to. Once a year, or along those lines." She exhales, fondly looking at the glass again. "We have no clue why it happened, one day when he was 7 he just...stopped talking completely. He wasn't angry, he wasn't sad, he was just....blank. Painfully blank. We took him everywhere, the finest doctors and shrinks we could afford and nothing. No results what so ever. All he does is type on that damn typewriter of his and I have NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT HE'S WRITING ABOUT...." She yells out the last part for dramatic effects, I'm sure, So Alex can hear her and I suppose he does because the banging on the typewriter becomes louder. She looks at me, places down her glass and grabs the whole bottle instead. "Why, has he talked to you?"
I falter for a moment before taking her glass and sipping it, shaking my head. " No. Why would he?"
----
"I never found out why kids were so fascinated with me. " He sighs out and I nearly jump from the ladder I was on because his voice fucking startled me. I look down, trying to get my footing before finishing screwing in the light bulb on the ceiling. I try and make my voice casual as I reply, " Well, have you ever met someone who hasn't talked their whole life and there's nothing wrong with them?"
"Oh, Nicholas." He laughs gently, turning around in his chair to look up at me. He has on a dapper black vest, silver buttons down the middle and chain dangling from the side. His legs are crossed as he folds his arms on the table and leans into it, face down and pouting. " That's easy for you to say, you've been around them all your life. You are lucky. I'm sure all the adventures you have had with these friends of yours...well..." He blew a stray strand of hair out of his face and sighed, closing his eyes, " At least you had the opportunity."
"You could have it to-"
"I rather not." He cuts me off, getting up from his seat. My eyes followed him through the hallway and down to the kitchen as he continued to talk, " Take you, for example. Nicholas, you have been watching me for what...several months now, but you haven’t told anybody that I talk to you. Why? Are you trying to do me a favor, or am I not as interesting as you thought I was?"
His voice echoes around the lonely house and I frown, sitting on top of the 10 ft ladder, thinking. That was a good question. Why was I still here? I mean, besides the free housing and money, why was I really here? And why hadn’t I told anybody yet? I think I knew the answer, but I wasn’t going to reply. He came down the hall with two cups of tea in his hands and placed them on the desk where his papers were stacked and looked at me with an raised eyebrow. "Well...?"
"Am I supposed to answer you?" I ask, almost afraid to come down the ladder.
"No, you’re supposed to join me for tea." He says this quietly. I look at the two cups of tea and sigh, stepping down the ladder slowly and sat down next to him in the other chair. I was sore from all the work I had to do today since Sophie was pregnant and on a leave of absence; I had to clean the oven, the whole kitchen, up stairs and down stairs, wash the car, change all the broken light bulbs inside of the house, make sure Alex was in good health and fix the leak inside the bathroom,- which I still haven’t figured out where it’s coming from- then, lastly, cook dinner. He smiled at me, raising his glass, " Chin Chin."
---------------------------
He became my best friend.
Do not ask how or why, because I do not know, but all I know is that one day when everyone was out the house and he was banging away on that typewriter I pulled out a vinyl from the family’s cabinet and brought it, along with the record player, into the main living room and turned it up. And as soon as the music floated into his ears he looked up at me, startled for once, jumped out of his chair and pulled me into his arms, " I love this song!" He gasped out, twirling me around the marble tiles on the floor. "How did you know?"
I didn’t know, but it felt so good to see him really smile for the first time without cruel intentions that I didn’t care. " A good guess."
--------------
Years went by, two to be exact and Alex was the only person I talked to and I was the only he talked to. He let me read his papers; pages upon pages of essays and theories, the most beautiful poems I ever set my eyes on, stories of love and lust, sins and salvation, quotes and lyrics. He told me of his dreams of meeting someone just like him or becoming an entertainer, a dancer, a writer, something, anything that could make people feel something. Or better yet, make them think.
We’d go out together, not like the obvious couple or anything - were we even a couple even though he’s told me how much he’s loved me and how we’ve shared a bad several times? -, have drinks, talk and write together. We’d muse over love and lust and life, dance under the stars when no one was looking and seldom, depending on how giddy we were, would steal kisses over bottles of vodka and wine.
However, on the night of his birthday his parents caught us inside of his bedroom.
Automatically my head shot under the covers, and he sat up fully, running a hand through his shaggy hair. He glared at them, but didn’t speak.
"Alexander...what is the meaning of this!?" His father asked, shocked beyond belief. His mother, on the other hand, was more disappointed than angry. "Oh Nicholas..." She sighed, that same, longing sigh as Alexander did years ago. Did she expect something from me? Was I to be a quick fuck to her? I have never touched her skin with impure intentions, so why would I start now?
A little repulsed, I sat up fully and grasped Alex’s hands under the sheets. His father began yelling at us, saying obscene things but we weren’t listening, we were plotting our escape. His mother moved from the entrance of the doorway, devastated, and disappeared down the hall, probably to where she kept her stash of wine. The father left as well, storming down the opposite way and down the stairs, right towards the room where Alex’s typewriter was at.
Alarmed, we shot out of bed together and raced down the steps, Alex whispering about how he better not harm any of his work, how he couldn’t handle it. But his father went right past his typewriter, into the cabinet and pulled out his gun. Alex stared his father down, almost daring him to shoot, and I wavered, still clutching his hand tight. "Nicholas, we trusted you...how could you turn our son into this...-" Just as he was about to spit out several rather violent and hateful words Alex yelled out," He did not do anything to me, I love him!"
And that was when the gun went off.
------
I didn’t see Alex for a year after that.
A lot of people say that after his father shot at him -missing completely and hitting the wall right behind me only to ricochet off of it and smash several wine bottles- that he moved away and emptied all his money from the family bank account before his father could get it. Some say that he drowned in a river while running away. All they do know is that every single paper he ever wrote was cleared from the house before his departure.
I moved on, slowly picking up old lifestyle habits again. I hooked up with old friends, went back to doing odd jobs and even found someone new to date. It wasn’t the same though, there was always that burning feeling in my heart whenever I spotted someone with smoky green eyes, or someone with autumn-strawberry-noir hair.
One day when I was looking at the raindrops outside my phone rang. With bleary eyes I reached over and picked it up," Hello?"
"Hi." I could hear the smile on the other line and I nearly fell out the chair, it felt so odd to hear the familiar voice again. "Alex!?"
"Who else would it be?" He asks and I nearly snap at him, " That’s not funny, Alex. It’s been a year, do you know how worried I’ve been about you...peopl-people said that you were dead. Why didn’t you tell me where you were! Gott, I missed you so..." I grip the phone in my hand, looking out the window sullenly. I was so angry at him, so upset and disappointed with how we were separated from each other, but it felt so good to hear his voice again. On the other line I heard him breathing slowly and I realized how hard it must have been on him to be separated from me as well. Lowering my eyes I whispered, " Alex?"
"Yes...I’m sorry, Nicholas. I really am, I just didn’t want my father to come after you-"
"Too late for that."
"He did?"
‘Yeah, several times actually." I sigh, running my hand through my hair. " Where are you?"
"I can’t tell you...they may be listening...but...Nick, are you happy here?" He asks it quietly, the small, insecure and unsure voice surfacing again. I look around the cluttered apartment and shake my head, "Not really."
"Would you want to come and be with me?"
"Do you have to ask?" I smile, and I know so does he.
"Meet me at the old building..."
---------------------
So that’s what happened, and here I am now at the airport with my ticket inside my hand.
It’s not as simple as it seems, me dropping everyone and everything just to be with him. I feel I need to tell him that. I have to. I don’t want him to think that it’s his fault for me not wanting to go, regardless of how unhappy I am, this is where I was born and raised. Why would I want to leave here?
I look at the ticket before I hear the clicking of boots running up the terminal. I look and spot him running towards me, scarf trailing behind as he runs and engulfs me into his arms, kissing me soundly in public; against prying eyes and sneers. I sputter for a second, melting into those eyes of his and run a hand through his hair, kissing him again softly. He smiles at me with that brilliant smile and sighs happily, " I knew you were going to come, Nick. I just knew it."
You see, this was supposed to be the part where I told him that as much as I loved him I couldn’t go. That I couldn’t leave. That I belonged here. But, looking into his eyes I just couldn’t find the words. And to be honest, I couldn’t care less. "Why would you even doubt that I would?"
He wrapped his arm around my waist, looking up as they call our flight and guides me down the corridor. " I didn’t."
