I love the way he moves. I love the way he talks. I love the way he
has that cocky sparkle in his eye when he's playing tennis. I love his
smoldering gold eyes. I love everything about him but most of all I love
the way he walks. I know it sounds silly but I do. I hear his sneakers
making squeaking noises as he walks over to me. It's really reassuring to
hear him approaching me from behind, covering my eyes with his hands and
making me laugh. Of course, I know it's him because of his sneakers. I
call them his squeakers.
He left one day for America again to play more tournaments. I cried the day he left. It did not seem real at all. I missed the sound of him playing in the courts, of the crowds cheering for him but most of all I missed the sound of those squeakers of his. Every time I would hear a pair of squeakers behind me, I would whirl around, hoping to see him there. He never was. It was always someone else. Someone with the wrong colour of eyes. Someone with the wrong hair colour. Someone who could never be my prince.
I tried to stop. I really did but every single time, I would think that that pair of squeakers were definitely his. The day he came back, I had already given up. I remember that moment when he approached me behind with his squeakers. He put his hands over my eyes and whispered, "Remember me?" in my ear. Instead of laughing softly as I usually did, my lip quivered as my tears streaked down from under his hands. I felt better already. It was as if someone had taken a veil of me and I could finally taste fresh air again. He hesitated for a moment before brushing his lips over my mouth and wiping away my tears.
"You and your silly squeakers," I chuckled while pushing away his hands. He immediately covered my eyes again.
"You still didn't guess who I am," he said. I could imagine him smirking. Sighing, I turned around and kissed him.
"I know who you are, baka," I giggled, "You're my one and only prince."
He left one day for America again to play more tournaments. I cried the day he left. It did not seem real at all. I missed the sound of him playing in the courts, of the crowds cheering for him but most of all I missed the sound of those squeakers of his. Every time I would hear a pair of squeakers behind me, I would whirl around, hoping to see him there. He never was. It was always someone else. Someone with the wrong colour of eyes. Someone with the wrong hair colour. Someone who could never be my prince.
I tried to stop. I really did but every single time, I would think that that pair of squeakers were definitely his. The day he came back, I had already given up. I remember that moment when he approached me behind with his squeakers. He put his hands over my eyes and whispered, "Remember me?" in my ear. Instead of laughing softly as I usually did, my lip quivered as my tears streaked down from under his hands. I felt better already. It was as if someone had taken a veil of me and I could finally taste fresh air again. He hesitated for a moment before brushing his lips over my mouth and wiping away my tears.
"You and your silly squeakers," I chuckled while pushing away his hands. He immediately covered my eyes again.
"You still didn't guess who I am," he said. I could imagine him smirking. Sighing, I turned around and kissed him.
"I know who you are, baka," I giggled, "You're my one and only prince."