Disclaimer: I don't own anything, not a bloody dime. So, bite me.
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Song: The Scientist by Coldplay
". . . I had to find you,
Tell you I need you
Tell you I set you apart.
Tell me your secrets,
ask me your questions,
oh, let's go back to the stars. . .
. . . Questions of science,
Science and progress
do not speak as loud as my heart.
Tell me you love me
Come back to haunt me,
Oh, when I rush to the stars. . .
. . . Coming back as we are. . ."
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"I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times,
in life after life, in age after age forever."
--Rabindranath Tagore
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REGRESSION
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His name was Ray Brennan. You were so very little when you met him, but you can remember when you first met him, because he cried a lot. He was an annoying little kid, and you thought he was very stupid too, because he just sat and clung to his mother, bawling his little head off.
You told him to shut-up, and your mother wasn't pleased at all. Not at all, at all, at all.
--Lily, she said. Lily, you are a bad little girl. Say you're sorry to Ray.
You shook your head furiously and said he was a stupid-head, and then your mom gave you a spanking, because that was a very, very evil thing to say. But you don't regret it, because Ray still is a stupid-head somedays, and you don't regret it at all.
Then you were eight, and that stupid-head became your friend, because he liked Power Rangers, and he had nice hair afterall. And his mother was very nice, and made delicious casseroles that didn't have brocoli snuck into them. Your mom told you to be nice to Ray too, because you had been oh-so-mean for the last few years, especially when you were five and stuck spaghetti in his hair at that fancy restaurant.
The two of you played in the sandbox a lot, and he'd make tunnels and very cool underground roads and such. You made beautiful castles, and you said that Ray's work was very silly indeed.
--No, it's not! he had interjected. It's better than yours!
--You can't even see yours, Ray, you would state calmly. Besides, who cares about tunnels when you can have a castle?
His face would get very red and he told you that you were a poopey-head. You punched him for that and told him that he was a good for nothing goober. And you were right, because he started to cry after that.
And then you went into middle school, and he was a very awkward boy. He had a lot of zits, and you never had any, because you took good care of your skin. Ray was very tall, and very skinny, and not good-looking at all. He cut his hair too, and it looked very goofy.
But you were oh-so-lanky, and you were miserable. Sarah Binters was curvy, and had boobs and hips and butt, and she was very pretty. Ray had a crush on her in middle school, but she didn't know he existed, because, well-- no one did. Except you, of course.
Sarah Binters went away, to Africa or Paris or Miami, or somewhere tragically exotic. And Ray was very upset, but you told him that if he cried you'd punch him, so he didn't cry. And he didn't cry much more after that. He did cry when his grandmother died in eighth grade, but that was okay, and you let him do it.
And then you were fourteen, and Ray didn't have zits anymore, because you bought him a washcloth and a bar of soap. And he didn't have that goofy bowl-cut haircut, and his eyes were sparkling and suddenly you realized that he was very cute indeed.
--Hey, Lily?
--Mm? What is it?
--You're very pretty.
--Don't be a goober, Ray.
But you had blushed, because it was the first time you were told you were pretty. And Ray meant it, because Ray was a very bad liar and you could tell when he was lying; this time he was not. But he was so bad that you could tell that he lied about homework and his feelings for you, and the way he went through his day.
You were his everything. And you knew it, and it moved you. But, in the end, you didn't care. No, you couldn't care, because Ray was the boy who picked his nose in third grade and the boy who took baths with you when you were five, and the boy who had that piece of spinach in his teeth in his fifth grade photo, and the same boy who played choose even though it was a very, very dumb game.
So, in the end, you found something very secure and very nice. Ray was very nice, you had to admit that. And sometimes he was nice to kiss, because there was just something so. . . domestic about it all, it was. . . just very nice. And that's it. It was very nice, and Ray was always nice. Pinch-the-cheek-aren't-you-adorable? nice. And you loved him for it and despite it and because of it all at once.
It was kinda confusing, but in the end it wasn't. Ray wasn't ear-splitting. Ray wasn't exhilarating. Ray wasn't much of anything really. Just nice.
But then you met Travis.
And then your life changed.
Forever.
:------:
Lust. You never knew what that word meant before you met Travis Strong.
What a terrible thing to say, or think. . . what a thing to base a relationship on. But, yet, to say that you didn't find a sexual rush when you two brushed shoulders on that first day of school, the first day of high school, would be an utter lie.
--Uh, sorry. But you dropped this.
His eyes shifted towards yours and something glittered there. What was it? It reminded you of violins, and soft grass, and stormy days, and sweaty skin pressed tightly together; that's what it was, all at once.
-- Yes, I guess I did, he had said, his voice so low and guttural you nearly shivered out of your skin. Thank you.
--No problem. You smiled secretively at him, even though you had no reason to smile that way.
He smiled back and you thought you'd die of heat that was tingling everywhere, boiling you from the inside out.
And you were only fourteen.
That life, that life as Lily Randall, was rather boring, now that you think about it. Such a mundane life, tedious. You wish you hadn't been so insecure. You wish you'd been more outspoken. You wish that you'd hadn't drunken punch at that party, but then you you're somewhat glad, because what a day!
Okay, so maybe you were puking your guts out, face over the rim of the cold porcelain toilet. The water below was swampy and ugly, and it stared at you like a cold smirk. Like River Pierce's cold smirk, the one he had given you when he passed that plastic cup to you, red and treacherous liquid squirming around in it.
--Holy Shit! You had gurgled sickly. Fuck, what was in that stuff anyway?
He was holding back your hair, like a good and patient friend should. But, and in here lay the problem, he was wearing a black t-shirt, and it looked so delicious your wanted nothing more than to rip it off him. But then, your mother's voice was in your head: Lily, you are a very bad little girl.
--Sick back, Lil'. It will help ease the nausea.
You shook your head.
--I think I'm gonna puke again.
His hand swept the nape of your neck as he gathered your hair back from your face once again. Then, and with probably little thought or concern on his part, his hand ran up and down and up and down your back, in some sort of maternal and comforting way.
You had the sudden urge to cry. And you did, but you were still somewhat tipsy from all that rum or vodka or whatever was spiked in the punch, so your crying sounded like death itself. You were sobbing, like a sick little girl, such a sick little girl. And then you realized that you weren't such a little girl anymore, and you weren't, you really weren't. You were eighteen for Christ's sake, and there was no reason for you to be a virgin and no reason for you to not be able to hold your liquor and no reason for Travis' t-shirt to make you giggle like a silly school girl.
He had held you, anchoring you there, because you were bound to float away if he didn't. It was that moment that everyone faces, and it is very heart-breaking, even if you aren't drunk.
It was then that you realize you aren' t so innocent, and neither is the world. And why should you be if that world isn't?
Because it's the right thing to do.
Sucks to the right thing to do.
But Travis was holding you, and you smelled stale and sickly, and for once, you wanted everything to be right with the world. And maybe everything was right in the world, if just for an instant, if just for a mere breath.
--Oh, don't leave, Travis!
He chuckled, kindly and mystically and in a oh-so-Travis sort of way.
--Don't be silly, Lil'. . . I'm not going to leave you.
You sniffled into his t-shirt and then leaned against his chest. He had grown taller, just two inches though, so you both were about the same height. But you were so tiny then, you felt like he was a giant and you were just a little girl-- which you weren't, not any more.
--No, I didn't mean it like that. . .
His hand rubbed up and down your back still, and sometimes his hand rested in your hair and smoothed that too.
--What do you mean? He asked.
--I meant ever; Don't leave me ever, Travis.
He started, because your words were a bit startling, especially since you'd been so icy towards him lately. But that was only because he gave you goose pimples every time he touched you, and you looked goofy enough without goose pimples.
But he still smiled at you after a while, but in the sort of way someone does when they are wondering whether they are going to be taken seriously or if they are about to be made fun of. And that was strange, because Travis was always so self-assured, you were sure he was the most secure and confident person you ever knew. But you were wrong, you were so wrong it is almost funny, or just sorta funny. But now you're not in that life, and things are so different in retrospect.
Travis was just as weak as you, and he knew it, but you never did, because you didn't want to. It was okay though, and Travis didn't mind. But he was weak, and he never knew exactly what you thought of him-- that was very hard for him to bear, but bear it he did. He was a strong person in that sense; he could shoulder both his and your weaknesses, packing them away, never taking them out on rainy days or hanging them over your head like a sick demon.
His voice quivered:
--Of course, Lil'. Never. Ever. Never ever.
Looking up at him, you smiled, wobbly and oddly and quirkily.
--Is that a promise?
He smiled back at you, and his lips were graceful and wise, and you wanted to kiss them very badly, but you didn't.
--Absolutely. He said finally.
:-----:
And then he kissed you.
Oh God, he kissed you.
But you are getting too far ahead, because you did that often, or at least when you were living that life.
But he did kiss you, but it was many years after you puked your living soul out in River Pierce's toilet.
You wasted a lot of things on River Pierce, and that's such a pity, because he wasn't worth much. He was too much of a young soul, and an old soul like you couldn't stand it all.
You can still remember when River Pierce grabbed your hair and pulled, pulled very hard. Your spine nearly snapped in two, swear to God, but he didn't care. Not at all. All he cared about was his mouth covering yours, his hand on the back of your head and his mouth hard on yours.
It was deliciously destructive. It was destructively delicious. Whatever. It was hell in the end, and that's all you can really remember about the end, in the bitter, bitter end when you were standing on his street corner, your bag under one arm and December, that sweet little terrier, in the other.
But River Pierce wasn't the end. He was just a waste of time, a tedious waste of time and you regret it, true, but it doesn't matter anyway.
--I'll kill him, I swear I will, he had said. He was so very mad; you weren't sure whether he was going to kill River or you. It was very scary.
--Travis, calm down. He didn't do anything. We just split up.
--Don't care; he's a complete moronic, completely loathable, insignificant imbecile. He took a few long and exaggerated breaths. I'll kill him, I swear to God.
You were pouring yourself some tea, because Travis had had it on the stove when you had shown up at his apartment. You felt a little bad about that, because it was the middle of the night-- Thursday night, Friday morning. Which is very early, and you felt bad, honest to goodness. But Travis said he was up anyways, because when you're a writer and inspiration strikes, time doesn't matter.
Taking a sip of tea, you decided it would be very nice being a writer, living on your own time. Or maybe time didn't exist for a writer. Maybe there was simply times of inspiration and times of un-inspiration, but you weren't quite sure, because you weren't a writer, or not really. You were a business women, because when you found out that you didn't like the whole music business, you decided that the only way people weren't going to tell you what to do is to tell other people what to do. So that's what you did-- tell people nine to five what to do. You were very good at it, but you weren't proud of it, and in fact hated it. But, oh well, sometimes things turn out like that and there's nothing you can do about it.
You stirred the sugar in your tea.
--You hate me, don't you, Travis?
He stopped his pacing around his kitchen and looked at you, with that same kind of look that someone gives you when you say, "The world is a gigantic pepper" or something equally as random.
-- What?!
Shifting awkwardly in your chair, you stared into the swarming mass of liquid in your tea cup. Tea is such a beautiful name. What a beautiful name for a girl: Tea. You wished you had a little girl, and your biological clock was ticking, but not really. You were only twenty-five, which seemed very, very old five years earlier. But then. . . well then, you still felt like you were eighteen years old, and you're still over that porcelain toilet bowl and you're puking your guts up.
You wished Travis would hate you, hate you so horribly that he'd march you out of his apartment and slam that door in your face. You didn't deserve all this, all this friendship, all this loyalty, all this unfathomable love that you can't express into words.
Words are pitiful and a sad excuse for expression. And at that moment, tears were much better.
He stared at you strangely as you started to cry before saying:
-- I'll kill him, Lily. I swear to God I will!
You were sobbing so hard, it was strange when you laughed, a strange and amused laugh.
-- Oh, Travis! You don't believe in God, you goon.
He stopped there, dead in his tracks, which is a strange expression. "Dead in his tracks." What a silly thing to say, because he was surely not dead, or at least not yet. In fact, you had never seen him this alive before in your entire life, because his eyes were wide and large and so full of emotion you didn't know what to do with yourself.
Looking at him, you were utterly miserable. So utterly miserable you wanted to curl up in the fetal position and assume that posture until rigamortis settled in. He was so alive, so surely alive, you knew you didn't deserve him, if only for a moment. But then you knew-- or thought you did-- that time didn't matter for writers, so maybe this whole moment business didn't apply for Travis.
You still didn't deserve him, time or not, writer or not. It was such a tragedy for you two to end up together. Such a strange oddity-- the beauty and the beast. You were spoiled milk, he was pure. Tale as old as time, time as old as tale-- that's not how it went at all, but you didn't care.
Shaking your head, you started to grumble and moan, and it sounded something like this:
--Oh, what a waste! What a terrible waste of life. Five years, Travis!
He continued to stare at you strangely, but he stepped closer, and his feet were bare and they make noises on the cold, linoleum floor: swoosh, swash, swoosh, swash.
--Don't say that sort of thing. You didn't waste your life; you wasted your love, but not your life. And that sort of thing can be replaced, worked out, repaired--
--No! No, no, NO! It can't, Travis, and I'm not talking about me at all, at all, at all. I'm talking about you. You wasting your life all these years, waiting up for me, wasting your time on my empty phone calls, on my empty coffee dates, on my worthless whining and bitching. What a waste for you, and I'm a bad person, because I stole the one thing I can't give you back: Your time, and your trust, and your. . . your life!
His eyes were so incredibly stormy, you weren't sure if he was mad at you or not. You wished he would be right then, as you kneeled in his cool and damp kitchen, your hair disarray and your face wet and your eyes tired.
You wish now that he had smacked you, right across the face, because it would have been justified. But it wouldn't have been right, because it wouldn't have been loving, and only in death do you figure out that life is about loving.
But instead, instead of kicking your pitiful, skinny body there on that linoleum floor, and screaming at your to get the hell out, he kneeled down and looked at you. You could tell he was looking at you, because you could feel his eyes all over your body, like prickling, warm blood.
His hands were very rough, like sandpaper, which is strange because Travis was just a writer and surely he didn't do any sort of physical labor of the sort. But they were rough, yet gentle, and sweet. They were against your face, chilly fingertips on your cheeks, brushing tears away.
And it sounded like something from a corny romance novel; you wanted to laugh because it was so romantically ridiculous. Ridiculously romantic. Whatever-- it was funny, and you smiled. And Travis knew, he knew it was silly, and too dramatic, and rather strange, because life isn't like this, not really. He knew then that your narrative after this life would be an odd one indeed, sometimes true and sometimes not. That was reconstruction-- some things were original and others were guesses, because your life is fading like a sunset in front of your eyes by the second, so some things are fading into the purple of the horizon. Some things are blurry and disoriented and strange. But they are beautiful, and in the end, life was beautiful, even when it sucked. It was beautiful, and Travis was beautiful, and you were beautiful, even if you never felt that way at all. At all, at all, at all.
Except he told you that to you all the time-- that you were beautiful. Not that you were pretty, or nice to look at, or that you were a cool gal. No, no, you thought every part of you was beautiful, from that dimple on your left cheek to the birthmark on your thigh, to the creased eyebrows, to your laugh, to your skinny arms, to the way you looked when you said, "Have we got any peanut butter?"-- everything.
He told you that you were beautiful then too, right there on the kitchen floor. Except he didn't say it, because that would have been too corny. Instead, he just pressed his lips lightly on yours, chilly fingertips on the nape of your neck and his eyelashes brushing the side of your face.
He tasted like coffee and herbs and christmas and crackling fires and wet cement. And you can't taste like those things, but he did, and it was beautiful.
And you loved him and you told him so, this time in words.
-- What if I told you I loved you?
He had stopped kissing you a few seconds ago, because you had started to cry again.
He simply sighed before saying:
-- Things will change.
-- How many things, Travis?
-- Everything.
You lowered your head so you were staring blurry-eyed into your lap.
-- You're my everything, Travis. Don't you change on me.
He smiled, secretly and kindly and mystically.
-- Never. Ever. Never Ever.
-- Promise?
-- Absolutely.
:------:
The wedding invitation came in the mail on a Monday morning, and it was light outside, because daylight savings time had just arrived, early and bright in the spring.
It was a nice wedding invitation, with uneven edges that were translucent and see through paper with gold print and curvy font and proper words. Glorious words, flowing around the paper like a poem:
You are cordially invited to Ray Stanley Brennan's and Parker Katherine Edmunds's exchange of vows, uniting them in holy matrimony, during the month of June in the year of our Lord. . .
You stared and stared and stared. It was very strange to see this, because it was like a sad and unreal dream, one that you had over and over again, tossing and turning during the night.
But you didn't cry, because you were a little over that now. Instead, you just stared until Travis came back into the house, because he was cleaning out the gutters.
-- Something going on? He asked quickly when you saw the expression on your face.
You debated if you were going to say anything at all, if you shouldn't just chuck the invitation into the trashcan and simply kiss him hello. But you hesitated, and that was all it took for Travis to know, if he didn't know already. He looked at you with that look, that Travis look, where his lips are parted and his eyes squint, and you knew it was over. You handed him the invitation.
He read it quickly before stopping, and he stared at it for a long time, but you knew he wasn't reading it anymore. He was contemplating, because his eyes flashed a little dangerously and his lips were suddenly pursed in thought and concentration and knowing.
You folded your arms.
-- So? You asked
Travis looked up at you before leaning his head back and surveying you.
-- Yes, that is the question: So? So what?
Shrugging, you opened the freezer and started to take out the gigantic tub of death-by-chocolate ice cream, because it was favorite, creamy and numbing and cold.
Travis sighed when he saw that, because he knew what that meant. He tilted his head to the side, with an exaggerated ease. He had grown a little more, two more inches, and you hadn't grown at all since ninth grade, so he was about an inch taller, which was nice, a little bit. He was taller, and he look down at you with your tub of death-by-chocolate and said, quite solemnly:
-- Ray and Parker have been dating for awhile now, Lil'.
-- Oh, I know. I'm not upset about this.
He raised an eyebrow, and you knew he knew that you were lying, which was a lot of circular reasoning, but you didn't care. You felt like a big circle right then anyway, eternal and endless and strange.
You wanted to cry, but you didn't. You wanted to phone Ray and scream at him, scream at him for not calling you and telling you that you had one more chance to marry him, scream at him for marrying your best friend, scream at him for letting himself slip through your fingertips. But you didn't.
You didn't because you saw Travis, and he was so electrifying at that moment you shivered, like a silly school girl, such a silly girl.
Ray was such a strange thing for you, because he was your best friend, forever and ever and ever. He never changed from that position, never would, at all. At all, at all, at all.
Loving Ray was easy, so easy in fact that you wished sometimes that life didn't twist and turn the way it did, because the wedding invitation would say your name, not Parker's. And it made you mad, because Parker didn't deserve him, and yet she did, she did a million times over and you definitely didn't.
So, instead of crying, you found yourself dropping your spoon, which had been previously covered with death-by-chocolate and wrapping your arms around Travis and holding him.
And he just stood there, straight and stiff, letting you hold him, because he was Travis Strong, stone and pillar and solid rock. But finally, after you had held him for only a second, he relented and held you and told you that you were beautiful, but not really, but you knew that he wanted to, but he couldn't, because he just. . . couldn't. Because it was odd, and un-Travislike, and he just couldn't.
You wore your new khaki skirt to the wedding with a yellow blouse that was lovely in the summer breeze. And Ray was brimming with happiness and Parker was gorgeous and life was nice, for a few moments.
:-----:
And then you died.
What an odd thing to happen, so suddenly. It was at that wedding or maybe a little afterwards, because things are just very odd like that, because when you're dead, things don't really fit into nice timely categories.
But it had been dark, and there was some fog you believe. It was a curvy Canadian road, and Travis was tired from all those festivities. There was a flash of light, a honk of horns. Oh no! Someone had stepped across the double yellow line. There was a crash of metal, scratching.
You screamed. It was too late.
You didn't die on impact, of course. You simply went to sleep, or maybe you woke up, it was an odd paradox, you knew it then. Everything was nice, comfortable, even though you were aware that you shouldn't have been where you were, wherever that was.
You remember some beeps, frantic calls, a siren, someone crying-- your mother-- and then there was Ray, cursing and crying, like such a little boy. Why was he crying? What a silly thing to do, because he was such a little girl. But you had the distinct impression that you couldn't tell him that.
You laid on chilly linen bed sheets for many nights, and maybe days, but you couldn't tell, because everything was very blurry, like when you hit your head too many times or when you take cough medicine in the middle of the day. You listened, sometimes hearing only white noise, and that was pleasant, that constant roar of nothing.
And then there was Travis' voice. You remember that, because out of all that ordered chaos, you could anchor yourself to his voice, maybe even tell some sort of time based on it. It had been two eternities since you had last heard him, one eternity-- is that possible? It was then.
He was crying, strangely enough, and you couldn't understand why. He said things like:
-- I know you can't hear me, Lil'. . .
And you wanted to scream that you could, you could, you could! But you couldn't scream, you couldn't open your mouth, and it was an odd sensation, and it made you upset. You wanted to cry, but you couldn't do that either, and it was a very frustrating event afterall.
And then there was the eternity before you died, when Travis came in and spoke to you, and you wanted to touch him, but he could only touch you. He touched you, rubbing his thumb up and down and up and down your hand.
-- Oh, Lily, he had started, and you wanted to answer, but you couldn't. Oh, Lily, please forgive me. Jesus, how could this happen? Why does this happen to people like you? It's absurdity; it's so wrong, and tragic, and. . .
He stopped here and started to cry and you couldn't understand what was so horribly tragic, and you wanted to ask him what he was talking about. You wanted to tell Travis to stop being so absurd, but you couldn't.
He started again.
-- Please forgive me. I don't know what else to do. . . we keep you on life-support and you'll die in our hands, without us knowing. Lily, your parents, they just-- they couldn't handle that. This is all my fault, forgive me, forgive me. . . why can't I say anything else? Why is it that when it truly matters what I say, I can't think of anything?
That was funny. You wanted to laugh, but, of course, you couldn't, and it was all very frustrating.
-- Lily Randall, I've loved you for forever. . . I don't know how to describe it, and I won't, because it is beyond explanation. I wish I could exchange my life, I wish I didn't walk away from that wreck. He was drunk, did you know that? He died too, and I thought maybe you'd like to know that, because it would seem all unjust if that wasn't the occasion. Don't think me rude though, Lil'. I hate him, and I can't forgive him, and I won't. But I've loved you, and I won't ever, ever, ever forget you.
It was then that he kissed your lips, and you could feel it, for once, and it was beautiful. You wanted to kiss his back, but you couldn't. Instead, you let his lips smother yours and you wanted to cry.
Then, a small trickle of air breathed through your ear, and you heard the hot and breathy words:
-- I won't ever leave you. Never. Ever. Never ever. And that's a promise.
A pause.
-- Absolutely.
It was quiet, quick, and the last thing you remember was a line of beeps, Travis' words, and a rush of white noise.
You died.
:------:
To be born is a strange thing indeed, because it is not ideal or happy. It is entering a cold world from a warm womb and there is nothing pleasant about it at all.
You hated it.
But nevertheless, life was not so bad, not as bad as birth. You grew up, and it was odd, because it felt all very deju-vu, and you couldn't shake off odd feelings of reocurrence, especially when you picked up that guitar when you were eight, and when you brother was born and his name was "Travis" and it was all very odd, but you ignored it.
And then there was was Ryan, and he was a silly boy indeed. You met him in middle school, when you were quiet and a loner, because you were shy and a bit anti-social, even if you didn't wish to be that way, but Jane Austen was just so appealing on rainy nights. But you were rather pretty, which was odd, because it didn't feel right to be quite this pretty at such a young age. But nevertheless, you were shy and pretty, and Ryan was awkward and kind and you became friends.
He bought you candy canes at the drugstore everyday afterschool, always calling you "pretty lady".
-- Don't call me that, Ryan.
-- Don't call you what?
-- Pretty lady; don't call me that.
His eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion.
-- Why?
You shrugged before biting off a chunk of your candy cane.
-- Dunno. Just don't. . . it gives me the creeps.
He shrugged before thinking you very odd, which felt normal, feeling odd. Odd was comfortable and regular and nothing out of the ordinary, unlike dating Byron Cunningham, the football quarterback, freshmen year, because he was the shit and you were awkward and shy, although you were pretty.
And then he came along.
And your life changed forever.
You were getting a drink of water from the water fountain, and your hair was getting in the way, so you quickly tried to brush it away, but with no avail. So, standing straighter, you went to tie it away from your face, but it was then you caught sight of him.
He was standing in line, waiting to use the fountain, and he was tall and skinny, which you thought very odd, even though you had no reason to think that way. He had dark brown hair, a bit curly, and it was very nice, you like it much better than--
Than what?
You blinked before cocking your head at him.
-- Do I know you?
He looked up at you, his eyes shifting slowly towards you, and you shivered throughout your entire body. He surveyed you for a little while before saying:
-- You're dating Byron, aren't you?
-- No, we broke up.
--Oh? He stared at you coolly, as if holding his tongue would be best.
You frowned quickly, because you felt like a fool. Then, shaking your head, you apologized before commenting that you thought you had seen him before, because surely, surely, surely you had, sometime or another.
Tying back your hair, you gave him a polite smile before starting to walk away, trying very hard to forget his icy eyes, glittering in some sort of fire you had seen before, and it unnerved you very much so, but you were too shy to tell him that, because that was folly.
However, as you were walking away, he called to you:
-- Uh, sorry, but you dropped this.
You stared at him sheepishly before noticing your Spanish folder, held in his hands.
-- Oh, yes, I suppose I did. Thank you.
And then you smiled at him, and he smiled at you. And then you both knew, even if you really didn't, but there was something there to know, and you both knew that.
So, it was quiet, that silly regression, a past-life fluttering in front of your eyes, a life of sand castles and toilets and kisses and flashing lights and then just white noise.
You met his eyes and said:
-- Would you like to get some coffee with me afterschool?
He smiled.
-- Yes.
-- Is that a promise?
There was such gravity in that question, you both shivered, staring at each other, feeling quite odd and happy and exhausted, all at the same time.
-- Absolutely.
El Fin
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My oddness never ceases to end. What a strange little diddy. . . but come on, the thought of being reincarnated to love someone over and over again is just so ::squee::. And poor, poor Trily. . . stupid Bridget.
Anyways, leave me a review, and I'll love you forever. No, really, I will.