Author's Note: Hello again! I know, it's been a hot minute. I'm quite swamped with work lately, and actually have been cast in a few films/tv/plays. But, you all left such lovely reviews that I felt necessary to get something out to you. Hope it doesn't disappoint. I have to say, I've been waiting anxiously to write this chapter, the idea stuck in my head. If you aren't familiar with Humans of New York, maybe look into it for a little reference to Naomi's work/this chapter.
Thank you all for being the best readers/writers/fans out there, all your words mean so much to me. So, with that said, please review, favorite, follow, etc. Because your support is what fuels me.
PS: If anyone knows anything about the Fear of Water movie release date - PLEASE let me know! I have been waiting and looking for what feels like forever. I need to get my Lily Loveless fix. Thanks!
Disclaimer: I don't own Skins except in my dreams.
"And what if we don't work out?" Despite your day spent together, full of kisses and kind words and longful stares, Emily always feared for the end of you.
"If this- If we don't work, well, I'll chalk it up to a great experience. Beautiful memories."
Your honesty didn't seem to settle her. But really, you were freshly eighteen, turning legal three weeks before and Emily still a few months behind with her late summer birthday, so frankly the talk of 'if' instead of 'when' and 'forever' instead of 'now' scared the shit out of you.
"Emily, look at me," You brush the flashy red hair away from her face, nuzzled deep into her pillow - your pillow, except Emily had spent the first month of holiday in your house, bed, shower, kitchen, so you silently surrendered most of your belongings to her.
She doesn't move her head, just gazes up at you from your position on your side, propped on your elbow, chin in palm.
"Five years from now, you'll be this hot shot photographer, a bloody household name with models' panties littering your doorstep," She smiles and rolls her eyes, also a signature belonging of yours that, over time, has grown to belong to Emily as well.
"And, hopefully, I'll be, I dunno. Making a difference. Not exactly sure how, but - Somehow." Emily's eyes squint as she smiles up at you, a look almost always attributed to discussion of your strong passion for justice.
"Either way, Ems, where ever we are, whatever we're doing, it will all happen because of this," You cup her cheek and brush your thumb along her jawline,
"Because of us." You smile confidently, allowing her a moment to take in your sincerity before lowering your stance to her level against the bed, and kiss her.
Going to work on Monday was your saving grace. Despite the emotional tornado that whirled over the weekend, you found a bit of sanity in walking through the glass double doors, setting your coffee on the perfectly positioned coaster, and reading the numerous tales told by strangers to be assigned to your web zine. There was a hefty stack, you knew Brandon must have been busy the past few days. With summer approaching, school letting out and vacations beginning, the city was quickly filling with a plethora of new faces - all different cultures and beliefs and stories. What usually would be a nightmare of a week was perfectly okay to you because it (for the most part) distracted you from the events of your birthday.
By 10:15 on Thursday you'd read through 3/4th of the pages, separating each into their proper category of romance, family, children, career, and micro fashion (your personal favorite). At one point you stumble upon a photograph of a woman looking to be in her late 60's, dressed in flowing garments, incredibly bohemian. Her story is of her passion for dance and being in the Chorus Line when she was just 17 - nothing too particular except the background; Typical busy New York street, littered with yellow cabs and three piece suits and bicycles. One bike caught your eye in the far left corner - almost cut off the page as if the owner had sped into frame just as the shutter clicked.
"Cook!" You scoff out loud, noting that the two girls in his buggy look absolutely petrified. He's pedaling while standing, brow furrowed, mid-shake of his fist and you bet from the way his mouth is wide open and snarled that he's shouting "Oi!" at the taxi next to him. You quickly swipe up on your phone and snap a photo, zooming in on him and his customers, and send it into a group message to 'James', 'Eff', and 'Em- Not Emily. Just, Cook and Effy.
:BLOODY PRICELESS! Comes Cook's reply, soon followed by Effy with her simple,
:Jesus Christ.
Smiling to yourself, you quickly respond,
:I see enough of you at home, tosser. I dont need you in my work.
Then before putting your phone away, you add,
:PS, I think those girls shat themselves.
And put your phone back in your purse.
Lunch is quiet, you've learnt of a cheap and quick little deli around the corner from your office and have gone there for a few of your breaks now, deciding to do the same today. Grabbing a pre-packed turkey and swiss sandwich (peeling off the swiss) and cup of water, you find a shaded table outside and sit. There's three texts unopened on your phone:
:I have that effect on gurls ;] - Cook. Disgusting.
:Disgusting. - Thank you, Effy.
And a text not in your household group message; A text from Emily. She hadn't attempted to contact you, at first burning a searing pain into your heart for being so blind to think that she actually missed you and not just fucking you until you noticed all week the constant buzzing of both Effy and Cook's phones, the quick read-and-reply before you could even ask who it was, and the sideways glances filled with guilt and empathy in both your mate's eyes. So your burn cooled, your rational side kicking in and reassuring you that, no, she wasn't just using you. Emily just knew you well enough to not press you directly. She was giving you time, the one thing you always asked for, and the one thing she always gave. Even until the very end.
The text said, simply,
:I'm here.
You cut your lunch short, heading back to the office 20 minutes before your hour was up. The time sitting on your hands while you relaxed during break was anything but relaxing - constantly locking and unlocking your mobile until you made a stand, literally, and decided to dive back into the distraction of work.
There was a new pile of shots on your desk, comparably small, most likely just taken Monday to Wednesday. Since you were finished with the weekend's group you decided to add these in; Give an exceptionally hearty web release for Monday.
The stack went fairly quickly, though you were right about the new faces. Most stories were obvious tourists, some Brandon noted the accent of each interviewee. You wanted so desperately to casually scan over the one noted: 'English'. But even in photographs you were drawn to her. Separating the article from the unread pile, you cleared a space on your desk to lay flat the page.
She was standing next to a brick wall, bright greens and reds and blues of graffiti covering most of the space. She had her elbow resting on her hip, camera in hand, as if he'd stopped her mid-shot. Her hair was up in a messy ponytail, "Do you know how hard it is to focus on an image with hair falling in your face?!" She would say. It always drove you mad when she wore that white tank top, like so in the photo, with her flannel - no, your flannel tied hastily around her waist. She looked sad, almost. Sad, a bit hopeful; Apologetic. You read the article, with the photographer's notes at the top:
She said, "I'm a photographer too. Do you work for anyone?" I asked her why she came to New York.
"I love a girl."
"And why do you love her?"
"She forced me to be brave. She taught me to fight for what I want and what I love. She's the bravest girl I know."
"Where is she now?" She smiled sadly and cocked her head.
"She's here."
"But not with you?"
"But not with me."
"Is there anything you'd like to say to her?"
"I'm glad you asked. If she were to see this, I'd say, you were right. Five years from now, where we both are- It happened because of us. I'm so proud of you. I love you. Come home."