A/n: One-parter. The plot is mine but nothing of Gilmore girls is mine
unfortunately. It is written in both past and present. The present tense is
only used as a kind of memory, how she is recalling what it was like.
Please read and let me know what you think and any tips you have for me
would be great, by reviewing.
Un-moving
I have not met one person like him.
He manages to change mood in a matter of seconds. His emotions change with whatever's at hand.
From my first day he has been there, be it taunting, arguing or pleading with me. My emotions have run high with anger and low with sadness, to him. A year ago his grandfather died. He needed some space. I gave it to him. The morning after he came to my window in the drizzle. The day could be classed as night. Pathetic fallacy- something I learnt about in English class a long time ago, and had yet to witness, but here it was in front of me with wet eyes and a whimpering heart.
We weren't practically friends, though in his hour of need he came to me. His knuckles by his side rather than tapping the window, he stood out there staring at my closed window and partially drawn curtains. He stood there limp and un-moving, soaked to the bone and un-moving. This is how I found him after waking from my deep slumber. About to fling back the curtains I saw him through the slip of the two curtains, tilting my head, looking into the deep pools of his eyes for about a minute, un-moving.
Closing the curtains completely, I turned and left him to look once again in the centre of my closed window and now fully drawn curtains.
The kitchen floor is cold for my bare feet, where I stand switching on the coffee machine and wondering back into my room, grabbing my thick duvet and throwing it round myself, once again entering the kitchen area. The pot boiled and I poured it into a mug adding the necessary goodness.
I peeled back the front door to find the young boy still standing in the same spot as before, un-moving. My feet being belted with wet drops and drowned in puddles, I stand in front of him, blocking his view of my closed window and curtains. The mug now burning my hands, as like a reminder of why I have it, I hand it to him, no words spoken but he receives the ceramic cup with thanks. Tearing the warmth from me, I wrap the blanket around his broad shoulders enveloping him in a tight embrace. Still no words spoken. I turn on my now sore, cold, wet heels of my feet and retrace my steps back to the house I love to call home. He knows he is welcome but still stands un-moving, except for the seconds he takes a drink of the scolding liquid, contained in a mug, placed in his frozen hands.
Five minutes pass and he appears in my doorway to my loving home, where love is shared, taking me out of my reverie. He stood, now, un-moving in the doorway, staring at me intensely as if I held all the answers he could not get at. Maybe because I was loved. Maybe because I had dealt with loss and had gotten past the grieving. Maybe because I was me.
He needed someone. Someone to help. Someone to be there with him. I was the person willing if he let me.
What people didn't realise is perhaps I needed him to. Maybe not need but want. I wanted him to get to know me, so our banter be that shared of friends rather than enemies. Friendly disagreements than arguments.
I drew up my knees, resting my chin on them. Telling him he could talk if he wanted to but not pushing, without using words. He approached and gently sat on the couch, stopping any further movement. The coffee was only half drunken, still resting in the cushion of his two hands joined.
He sniffed, I knew what was coming but I sat there un-moving. He whimpered like a puppy and still I sat there un-moving. A low cry escaped his mouth, sounding more like a whisper than anything, before the free fall of droplets released from the blue eyes. I sat there un-moving. He hung his head as if ashamed and let his body drop as if unimportant. I slipped off the arm of the comfortable sofa, next to him, placing one hand on the shoulder furthest from me and the other under his chin. I turned the chin and myself so we were horizontal, all the while following his eye line. His look of sheer terror and the look of distraught sketched upon his face was enough to tell me that we both needed each other. Be it in happiness or sadness.
Un-moving
I have not met one person like him.
He manages to change mood in a matter of seconds. His emotions change with whatever's at hand.
From my first day he has been there, be it taunting, arguing or pleading with me. My emotions have run high with anger and low with sadness, to him. A year ago his grandfather died. He needed some space. I gave it to him. The morning after he came to my window in the drizzle. The day could be classed as night. Pathetic fallacy- something I learnt about in English class a long time ago, and had yet to witness, but here it was in front of me with wet eyes and a whimpering heart.
We weren't practically friends, though in his hour of need he came to me. His knuckles by his side rather than tapping the window, he stood out there staring at my closed window and partially drawn curtains. He stood there limp and un-moving, soaked to the bone and un-moving. This is how I found him after waking from my deep slumber. About to fling back the curtains I saw him through the slip of the two curtains, tilting my head, looking into the deep pools of his eyes for about a minute, un-moving.
Closing the curtains completely, I turned and left him to look once again in the centre of my closed window and now fully drawn curtains.
The kitchen floor is cold for my bare feet, where I stand switching on the coffee machine and wondering back into my room, grabbing my thick duvet and throwing it round myself, once again entering the kitchen area. The pot boiled and I poured it into a mug adding the necessary goodness.
I peeled back the front door to find the young boy still standing in the same spot as before, un-moving. My feet being belted with wet drops and drowned in puddles, I stand in front of him, blocking his view of my closed window and curtains. The mug now burning my hands, as like a reminder of why I have it, I hand it to him, no words spoken but he receives the ceramic cup with thanks. Tearing the warmth from me, I wrap the blanket around his broad shoulders enveloping him in a tight embrace. Still no words spoken. I turn on my now sore, cold, wet heels of my feet and retrace my steps back to the house I love to call home. He knows he is welcome but still stands un-moving, except for the seconds he takes a drink of the scolding liquid, contained in a mug, placed in his frozen hands.
Five minutes pass and he appears in my doorway to my loving home, where love is shared, taking me out of my reverie. He stood, now, un-moving in the doorway, staring at me intensely as if I held all the answers he could not get at. Maybe because I was loved. Maybe because I had dealt with loss and had gotten past the grieving. Maybe because I was me.
He needed someone. Someone to help. Someone to be there with him. I was the person willing if he let me.
What people didn't realise is perhaps I needed him to. Maybe not need but want. I wanted him to get to know me, so our banter be that shared of friends rather than enemies. Friendly disagreements than arguments.
I drew up my knees, resting my chin on them. Telling him he could talk if he wanted to but not pushing, without using words. He approached and gently sat on the couch, stopping any further movement. The coffee was only half drunken, still resting in the cushion of his two hands joined.
He sniffed, I knew what was coming but I sat there un-moving. He whimpered like a puppy and still I sat there un-moving. A low cry escaped his mouth, sounding more like a whisper than anything, before the free fall of droplets released from the blue eyes. I sat there un-moving. He hung his head as if ashamed and let his body drop as if unimportant. I slipped off the arm of the comfortable sofa, next to him, placing one hand on the shoulder furthest from me and the other under his chin. I turned the chin and myself so we were horizontal, all the while following his eye line. His look of sheer terror and the look of distraught sketched upon his face was enough to tell me that we both needed each other. Be it in happiness or sadness.