I own nothing but a pencil and the notebook that this story is written down
in, so please don't sue me. These characters and some of the dialogue and
the parts of the storyline all belong to J.J. Abrams. He's my hero...So read
on.
As soon as he walks into the room, I feel a change. I can already feel the strings tugging at my heart. I jump up and hug him so hard I think he's going to suffocate. And even as I start speaking to him, I hold on. The words pour out, Francie, Will, Project Helix, second double. Yet I still can't bring my self to lose physical contact with him. But he gently pulls away and tells me to sit down. I do and for the first time I notice that he's not wearing his usual suit. He's in street clothes. And I can't help but wonder why. As he sits down as well, he gives me a small, heartbreaking smile. Not the typical "God, I can't believe I'm allowed to look at you now" smile or the "We'll get through this" smile used during a long day at work when our eyes meet across the Rotunda. No, this smile I haven't seen in almost a year. It's the "You do not deserve this and I'm so sorry that I have to be the one to tell you" smile. I don't like that smile.
And so it begins. A horror beyond belief. Two years. Missing.
Screaminginmyhead.
I don't want to believe it, but those beautiful eyes don't lie, and I can read them like an open book. And the beautiful hand that used to trail through my hair with whispered words of love is now scarred by a single band of gold.
Nowords.
As soon as he walks into the room, I feel a change. I can already feel the strings tugging at my heart. I jump up and hug him so hard I think he's going to suffocate. And even as I start speaking to him, I hold on. The words pour out, Francie, Will, Project Helix, second double. Yet I still can't bring my self to lose physical contact with him. But he gently pulls away and tells me to sit down. I do and for the first time I notice that he's not wearing his usual suit. He's in street clothes. And I can't help but wonder why. As he sits down as well, he gives me a small, heartbreaking smile. Not the typical "God, I can't believe I'm allowed to look at you now" smile or the "We'll get through this" smile used during a long day at work when our eyes meet across the Rotunda. No, this smile I haven't seen in almost a year. It's the "You do not deserve this and I'm so sorry that I have to be the one to tell you" smile. I don't like that smile.
And so it begins. A horror beyond belief. Two years. Missing.
Screaminginmyhead.
I don't want to believe it, but those beautiful eyes don't lie, and I can read them like an open book. And the beautiful hand that used to trail through my hair with whispered words of love is now scarred by a single band of gold.
Nowords.