A/N: Another one-shot. The poem is Time Does Not Bring Relief by Edna St. Vincent Millay.
xxoxx
Torn
"What is she to you?" A voice behind him asked. He was always at the library, ever since Nathan and Haley's wedding. Nobody, not even Brooke, knew why Lucas Scott preferred to stay at the library. Sometimes he would read, scan through books which he always enjoyed reading. He would get lost in the world of Hemingway and Keats, after all, this was his dream now. Sometimes he would just sit there, enjoying the silence and the calm palpable in the air. He would hear rustling of pages, and stacking of books, and somehow, it made him feel better, staying amongst these things. It was simpler that way.
But he could not ignore the question. Nathan sat down beside him, snatching the book he was reading. He had been watching his stepbrother for quite some time now, as Haley tried to teach him the laws of gravity. Why do we need to know why things fall, anyway? They just do, and that should be enough.
"Why don't you just tell Brooke?" Nathan asked. "You can't stalk her all day."
"I'm not, Nate." Lucas sighed. He tried to get the book from Nathan, but he would not let it go until he answered him. Unexpectedly, the page tore, which caused Nathan to drop the book immediately. Lucas stood up to see if the librarian was anywhere in sight, the he glanced at the damaged page. It was a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay.
It was almost funny that the torn page answered Nathan's question. He glanced at her again. There was a sad look in her eyes, as there always was, and he wanted to see beneath those beautiful, sad eyes. He wanted to know her, and make her happy. Never had he wanted to make her cry, which was all he did.
"Who is Brooke?" Nathan asked again, cryptically.
"My girlfriend?" Lucas answered. He stuffed the torn page back into the book, and made a silent promise to himself to fix it.
"No, man. What is she to you?" Nathan asked again. He had found his happily ever after, and he wanted Lucas to do the same.
"She is," Lucas started, thinking. "The girl that you date in high school. The gorgeous girl that everyone wanted to have but couldn't seem to get. The one whom you got drunk with, and cut class to make out with. I love her, Nathan. But I can't get Peyton out of my head."
Nathan looked at Peyton. She was reading Jane Austen, her blonde hair gleaming in the sunlight. She, too, after the wedding, spent most of her time in the library. Sometimes she would drown herself in literary classics; novels, poems, sonnets—it didn't matter. When she was not reading, she would sit on the floor, her back on the bookshelf, and just listen to the silence. A tear would often fall down her cheek, and she will always brush it away angrily. Her thoughts would return to the kiss.
"And Peyton is," Nathan continued. He glanced at Haley, perfectly content at answering logarithms. He turned back to Lucas.
"She is," Lucas paused. He then continued, without stopping or thinking about what he was saying. "The girl everyone secretly tried to be. Smart, witty and beautiful. Sad, complicated and lonely. She's the type of girl you marry, you have kids with, and grow old with. The one who you would smile down on as you see the moonlight in her face. She's," Lucas stopped; no, he couldn't think about Peyton this way. It filled his heart with a kind of poignant longing.
"The first girl you fell in love with?" Nathan said, making it sound like a question, but stating it as a fact. He was about to answer him when his cell phone rang. Brooke was calling.
"Listen man, I have to go." Lucas said, getting the book and standing up. "But I'll see you later."
"Yeah." Nathan said, defeated. It wasn't today that he'd see it.
Lucas walked slowly, looking at Peyton as he went out. He wanted to tell her everything. Things he would not say to anyone but her. He got the torn page from the book, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in her direction as he hastened his pace to walk out. This was the only way to tell her, for now.
Peyton was distracted from her silent reverie, as she glanced up from her book. A crumpled ball of paper was on the floor. Looking around to see who it was that threw it, she picked it up, and opened it. In an instant she knew.
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go, -- so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his boot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.
xxoxx
Please review!