Draw Me In

–|*|–

Twelve – Who You Are

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*~ And you're far away
But you are always on my mind ~*

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I think I must sit there for a while.

I think this because A) I miss the transition of going from warm to cold, from being bathed in soft red light to a harsh orange, and B) I don't register the lull in the traffic, the lessening of cars as the people that drive them settle down for the late night.

So when I finally tear my eyes away, I'm chilled and quiet, and covered in so much dark.

The orange stretches across the carpet but doesn't reach my hide-y space against the side of the bed, so as I peer around now my eyes suddenly tell me ouch, tell me, that's really bloody bad for us, you know.

"Sorry," I squeak, letting the phone fall out of my vice-like grip to land with a soft thud below.

Lifting my hands, I ignore the tremble I can feel but can't see and push them into said eyes, rubbing the dry pain away.

How could I have sent it? I think to myself. How how how?

Your thumb slipped, moron.

I crush my palms against my temples as I remember almost dropping my phone when the lady came out of the aisle. It hadn't occurred to me then – why hadn't I clocked on?

It doesn't bloody well matter now, does it?

I huff.

He had your number figuratively before, well; now he's got it literally. Well done.

"I'm such a moron," I groan, thumping my forehead onto my knee with each word.

Yes, my not so tactful side agrees.

–|*|–

That night, I don't sleep with his card under my pillow.

Instead, I stuff it to the back of my junk-filled bedside drawer with my mobile. Unfortunately, as I'm doing this, it starts vibrating with a new text, which in turn makes me yelp and chuck it – mindless of the billion new scratches it's getting.

And then I scarper.

–|*|–

"Helloooo? Bella? Anyone in there?"

I blink quickly, only just noticing the hand Alice is waving in front of my face.

Giving my head a minute shake, I turn to face her. "Sorry. What?"

Her mouth is open like she's going to speak . . . but then she slowly closes it again. Her eyes narrow and survey my face, and I fight the fidget I feel. What can she know? I think, trying to squash down the panic, my mind unwittingly casting back to the vibrating mobile in my drawer. How can she know?

"You alright?"

I'm nodding even before she's finished saying you – a nervous habit I've had since forever. Agreeing as quickly as you can with someone always seems to make them stop talking just a little bit sooner. I remember doing it at school, college – even university, with teachers and lecturers and personal tutors. I was an utter failure with people in general, but being around any kind of authority made me about ten times worse, like I wanted to shrivel up and disappear.

"You just seem . . ." she trails off, her eyes squinting into the middle distance as she searches, ". . . spacey," she finally decides on.

I shake my head again, knocking sense back in. "That's not a thing," I retort, smiling a little weakly as I lean my head on the back of the sofa. Then, seeing as she's about to protest, I quickly deflect, "How was your mum, anyway?"

I try to rivet my undivided attention on Alice, but despite this, it still splits in two.

–|*|–

I retreat to my bedroom that night after all the stalling I can manage. I contemplate just kipping on the sofa, but then realise how daft I'm being.

I'm not going to let a few words keep me away from my own bloody room.

But still, I hesitate outside my bedroom door and have to think: am I?

Then I tug on my hair and think: no.

Once inside, I cast an almost fearful glance at my bedside drawer before shaking my gaze away. I roll my eyes at myself as I start padding my way over to the bed, but abruptly pause halfway there. I shoot a glance at my desk, where my laptop is sitting, and after telling myself I'm only going to check my emails, I quickly dart over and grab it before collapsing onto my bed.

I do, as a matter of fact, check them, but my gaze catches on the MSN homepage when I sign out, and my eyes grow as wide as the moon.

The inner effect is instantaneous: my heart speeds up and my stomach seizes like I'm about to free-fall from a thousand foot drop.

I see you, I think, but this time I'm addressing rather than receiving.

But I only get a glance before the image is gone, sliding to the left and being replaced with a picture I don't really see because my mouse has already clicked on the little x on the tab.

Then I go to Google, and I don't even pretend as I type in his name.

–|*|–

One hour later, I'm still surfing.

Still gaping.

I stumble across wiki pages (one about him, one about his band, and one for each of his band mates – whom I have discovered are also his brothers), fan sites, facebook pages and twitter accounts (none of these social media accounts actually belong to him, though, there seems to be an official one for his band).

Basically, I find out lots.

Things like: his birthday is on Christmas. (Whose birthday is on Christmas?)

Like: As well as the guitar, he also plays the piano, ukulele and kalimba. (Who plays the kalimba?)

Like: He has a dog – a German shepherd – called Bear. (Who calls their dog Bear?)

And I'm trying to put a negative twist on these things (but I sort of think they're fantastic) so I can't. So then I try to put a negative twist on him, but no-one seems to have a bad word to say; fans are awed, newspaper articles are glowing, and other artists and celebrities are so bloody complimentary – about him and his music.

"Bugger, bugger, bugger," I whisper in dismay.

Because the whole of the bloody world wide web seems to be telling me he's as pretty inside as he is out.

–|*|–

I toss and turn in bed after I close my laptop down. I tried to avoid looking at pictures (which was nigh on impossible considering how enthusiastic people are about his face – "jawline" was one of the words which frequently, er, arose) because it felt almost . . . clandestine.

. . . Which is probably ridiculous considering I'd been reading about his actual self for god knows how long, which is pretty assuredly a lot more intimate and personal than simply staring at him.

I groan, palming my face.

Then I think – I shouldn't be doing either.

–|*|–

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A/N:

clocked on = noticed, realised

kipping = sleeping

So . . . short and sweet, I know. But expect an update tomorrow, too. :)

Thanks for reading. :) See ya tomorrow!