I stood in the rain and let it pelt my skin. I was dressed for the summer, a flowy dress, no layer too many because the heat had been oppressive all day. And now I stood in the rain and watched lightning dancing across the sky. I used to love the rain when it kissed every inch of me. Tonight was different. Tonight it felt like needle pricks, so sharp it almost hurt. My hair was hanging in thick strands, dripping. I was sure my makeup was smudged too turning my carefully crafted mask into a grotesque parody of who I used to be. I felt betrayed. By the moon and the clouds. And the rain that had always held a romantic undertone for me. I closed my eyes and let my head fall in my neck. Where there should have been stars was nothing. My eyelids fluttered under the weight of the heavy rainfall on my face. I stretched out my arms to welcome this spectacle of mother nature that had always been mystical. I knew rain and how it came to be, and yet, as so often, between theory and practice was a big difference. And I liked to believe in magic. Tonight I didn’t feel that magic.
I shivered, lowering my arms and my head. Something had changed. Every drop felt like it was washing away a piece of something I hadn’t meant to lose. Had I grown up, was my inner child out of reach? I stepped inside the warm house and sighed. Inside everything was quiet. The wet cloth against my skin felt cold and uncomfortable and I was dripping all over the floor. I couldn’t say if it was rain falling from my face or tears. Did it even matter? I had lost something important tonight and I felt it in my bones. Outside the rain kept drumming on every surface it could reach. It was part meditative and part unsettling.
Echoes of Midnight
The bathroom tiles were freezing against my bare feet, a sharp contrast to the warmth I’d left behind in bed. Not that the warmth had come from him—it was the blankets, maybe the fleeting heat from our bodies, but definitely not him. I caught my reflection in the mirror as I splashed water on my face. The tired woman staring back seemed distant, as if the night had stretched too far, too thin. My eyes were heavy, but sleep wasn’t what I wanted. Or maybe I just didn’t want to fall asleep next to someone I barely knew.
I grabbed my robe, feeling the soft fabric against my skin, though it did little to chase away the coldness that clung to me. The thought of returning to the bedroom made me pause. The stranger in my bed was a reminder of the choices I’d made tonight—choices that seemed so clear just hours ago but now felt like cracks in the night. Kicking him out wasn’t an option; it wasn’t his fault I was tangled in this mess.
I drifted into the living room and curled up in my favorite chair by the window. The night sky was so vast, dotted with stars that seemed too far away to care about anything happening below them. The familiar weight of the universe pressed down on me, and yet, for some reason, it felt less suffocating here, in this small bubble of quiet.
I pulled out my phone, staring at the screen longer than necessary. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating before typing a message I didn’t expect a response to: “Are you there?” It was more of a question for myself than for him. A way to feel less alone in this moment, a lifeline I cast into the dark, hoping for something to pull me back.
I was about to set the phone down when it buzzed. The screen lit up with his face, and my heart did that annoying thing it always did when he called—skipped a beat, like it was preparing itself for something bigger. I hesitated, knowing this was probably a mistake, but I answered anyway.
“Why are you still up? Bad dream?” His voice was gentle but direct, like he knew exactly where my mind had gone. He didn’t bother with pleasantries; he never needed them with me. I nodded before realizing he couldn’t see me, so I added a soft, “Yeah.”
“Are you alone?” The question stung more than I wanted it to. I hated that the answer wasn’t what I wished it could be.
“No,” I whispered, hating how small the word sounded.
“Is he asleep?”
“Yes. I’m in the living room, watching the stars.” The words came out quieter than I intended, like I was confessing to something I wasn’t sure how to explain.
There was a pause, a soft sigh from his end. “Okay,” he said, and I could hear him moving, the sound of his footsteps padding softly, just like mine had moments ago. The rustling of sheets, the faint creak of a door—it all felt so intimate, yet so far away. “I’m putting you on speaker,” he said, his voice a little softer now. “Just so you know if it sounds different.”
And then the music began.
It was slow at first, the gentle hum of piano chords that floated through the speaker, filling the silence between us. I didn’t recognize the song, but it didn’t matter. The music wrapped around me, like it had been written for this moment, for this quiet between us. Each note felt like a breath, exhaling the tension from my body.
I leaned further into the chair, pulling the blanket from the couch and wrapping myself in it. The softness against my skin was a contrast to the cold that lingered in my chest. The night air was cool, but the music, his music, made me feel warm. Warmer than I had felt in bed with that stranger. Warmer than I had felt in a long time.
The stars outside seemed to shimmer a little brighter now, their distant light more comforting than before. I yawned, the weight of the day—or maybe just the weight of everything—settling over me. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until this very moment. I yawned again, this time louder, unashamed of how the exhaustion sounded.
“Sleep tight, baby girl. I’ll always be here for you,” he murmured through the music, his voice low and comforting. It was the kind of promise I wanted to hold onto, even if I knew it was impossible. But tonight, in this fragile moment between wakefulness and sleep, I believed him.
I smiled to myself, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the blanket. Maybe he really was my safe place. Maybe that’s what I’d been searching for all along, though the thought felt fragile, like it could shatter if I held it too tightly.
As the music continued, the world around me began to blur. My eyes fluttered closed, and the last thing I felt was the softness of the blanket, the soothing melody still playing, and the echo of his voice lingering in the quiet spaces of my mind. Tomorrow, I might remember his words, or maybe they’d drift away like the stars outside. But for now, they were enough.
For now, I was safe. For now, I slept.
The traveller
He kept his eyes fixed on the road. The white lines snaked under the car, cracked and uneven like old scars. He’d been following them for hours, maybe days—it was hard to tell anymore. The fog blurred everything, smothering the landscape in a thick veil of grey, as if the world itself had been erased.
Continue reading “The traveller”The Busker (edited and revised)
Johnny flicked off the light switch, shouldered his guitar, and tugged his woolen hat down over his ears. The small apartment above the café was barely big enough to stretch out in. A bed shoved against the wall, the stove doubling as a nightstand. Thin walls. Cold floors. But it was warm enough, and the café owner below didn’t mind when Johnny was short on rent, so long as he worked a few shifts to cover the difference. It wasn’t much, but in a city like this, it was everything.
Continue reading “The Busker (edited and revised)”Fractured Lines, Unbroken Circles (new short story)
The café was bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, casting long, soft shadows across the floor. A few patrons sat scattered around, engaged in quiet conversation or lost in their own thoughts. The air smelled faintly of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries, the kind of scent that clings to memories.
Ethan sat across from her, fingers absently tracing the rim of his cup, a habit he hadn’t quite outgrown. His gaze drifted to the window where pedestrians hurried by, oblivious to the conversations unfolding inside. It had been over a decade since they’d first met, and longer still since they’d been anything more than friends. He wasn’t sure when, exactly, but at some point in the last few years, they had settled into this comfortable rhythm: meeting regularly, sharing pieces of their lives, talking about everything and nothing. Still, there was something different in the air today, a quiet tension that neither had acknowledged yet.
She watched him in the quiet way she had always done, studying his face as though seeing it anew. His once sharp features had softened over the years, and while the lines near his eyes betrayed age, they also told the story of someone who had learned to laugh more freely. Time had changed them both. It was a strange thing, she thought, to know someone so well and yet wonder how many versions of them you’ve missed.
She shifted in her seat, her hands resting lightly on the table, fingertips grazing the chipped wood. There was something she needed to say, and though they’d always been good at finding the right words with each other, this conversation felt different. More delicate.
Ethan glanced up from his cup, sensing the change. His brow furrowed, not in worry, but in curiosity. “You’ve been quiet,” he observed, his voice low and familiar. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze searching hers for some clue as to what was on her mind.
She smiled, but it was a small, thoughtful smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just thinking,” she said softly, her fingers absentmindedly running along the edge of the table. “A lot’s changed between us, hasn’t it?”
Ethan’s lips tugged into a half-smile, though his eyes stayed serious. “Yeah,” he agreed. “It has. We’ve both changed a lot.”
There was an easy understanding between them, forged over years of shared history. They had been lovers once—briefly, a lifetime ago, it seemed now—but that had faded, a fleeting chapter in a much longer story. After a long silence following their breakup, they had found their way back to each other, rebuilding their relationship as friends, as confidants.
But there was always a lingering question, a quiet “what if” that neither had addressed out loud.
She looked down at her coffee, watching the steam curl upwards, dissolving into the air. “Do you ever think about us?” she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “About what we were?”
Ethan didn’t answer right away. He shifted in his seat, his fingers pausing in their habitual tracing of the cup. “Sometimes,” he said slowly. “I mean… yeah. But it feels like that was a different time. Like we were different people.”
She nodded, feeling the truth of his words settle around them. “We were. We didn’t really know who we were back then, did we?”
His eyes met hers, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other. There was no need for explanations—they both knew. Back then, they’d been young, unsure of themselves, and what they had had burned bright but briefly. The years since had been a slow evolution, a growing into who they really were. The connection they shared now felt stronger, but different. And it was that difference she needed to acknowledge.
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately,” she continued, her voice calm but deliberate. “About you. About us. And how much you mean to me.” She paused, watching him carefully. “I love you, Ethan. I do. But not in the way we thought we would love each other back then.”
Ethan’s expression didn’t change right away. He sat still for a moment, absorbing her words, the weight of them settling into the quiet space between them. His fingers tightened slightly around the cup, but his voice, when he spoke, was steady. “You mean… you’re not in love with me.”
She nodded, grateful that he understood. “I’m not,” she said softly. “Not in that way. But I love you all the same. It’s just… different now.”
He let out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair as if the air had been sucked out of his chest. But there was no bitterness in his expression, no trace of hurt. He had expected this, perhaps not in so many words, but deep down, he had known.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding to himself more than to her. “I know what you mean.”
She watched him carefully, waiting for him to say more, to fill the silence with some kind of resolution. But he remained quiet, his eyes distant, though not in a way that felt alienating. It was more like he was turning something over in his mind, letting it settle into place. And maybe that was the beauty of their friendship—there was no need to rush through the emotions, no need for dramatic confessions. Just understanding.
“I guess part of me has known for a while too,” Ethan finally said, his voice quiet. “It’s just… you don’t always want to say it out loud, you know?”
She nodded. “I didn’t either. But I felt like it was important.”
He studied her face for a moment, and then smiled. It wasn’t the smile of someone who had lost something; it was the smile of someone who had found clarity. “I get it,” he said, his voice lighter now. “And I love you too, just in a different way.”
Relief washed over her, and for the first time in weeks, the tension she had carried with her seemed to lift. She had known Ethan wouldn’t take it badly—he was too self-aware, too in tune with his own feelings for that—but there had still been a part of her that feared the conversation might change something irrevocable between them. But as she looked at him now, she realized that what had changed was not their friendship itself, but their understanding of it.
“So where does that leave us?” Ethan asked, though his tone was easy, playful even, as though the answer was obvious.
She grinned, feeling lighter than she had in years. “It leaves us right where we are,” she said, her eyes bright. “Still friends. Still close. Still us.”
Ethan chuckled, leaning forward, his arms resting on the table. “Best friends,” he corrected, his smile widening.
She laughed, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. “Best friends.”
And in that moment, it felt right. There was no lingering sense of loss, no question of “what if.” What they had was enough—more than enough. It was stronger than the fleeting romance they’d once shared, more enduring than any past relationship. What they had now was the solid foundation of years spent growing, evolving, and learning who they were, both individually and together.
As they sat there in the fading light of the afternoon, the café slowly filling with the quiet murmur of other conversations, she realized something. They had already become the best versions of themselves, and they were lucky enough to witness that evolution in each other.
And maybe that was all the love they needed.
###
1271 words
a love so deep (flash fiction)
With every heartfelt word you uttered, she found herself falling deeper and deeper under the spell of your captivating presence.
Despite her best efforts to resist the pull of her emotions, she was powerless to fight the inexplicable connection that had blossomed between the two of you. There was something undeniably magnetic about the bond you had forged, something that made it nearly impossible for her to imagine a life without you in it. And even though you were older when you first met, you too felt the same overwhelming sense of wholeness and belonging in her company. It was as if she had become a guardian of sorts, someone who showered you with the kind of unconditional love that defied logic and reason.
She knew your darkest secrets, the very ones that had sent other women running, yet she embraced them without hesitation, accepting you completely for who you were. The intensity of your shared emotions was nothing short of overwhelming, creating a pull so powerful that it seemed to defy the very laws of nature. Every stolen glance, every gentle caress, ignited a passionate fire within your souls that refused to be extinguished.
You found yourself constantly captivated by the mere thought of her, replaying your conversations in your mind and savoring the melodic sound of her laughter.
As time passed, the bond between you only continued to grow stronger, with each new discovery deepening the profound connection you shared. She became your confidante, your safe haven in a world that often felt tumultuous and overwhelming. You marveled at her ability to see through your carefully constructed walls, gently coaxing you to reveal your true, unguarded self.
The age difference that had once seemed like an insurmountable obstacle now felt inconsequential in the face of your all-encompassing love. Together, you had created a world of your own, a realm where judgment and fear had no place – a world where your profound connection reigned supreme. In this sacred space you had created together, time seemed to stand still, and the outside world faded into insignificance.
Every moment spent in each other’s company was a testament to the rare and precious bond you shared. The way she looked at you, with eyes brimming with adoration and understanding, made you feel truly seen for perhaps the first time in your life. Your conversations flowed effortlessly, ranging from lighthearted banter to profound discussions about life’s greatest mysteries.
In her presence, you found the courage to voice your deepest fears and wildest dreams, knowing that she would receive them with open arms and unwavering support.
The physical attraction between you was undeniable, a force of nature that sent electricity coursing through your veins with every touch. Yet it was more than mere desire; it was a spiritual connection that transcended the physical realm. In her embrace, you felt a sense of coming home, as if your souls had recognized each other from a time long past.
As your relationship deepened, you began to see the world through new eyes. Colors seemed brighter, music more poignant, and even the simplest pleasures took on a heightened significance. She had awakened something within you that you never knew existed, breathing new life into your very being.
The transformative power of your love story continued to unfold, weaving a tapestry of shared experiences and intimate moments that seemed to defy the constraints of time itself. Every day brought new revelations, each one cementing the unshakable foundation of your relationship.
You found yourself marveling at the way she could anticipate your needs before you even voiced them, her intuition a showed the profound understanding you shared. As you navigated life’s challenges together, your bond only grew stronger. The obstacles that once seemed insurmountable became mere stepping stones on your shared journey. Her unwavering support became your anchor, grounding you in moments of doubt and elevating you to new heights of self-discovery. In turn, you found yourself becoming a better version of yourself, inspired by her strength and compassion.
The depth of your connection manifested in countless ways. A simple glance across a crowded room could convey volumes, your silent communication a language known only to the two of you. The gentle brush of her hand against yours sent shivers down your spine, igniting a passion that burned as brightly as the day you first met. Even in moments of silence, you found comfort in each other’s presence, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat a soothing melody that calmed your restless soul.
As time passed, your love continued to evolve, taking on new dimensions and revealing hidden facets. You discovered that true intimacy went far beyond the physical, encompassing a spiritual and emotional connection that seemed to transcend the boundaries of this world. In her arms, you found not just a lover, but a kindred spirit, a partner in every sense of the word. Your restless and fragile soul had finally found a safe home.
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fiction – 826 words – reading time: 4 minutes
it’d been a long time since I wrote something like this. It fell out of my fingers Wednesday night. It was late and I couldn’t sleep. I had this picture of a couple in my head, who against all odds seemed to be drawn to each other and who were perfect for each other no matter how much they fought it.
After yesterday’s petty post, I decided to published this (as a scheduled post). It is not quite as good as those stories used to be, but in time I will get back up there.
THANK YOU for reading
Voices (revisited)
It’s cold and I wrap my cardigan closer around my shivering form. Still, I don’t want to turn around and walk back home. It’s not time yet. Not now, maybe never. I enjoy the peaceful, quiet and loneliness that surrounds me. There is no sound but the wind and the waves. The wind blows widely, cutting against my skin. The sand feels cold underneath my bare feet.
Nobody is at the beach. It’s a lonely place. Abandoned. The sky look almost black, only thick clouds make it appear grey here and there. I know that in a few minutes, it will open up and soak me in cold rain. I stop and turn to look out across the sea. The waves are nothing more than white lines that crash eventually. Some are higher, some are almost flat. But they all come to me. As if they need to tell me what they saw out there. The ocean looks threateningly big and once again, I feel small. Around me, everything is big and meaningful. I am nothing but a grain of sand. Not important at all. I’m nothing. No one. The realization hits me hard; it always does and the resulting tears sting my eyes. I pretend that it’s the cold air nipping at my skin, but I know that I am lying to myself. And I also know the reason. He is back again. His voice in my head. And one day, he will kill myself. My demon. It’s someone who promises love and only offers sorrow in the end.
There are days when everything seems pointless. Nothing makes sense. Every fight seems to be lost and I feel obsolete. It’s what he tells me when I am trying not to listen. There is no reason for me to breathe.
The lines between the ocean and the sky turn into a blur and I wonder how it would feel to drown. Would it hurt? Would I fight it? Not that I have any intention of walking towards the freezing swallowing ocean, but I wonder about those things.
There are days when I long to feel that serenity I imagine one feels when death almost wins. Finding inner peace and being able to keep that feeling inside and letting go of everything else; it’s utopia. Nothing else matters anymore.
There are days when it would be so much easier to simply give up and fade away from earth. Who would care anyway? It’s what my demon encourages me to do.
I shake my head as I am trying to make those thoughts stop. Getting rid of that awful voice that is trying to pull me under is hard; it’s a battle I will lose some day soon. I don’t want this. I don’t want to surrender. I don’t want to submit to my demons. But it is stronger than me. He is stronger. It’s a deep dark hole I fall in from time to time, orchestrated by his words. Manipulating me like a puppet on a string. If I had a knife I could cut the strings. Sometimes, the hole is so deep that there is almost no way to get out of the dark and lonely place. Sometimes it’s a battle I win without much fight, and the right scent, the right notes can make me see the light again. It makes me emerge from the dark. But not always. Not always.
I struggle. An internal war is raging inside of me when all I need is inner peace. It looks so easy. For me, it isn’t.
The rain starts falling in big drops. In a matter of minutes, I am soaked to the bone and frozen. It’s freezing and the beach is still abandoned. I know that I should move to go home. I know that I should put on my socks and shoes, or I will catch a cold. But I can’t. I cannot move. I am paralysed. Something is holding me back. My hands fall to my sides, and I feel my shoulders slump. My head bends down, and I fall to my knees. My soaked cardigan is heavy on my skin. Pulling me down with an invisible, yet strong hold on my shoulders. I bury my face in my hands. Accepting my defeat. It comes out of nowhere. Or maybe it comes from somewhere. I cannot think. Shivering in the cold, with my long wet hair pasted to my face; I feel like give up.
I give up.
For the first time in a long time, I am willing to give in to the voice in my head. I am too tired to argue and to fight. I am too lonely to breathe and to exist.
“Take me with you!” I beg the cold emptiness surrounding me. It is the last surge of energy before my inner self combusts. My heart burns from the exertion. Ashes are all that will be left within me.
I cower on the beach. Alone. Painfully aware of all my flaws. Painfully aware of the inside me hole that is devouring me. Too tired to fight. And why should I fight anyway? He doesn’t let me fight.
What is there left here for me?
This place holds no shelter for me. I want to fade away and vanish. Too jaded to go on. Too hollow. It’s like I am in a trance.
I hear a noise and startle. I look up. I wake up and see where I am. Realize what I am doing. I’m trembling from the cold. A smile creeps up on my face. She is here to save me.
It’s always like that.
Two personalities inside of me. Fighting to get the reigns over me. One of them is overly optimistic, always positive and supportive. Always honest and chatty. The other is a suicidal pessimist. One day, he is going to win. One day, she will not be there in time to wake me up and win that secret war at the last minute. I know it. It scares me. But I am powerless. It’s not in my control.
The sky clears up. No more rain. The wind eases up. I am dripping wet. Sand is sticking to my clothes. I don’t know how long I knelt in the storm.
I move. Going home. Whatever that is. Wherever it is. But I am not paralysed anymore.
I enter my home. It’s empty. Almost no furniture. No voices. No colours. No you. No me. Nothing. I can’t stand the silence but I endure it. I should put some music on to drown out everything that haunts me. But I can’t. Not now. I can’t deal with the overstimulation of different sounds right now. The hardwood floor is wet from my clothes, and I undress. Struggling to get the wet clothes off my raw skin.
I decide to take a shower to wash away the emotions of the morning and the cold that fills my veins. But his voice is persisting today. He wants to see me perish and he can’t be washed away. He keeps entering my thoughts
I sigh into the foggy steamed bathroom mirror. It’s going to be a long week. It’s going to be a daily fight. I wish I could hibernate. Let the voices in my head fight it out and whoever wins can take over my body and soul. Whoever wins gets to do whatever they want with me.
What if the winner was me?
***
The original of this piece was written a long time ago (in 2014). I stumbled across it today and edited it a bit… It’s a heavy piece, not happy at all. And that leads me to say: I am in a good emotional place. All is okay over here.
the rocking chair
He sat naked in the rocking chair, swallowed by the dark room around him. The door was closed. The three windows, wide open. Cold wind whistled in, brushing his bare skin, making the thin white curtains billow like ghostly hands reaching out. Outside, the moon played hide and seek with the clouds, its pale light cutting sharp shapes against the walls. The shadows it left behind were alive, twisting and shifting as if taunting him with their slow, deliberate movements.
The chair creaked on the floor beneath him, its slow, rhythmic sound cutting through the silence. Each rock forward sent another wave of tension through the room. The floorboards had grown loose from years of wear, remembering the weight of every footstep, every shift of his body. Back and forth, back and forth, he rocked. The repetition was almost meditative—almost. But the calmness he craved remained just out of reach. He longed for sleep, but it wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not with them lurking. Waiting. Everwake.
His mind was both void and chaos. A swirling vortex of thoughts he couldn’t hold onto, and yet, nothing. Heat radiated from his chest one moment, burning him from the inside out. The next, the cold night air sent shivers across his skin. Nothing felt right. Everything was wrong. But still, he rocked. Back and forth, forward and back.
The cushions beneath him were invisible in the darkness, but he knew every flaw by heart. The tear at the back, the stains underneath. He could feel them beneath his weight like the scars that marred his own skin. Each imperfection carried a story, a memory that burned through him tonight. Each one a reminder of the man he had been—and the man he had become.
The moon inched across the sky, dragging thin clouds with it. From the tree below his window, an owl hooted, its call slicing through the night like a knife. The sound was sharp, dissonant—another reminder of what he was. Alone. Always alone.
He craved a cigarette, his throat burning for the scratch of nicotine, for the warmth of a drink. But he couldn’t move. The chair was a prison. The walls were closing in. He was trapped. Not just by the darkness of the room, but by the darkness inside him. The shadows on the walls danced, mocking him, laughing at his misery. If he were stronger, he would fight them. He would stand up and tear them apart. But he wasn’t strong. Not anymore.
Another memory clawed its way to the surface—her. The only woman he had ever loved. He remembered the softness of her skin, the way her voice once soothed him. There had been a time when love was something he could hold, something he could give and receive. But he had pushed her away, just like he pushed everyone away. He had been too afraid of letting her see who he really was. Now, no one could love him. And even if they tried, he would ruin it. He always did.
The rocking of the chair grew faster, the creak of the wood more urgent, as if keeping time with the chaos in his mind. The voices grew louder, rising from whispers to angry shouts. He slapped his temple with his palm—hard. “Stupid.” The word left his mouth before he could stop it, a weak protest against the madness inside him. The ghosts in his head remained. The curtains behind him rustled with the wind, and he froze.
They were here. They had come for him.
His breath caught in his throat, the air thick and heavy. If he stayed still, maybe they wouldn’t see him. Maybe if he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, they would leave him alone. He held himself rigid, his mind spinning with possibilities, but the shadows reached out, creeping closer, ready to drag him into the abyss.
The owl called again from the tree. A sound too distant to save him now.
He wanted to close his eyes, to scream, to do anything to escape. But his body betrayed him, frozen in place. The weight of his sins pressed down on him, crushing him, suffocating him. The terror of everything he had done—and everything he had failed to do—hung over him, staring into his pale, red-rimmed eyes.
Then, for a brief moment, clarity broke through. None of this is real. It’s all in your head. The shadows. The voices. The fear. They couldn’t hurt him.
A grimace spread across his face, and then, without warning, laughter bubbled up from deep inside. First a soft chuckle, then a loud, manic laugh. His shoulders shook as the sound escaped him, filling the room, bouncing off the walls like the ghosts in his head. The chair rocked harder, faster, the rhythm now wild and erratic.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
The moon was fading, giving way to the early light of dawn. The shadows shrank into the corners, retreating. The owl had fallen silent, its calls fading into memory. Even the wind had stilled, leaving the curtains limp and motionless.
He tried to exhale, to let go of the tension in his chest, but all that came out was a wheezing breath. His body was soaked with sweat, cold and clammy, like a second skin sticking to him. But still, he rocked. Back and forth, as the memories played on a loop inside his head.
He deserved this. Every bit of it. The torment, the isolation, the terror—they were his punishment. And there was no redemption. There was no salvation.
Finally, his eyes fluttered closed, a twisted smile on his face.
Maybe next time, he would fight back. Maybe next time, he would claw his way out of the darkness.
Or maybe, just maybe, he would surrender to it. Forever.
Flash #2
A circle of words; never changing words. Every story has been written and felt before. Hers too. And yet, she feels as if she has to share her book of life in some way. Perhaps, laced with fiction, readers will want to know more about this unique yet average character. Perhaps, they recognise some of the described feelings and emotions and validate her in some way? But more likely, her own words become true for herself, too: everyone has a story, but not everyone should tell it.
Who decides if a story is worth hearing? Who is to say that one’s feelings are more valid than others? Who decides those things?
A circle of words; of never changing simple words can have as much (if not more) impact than complicated vocabulary.
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Gil Ofarim – Vom Ende der Traurigkeit
Something a lot like love
I wake up, rested, and with a smile on my face. This hasn’t happened in a long while, and I stretch my arms above my head with a low moan. The sun is shining, and the birds are singing their songs, announcing another hot summer day. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I turn to face you, and I am startled, and a bit embarrassed, when I see you sitting cross-legged with your laptop balancing on your knees and papers next to you. You are pinching a pen between your lips, and your reading glasses add something serious to your face. Your hair is messy and sticking in every direction, I smile, remembering how it felt between my fingers last night. I wonder how late it is and how long you have been awake. Your fingers are caressing the keys of your laptop as if they were on a mission. I nudge your knee with mine, making you smile and dropping the pen from your lips. The speed of your fingers falters, but they don’t stop.
By now, I know that you are a workaholic – a real sexy one at that, but I never had the chance to wake up with you in work mode before. It feels domesticated, and as if we are entering the next level of our relationship. At the same time, it feels as if it has always been like this; familiar. “Let me just finish this real quick, and then I am all yours, ” you say, and I nod. Your voice is low and thick with sleep. I want to crawl into your lap and claim your attention, but I am too old for that. You asked for a couple of moments to finish your business – I respect that. The words “I love you” are at the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them down. A concentrated frown is forming between your brows, and you lean closer to your screen. Intelligence is sexy, and you are the perfect example of that.
I decide not to distract you, and turning to my stomach; I fumble for my phone on the nightstand. I could get out of the bed and freshen up in the bathroom, after all, this is the first time we spent the day, the night, and the next morning together without any of us being in a hurry to get to work. We have never spent this much time together. But I want to stay in bed next to you. Your heady, sweaty scent is comforting for me. Your presence and your silent company are all I want for now. For a moment, insecurity gets the best of me, hoping that I am not a total mess this morning. In the movies, lovers wake up looking perfect, hair and makeup are where they are supposed to be, their eyes are never swollen. But I am not an actress; I am me. I run my hands over my unruly hair, matting it down slightly; after that, I run my fingers under my eyes, wiping smudged mascara away. That has to be enough for now. I am not perfect.
Concentrating on my phone again, I read the news and check my social media channels. Nothing exciting to see, and I keep scrolling until I see a picture of us. We are laughing into the camera, both holding a drink, looking flushed and happy. The caption underneath isn’t written in words; there are two emoticons: a smiling face, and a red heart. I smile, and my heart races. We had a great evening. Perfect even. But I hadn’t noticed that you posted our photo online. I don’t mind, too much, though. Until now, we were dating casually; the picture is making what we have more real and official. I like that. Butterflies are doing somersaults in my stomach. The comments are all kind and friendly; some are teasing. Some people are congratulating you on your new girlfriend. Is that what I am? Am I your girlfriend? We haven’t put a label on our relationship, but maybe that too is the natural evolution of things?
“Be right back, ” you announce, cleaning the papers from your side of the bed and tugging the laptop under your arm. I nod and get back to the social media app with a sigh. Is this it? Am I supposed to leave now? I expected a make-out session in the morning, continuing where we left off last night, but real life is not a story or a movie. I tug a strand of my hair behind my ear and push the blanket off my legs—time to get moving.
I startle when I feel your lips on my calf. One of your hands caresses my leg while your lips leave a kissing trail all over my body until you turn me in your arms. I can’t hide my happy grin.
“Good morning, where are you going?” you ask, kissing my lips. You taste like mint, and I am embarrassed that I didn’t take the time to brush my teeth. But you don’t let me overthink. You have a way of distracting my train of thoughts. My hands map your skin, touching as much of you as I can, while your kisses get more demanding. I close my eyes and feel the mattress dip under our weights. You cover me from head to toe, framing my face with your hands. I feel every inch of you pushed against me, igniting my need for you. I spread my legs, and just like a puzzle, everything falls into place. This is where I am supposed to be right now. I look at you and see an expression of love and lust. My heart is expanding and pushing every thought aside; I am pulled under in a wave of emotions.
We stay in bed most of the day. Making love, reading on our phones, talking. We just get up to eat and take a shower. The sun sets, and the moon rises.
It is Saturday night, and as my senses are filled with you, I moan the words I kept back the entire day: “I love you.” You smile, and your touches become more sensual, and the way you make love to me becomes something deeper. Something meaningful.
I rest my head on your chest after being boneless from my last orgasm. Your hand caresses my back. “Say it again,” you demand. I smile against your skin. “I love you.” My cheeks flush as the words leave my mouth. “Is it cheesy when I say that I do too?” you reply. You shuffle from underneath me and turn to face me. “Is it too early to be in love?” I burst out laughing. We are in our mid-thirties and behaving like teenage girls. You join me, kissing my forehead when you regain your breath. “Stay, I love you.” The seriousness of your words overwhelms me, but I am trying to hide it. I simply pull you into my arms. And it feels good. No words are needed. Just us. The connection between us.
We settle in for the night, watching a movie on your laptop. I haven’t worn any clothes all day long, I think before I fall asleep in your bed for the second night in a row.
30 meters
Read at your own discretion… This short fiction is about a suicidal person jumping off a roof. Not for the faint of heart.
*****
I am standing on the window ledge. Outside There’s barely space for my feet. They aren’t large. It’s the sneakers which make them appear huge. Is that a stain on my Jeans? Does it make sense that I care? The wind is playing in my hair. I like that. And the wind kisses my face. It’s not cold. Not warm either. Something in between. Pleasant. I should have undressed. I should have thought about experiencing all of this naked. Naked I came into the world and naked I will leave. But I didn’t prepare this. There is no plan. The way my jacket flaps against my chest irks me. I take it off and let it glide down. I watch the black cloth as it floats down down down until it hides the gasping crowd. The people down there on the sidewalk are all looking up at me. Are they seeing me? Do they know who I am or why I am here? Are they seeing tomorrow’s headlines? I hope there aren’t any children. Parents shouldn’t gawk and watch a person jump off a roof with their children. That’s bad parenting. How will they explain to the little ones what they are witnessing when they have no idea what they are looking at?! They don’t know me and my messed up mind.
I look up into the sky. It’s grey. The clouds are moving fast. I always liked the clouds. I liked to watch them and dream myself away. Away from my life. I smile and try to touch the cotton-like clouds. But I can’t quite reach them. And yet…
I feel that I am in control. For the first time in my life. I will end here. My life, my journey – they will end here.
I can hear the wail of sirens. I can’t see them yet, but they are coming for me. Or whatever will be left of me after I landed head first on the concrete. Who are they? Firefighters? Paramedics? The police? Haha, the Police – Sting. Fields of Gold and that version Eva Cassidy sang that always chokes me up. Was her name Cassidy or Cassedy? I will look it up later. Oh right! There will be no later. I will miss Music… was my first love and it will be my last. Music of the fut-SHUT-UP!! Thoughts, shut the fuck up! This is not the time and not the place to distract me.
I check my pockets. I don’t want anything falling out and hurting my audience. Keys. Cellphone. Pen. I crouch down and put them on the ledge next to me. I get up, smile again and braid my hair. I don’t have anything to keep it together, but at least it’s not in my face anymore. I used to love the wind in my hair. Why is it irritating me right now? Maybe I should have shaved my head before coming up here, but… no. I like my hair. And I didn’t plan this. There is no plan. I run my fingers over the thick braid. My mood is shifting. From bubbly to irritated and angry.
My knees are weak. They are shaking, but it’s okay. It’s the height, I am not a fan of heights. Soon, I am going to fly. I wonder how it will feel to be weightless. Carried by the wind. That Lenny Kravitz song comes to my mind I want to get away. I wanna fly away yeah yeah… and I try to push it out of my head. I don’t want it to be my last soundtrack. Maybe ‘asleep’ by the Smiths would be good or ‘I don’t fit’ by Madrugada… I should have made a playlist before coming up here. I feel completely unprepared, and I don’t even have an appropriate song in my head. I should have planned this, but there is no plan.
I shake my head and jump. No more reason to pull off the inevitable. Goodbye, cruel world. I’m leaving you today…
30 meters
I can fly, and I am screaming in ecstasy. It’s better than I thought. I’m flying without wings. Whoohoo!! I wonder if I shut my door and turned off the music. Did I lock my car and feed the cat? I should have paid my rent yesterday. I forgot. Does it still matter?
25 meters
Did I call my friends and leave them notes? I didn’t. How will they remember me, and will they be sad? I know, I was rather complicated, but maybe they’ll realize that they miss me and that they loved me. I just hope that they don’t forget me. And I hope they will not talk bad about me. I should have been more approachable.
20 meters
I hope I don’t make a huge mess. Poor people standing there. Oh, but what if I hit one of them when I touch the ground? Will they die too? Will that make me a murderer. I don’t want to be a murderer. Please, move!
15 meters
I am hungry. I should have eaten before climbing up the stairs. Chocolate would be nice now. Or a burger. I will miss a couple of things. Pasta… mhmm…
10 meters
My braid came undone, and my hair covers my face. I am still flying. But I can’t see it.
5 meters
Wow, this is really happening!
4 meters
It’s too fast. It’ll be over soon.
3 meters
Is there life after death. I deserve a second chance.
2 meters
Please don’t let it hurt
1 meter
…
*****
My mind is twisted. I am not sure where the idea for this came from.
restless (a to z)
Restlessly prowling the streets; he was looking for something. Someone. He was looking for her. An orange glow cast an eerie light into the fog. Footsteps for miles, but she was not there. His eyes were searching. Left, behind a row of trees. Right, on a soccer field. His heart began racing; the humid smell of the grass to his left made him gave in to an urgency to run. He wanted to scream her name, but he didn’t dare. But he ran as fast as his feet would move. A gust of wind blew his cap off his head, but he kept running. Huffing and puffing. Trying to move forward. It was as if he was stuck. He heard the explosion behind him before he felt the blast. It threw him forward. His hands were cut on impact; the gravel left tiny wounds on his hands. He turned to see the fire. The fog in the distance was illuminated. His eyes stung. He had to find her before they did. He crawled on his hands and knees, wincing until he got his feet back underneath him. His lungs were burning, filled with fire. He smelled the demise of the village he has fled. A dog was barking. Curtains were left to fall in place. There was life behind these walls and doors and windows. Was there shelter too?
A bullet wheezed past his ear. “Halt!” A male voice commanded, but already another shot was fired.
He kept running. Until he couldn’t anymore. A sharp pain went right through his chest. Warmth spread around him; at the same time, it became cold. He was still restless, still out of breath. No matter how far and how fast he would run, he would never find her. He coughed and felt a sticky liquid on his hand.
Footsteps had caught up with him. “Fuck, he is one of ours.” He closed his eyes and tried shaking off the hands that were clawing at him. He needed to run. He blinked, trying to see. Light was blinding him, and he tried to shield his eyes from its brightness. A hand was reaching for him. “Take my hand, ” an angelic voice said. “Tired from running, ” he wanted to say, but there was no voice, and no air left.
“You don’t need to run anymore. You are safe, ” she said, and he took hold of the hand. He knew her. He had found her. No more running. Time for rest.
Adrian (improvised A to Z)
Adrian sat on the stairs in front of his house; a cigarette was dangling between his fingers. Ash was forming at the tip, glowing in the dark. He took a long drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke. He looked back into the empty house. No one was home. No ever was anymore. The situation got to him, isolation. Not so much the social distance, but the physical distance. In the distance, a dog barked, and Adrian looked up.
“I know, buddy. I know,” he sighed and flipped the butt of his cigarette away. Wiping his hands on his thighs, he got up with a grunt. Life was not waiting for anyone. Even less when most people were sitting in front of their screens, waiting for their daily distracting.
Adrian went to the kitchen, took a bottle of beer, and popped the cap with his lighter, and didn’t bother to pick it up. He set up his gear, took off his shirt, and exhaled through his mouth.
He pushed “start broadcast” and smiled. “Hi there… I am Adrian, and I am going to sing some songs for you.” He grabbed his guitar from the couch behind him and began his lifestream—the first one in April.
(My usual posts will continue…)
The Busker
Turning off the light switch, Johnny shoulders his guitar, puts on his woolen hat, and leaves his home. He lives above a café in a small apartment he rented from the owner. It shouldn’t be called an apartment because it is so tiny a shoebox would be a better description of his all-in-one living space. But it has a bed, a bathroom, and heating. It is not much, but it is all Johnny can afford. When he is behind with his rent, the owner of the building makes him work at the café, but that is okay, it pays nicely, and he is allowed to keep the tips for himself. Johnny locks the door, turning the keys twice, and puts them in his bag. It’s one of those large bags that you can sling over your head and onto the shoulder. This particular model allows him to carry around all sorts of things and to wear the straps of his soft guitar case on his shoulders. He would love to be able to afford a hard case, they look cool, but they are too expensive, and the soft case is more comfortable to carry around anyway.
It’s cold outside, and Johnny’s breath freezes mid-air when he exhaled. A look up into the sky makes him realize that there will be rain sometime during the day. The crowd will be sparse. People hurry from one store to the next when it rains. They don’t stop to stare or listen to random buskers playing their songs in the street. Johnny puts his scarf around his neck and pulls the zipper of his jacket up to his chin. He blows hot air into the palms of his hands to heat them. Somewhere in his bag are fingerless gloves, but he doesn’t want to wear them yet. One of these days, when he put enough money aside, he will buy a new jacket. One that will keep the cold out of his bones. Not that long ago, Johnny saw one at a second-hand store, with a little luck, it will still be there when he has the money for it. But for now, it has to wait, and he is content with the clothes on his body. Johnny glances at his watch. It is time to hurry up and stop dreaming.
In quick steps, he jogs for about fifteen minutes before he reaches the stairs to the underground. He takes them two at a time, knowing exactly where to go. He knows which tube he needs to take and how to ride it without paying the fee. Of course, if he gets caught, he will have to deal with paying double or even triple. It happened once or twice before. For today, Johnny chooses not to think about it.
Johnny quickly finds a seat on the train and puts the guitar between his legs. Every day, he waits for the morning commuters to vacant the trains. As soon as they are at work, his customers emerge from everywhere, and it is them who help him pay his measly rent and keep food in his belly. Most people assume that he doesn’t have a schedule or plans when he wakes up in the morning. But he has. Johnny’s day is well organized. It is something he needs to feel safe and protected.
In his mind, Johnny repeats the songs he wants to sing today. He puts buds if his headphones in his ears and put play on his old and battered CD player. It has seen better days, that’s for sure, and the kids who see him with the old gadget never spare their pitying looks or condescending comments. He puts his favorite self-compiled CD in and hopes that his batteries aren’t too weak to play for the remainder of the train ride. Johnny composes a mental tracklist for his day. He will start with a couple of cover songs, those that make people stop and sway along and then, a couple of his own songs to sell maybe one or two copies of his home-recorded, unedited and raw album. That’s the plan. But things never go as planned. Johnny knows that all too well. The rain could ruin everything but, on the other hand, someone important might hear him and make him a star. He shakes his head at his own thoughts. Johnny is not a dreamer. In his life is no space for dreams anymore. And yet, he keeps fantasizing about a career in music. Rain or not, he will play.
Two more stations until his stop. Johnny watches a young mother making silly faces at her child. The child laughs out loud, and the mother kisses its head. Both seem happy, and their happiness fills the cart of the train. Observing the mother and daughter reminds him of his own child that he hasn’t seen in a while. He misses Penny, every day and he keeps a picture of her in his pocket. It is worn and faded, but it is his little princess. She should be five years old by now. He recalls the times when he took her with him to ‘work.’ She used to dance, and people stopped to watch the little, then three-year-old sing and dance along to her daddy’s tunes. Those were happy days. The carefree days are long gone now. Often times, Johnny feels as if he is existing, not living. His girlfriend – ex-girlfriend, has a new life, and she moved them to the suburbs. She has it all now. The car, the big house, the dog, she even has the fucking white picket fence and the model husband who works a regular desk job. Not to forget the conservative clothes and hairdo, too. She has everything they ever mocked when they were together, and the thirty-year-old musician has no justified reason to exist in her world anymore. She refuses to see him, and she refuses to let him see his child. She erased him from her past, and all that is left of them – his own family, are sad lyrics in songs no one has ever heard. He continues to watch the mother with her child, and for a tiny moment, he wishes that his life has turned out differently.
Where would he be now if he hadn’t dropped out of school at fifteen to pursue his dream of making it big as a musician? Where would he be now if he had looked for a ‘real’ job when his ex-girlfriend became pregnant? Where would he be now if they were still together?
The crackling voice coming from the speakers above his head announces the next stop, his stop. He gathers his bag and his guitar and gets up. As soon as the train stops, he leaves. He doesn’t look back at the woman and her child. It takes some effort, but he doesn’t turn his head. If he only had the chance, he could be an amazing dad for his little girl. He wonders if she even remembers him or if he turned into a faded memory mistaken for a dream once in a while.
Johnny takes the stairs two at a time again. At the top, he stops to take off his hat and rearrange his baggage. The streets are still empty, but it doesn’t bother him, not yet. He sees familiar faces and greets some of them, making small-talk. It’s good to have allies on the street. It’s not always as romantic as it may appear to be. He has his corner, and others have their corners too. As long as no one plays on the other’s territory, everything is easy, but overstep the invisible border, and you and (or) your instrument will suffer severe damage. Johnny prefers his world to be peaceful and stays out of as many brawls as possible. His corner is a good one, though. It’s close to a fountain, and in summer, when it is hot, people sit on the steps with an ice cream cone or cooling their feet in the water. In the colder months, it’s a bleak place, yet it is his, and it is across from a well-frequented coffee house. His back is turned toward an expensive boutique—the kind where one pair of jeans costs more than two months of his rent. The people going in and out are not the type of people to stop and listen to his strumming, but it’s okay. He is realistic enough to know that he can’t win them all. Unconsciously, it bugs him more than he will ever let on.
He sets up his little workspace and tunes his guitar. He opens his case for people to throw in some money and decorates it with his homemade CDs along with a sign that they are pay-what-you-want. Most people give a Euro or so, it’s nowhere near as much as they are worth, but it’s better than nothing, and Johnny is not the type of person to complain. He takes what he can get, but never demands more.
He clears his throat and starts to sing into the microphone. The first songs are always hard to sing. Every day he needs to find the courage and the voice to sing in the street for the passing people, and that from the top of his lungs. Three songs in and the first group of people stops. It looks like a class on a day trip. The young girls giggle. He knows it’s because he is handsome. And he has to admit that he likes to look good. Enough of his fellow buskers look like bums, and he sees how people look the other way when they see them; he wants to stand out with his good appearances. He takes care of his daily hygiene, and he doesn’t walk around in holey, grubby clothes. In his mind, success and looking good go hand in hand in the music industry, and he wants it more than anything else.
Johnny winks at one of the girls. That small acknowledging gesture always works, and she starts to rummage in her purse. Before he knows it, she put a 5 Euro bill in his case. He smiles. It’s a great start. The song stops, and he thanks the young girl. She blushes and asks for a particular cover. Johnny is happy to oblige. He isn’t able to take on every request because he doesn’t know every song, but he knows this one and starts singing about seeing fire inside of mountains. The girls clap, and because of them standing in a half-circle around him, more curious people stop to listen, and more money is thrown into his case. At one moment, he closes his eyes and almost forgets that he is only a street musician. Almost. He imagines standing on stance; professional equipment makes him sound better than ever. The spotlight heats his cold fingers. But as soon as the song is over, he is back in the cold reality too, watching as the crowd disperses. Another song finished, and this time, the girls buy one of his disks and ask him to sign it. Johnny has to laugh out loud, he has never signed a CD before, but the girls insist. He poses for pictures with them, and for the minutes they share with him, he feels like a rock star. One of the girls asks if she can share the video she took of him on her Facebook page or Instagram account. He agrees. Usually, those videos are shaky, and the sound quality is terrible anyway, but he is also aware that they put his name out there. They make a little small-talk about this and that, but the conversation dies down, and the situation becomes awkward. Johnny excuses himself to play some more songs, and the group of girls leaves. And while the city is fully awake now and the grey clouds moved on to reveal patches of blue sky, Johnny continues to play. The day announces itself to be a good one after all. He plays for money, yes, but he also plays for his tormented soul. To ease the pain, that threatens to drown him some days. He plays to fill the hearts of every listener with love and gratitude, and he plays because he is grateful too. Maybe one day, his heart will be filled with love again too, but Johnny is a cynic, and he doesn’t count on it.
After three hours of singing and playing, the tips of his fingers hurt, and his throat is as dry as the desert. It’s time to take a break. He sits on the steps of the fountain and looks at the busy crowd. He rummages in his bag to find something to eat, and when he looks up, he sees her face, and it feels as if time slows down. She vanishes into the forest of legs and bags. He jumps up to search for her in the crowd. Was it real? Is his mind playing tricks on him because of the mom and girl he saw on the train? People move in slow motion, but then her face appears again. Her hand is embedded in a larger one. Johnny’s gaze travels up the arm, and that face is familiar too. They come closer, and he straightens his clothes, runs his fingers through his hair to smooth it down, and, with a racing heart, he waits for their reaction.
To his surprise, she stops in front of him.
“Hi,” she says, looking down at the little girl he would recognize everywhere in the world.
“Hi,” he answers, rocking on his heels and burying his hands in his pockets, not to reach out and touch the child’s blonde locks.
“Remember Penny?” She asks. Of course, he does. How could he forget his child? He nods, and then he has an idea. He takes one of his CDs and scribbles something on the case. ‘For my dearest Penelope. You will always hold the biggest place in my heart.’ He hands it to the girl with a smile, and she looks up at her mother as if to ask permission to take the gift. He hasn’t much to offer and doesn’t have the money to buy her toys or anything. Instead, he gives her something that comes straight from his heart. The moments between Penny asking permission and her taking the gift stretches, and Johnny releases a shaky breath.
“So. You’re still playing then?” His ex nods at his worn guitar, and it makes him feel small, like a failure. She wears an expensive coat, and even her perfume smells expensive.
“Yes. Every day. Always here.” She looks at him with a longing expression on her face. Is that remembrance? Is she thinking of all the times she sat here with him? She looks down at his worn boots and up again. Her face has changed.
“Take care, Johnny.” She pulls at the girl’s hand, and they move on.
“Who was that man?” Penny asks, looking over her shoulder at him. He wants to yell, “I’m your dad,” but the girl’s mother is quicker with her answer.
“Nobody, honey. Just a busker.” Johnny turns away and grabs his guitar. His heart is heavy, and his voice hoarse. His eyes are moist, and his pride a little bruised, and he clings to the only thing that ever offers a hint of security to him. A hint of normalcy. His break wasn’t long enough, his fingers still hurt, but he starts to sing again. The physical hurt is not as bad as the hurt he feels inside. Until then, he only assumed that Penelope wouldn’t know him. The assumption became true. And the truth hurts. For the remainder of the day, he sings songs of lonely hearts and broken dreams. Passers throw some money in his case, and he wonders what they see when they look at him. His ex’s voice reverberates in his mind. “Nobody. Just a busker.”
untitled_20200306
She was glowing from an unexpected bout of happiness, and for a brief moment, the world did not matter. At that moment, nothing mattered. Just the peace she felt within. Every interaction with him made her happy, and she wasn’t sure if he knew. He made her happy. Thinking about him made her grin. Browsing the pictures he sent on her phone made her heart race. Nothing was perfect about him, and it was those imperfections that she loved the most. He was not hiding, not holding back. He was real, raw – there. He was a unique man, and somehow he had found her. And she couldn’t imagine a life without him anymore. He made her feel safe and understood. He made her feel loved.
Their call had ended moments ago, and like a lovesick teenager, she sat on her bed, thinking about the way he made her comfortable, the way he made her laugh, the way he had succeeded in getting her out of her shell. She was a woman in her mid-thirties, she had a job, kids, a home, and yet, he made her feel young again. He reminded her of how it felt to be in love.
Some days, she was scared to be hurt, but that fear was meaningless compared to the fear of hurting him without intent. Her past had been hard here and there, but she was able to handle it most days. Did that make her strong? She preferred not to think about it, not since someone had called her weak in every aspect of her life. He had a past life too. He was damaged and bruised, sometimes even bleeding. There wasn’t anything she could change about it; she could only be there and hold him through the bad times. Both of them were broken, but somehow, together, they were whole again.
Next to her, her phone was ringing. It was him again, and the butterflies in her stomach spread their wings again. It was his second call in the same hour.
“Me again. I just forgot to say, I like you. A lot. I like you.”
Before she could reply, he had disconnected the call. And the smile on her face grew even wider. She shook her head. Had this really happened? She laughed out loud, a bubbly happy sound she couldn’t prevent from filling her empty room. She held her phone close to her heart and waited a moment before sending a text message to him.
She liked him too. A lot. She didn’t want to admit it out loud, but he was her last thought at night and her first in the morning. She missed him when he was not there and worried when he was not well. She broke out in internal happy dances when he sent texts or pictures, and with every call, every meaningless and every meaningful conversation, he got a little deeper under her skin.
With a deep worried breath, she realised that a piece of her heart belonged to him, and she had no idea how and when it had happened.
reflections of an unquiet mind 