Originally posted on Escapism – for the girl I'll never be, for the girl I almost am:
There is a nice apartment over the bakery. It is inviting, relaxing, with an air of sophistication and maturity. It is where he first opened the door for her, and where she touched his face with new love on her fingers and let warmth spread throughout her body.
The whiteness of the kitchen’s walls holds a painting of a dark blue river running wild over black rocks. She thinks of it as her stop-start anxiety, and she smiles. She knows there is a fist-sized hole behind. She think of it as him.
One night, when it was raining lightly outside, she leaned out of the window to wave him goodbye when a hot wind whipped across her arms. It was still summer. He was the kind of man who made her think. He made her think that she was happy. Thinking about it now feels to her like looking over a fence to someone else’s summer.
When she lifted her head up all she saw was snowflakes, so she went back to bed, gently took his hand and showed him to the windows. His eyes went straight to her dark coffee eyes. The music faded to a background noise and life stopped and stood still for a while.
Then the blood in her veins went crazy and it started raining.
She loved the adrenaline rush. The girl with, seemingly, vanilla personality and purple prose was dying. There was somebody else fighting to live inside her, who wanted winter over summer, then summer again. Everything and all at once, packed up in a big snowball that rolled down a hill, faster and faster with every breath she took, because she couldn’t stand the moment. Maybe it was the courage coming from the new-found happiness, asking life for more lemons. Maybe it was the frightening something in still life: the smell of death, a familiar sight, nothingness, or maybe everything, because both look just the same. They look like the ending.
He left, because the way she used to feel about things was over. Raindrops kept falling on his head. He felt tired; tired of living, because life gets tiring sometimes. Simplicity complicated overnight, so he had to move on from the things that weighed him down. Maybe she likes the rain, because it washed the forever away from her skin and she never liked tattoos anyway, he thought. But she closed the windows to the chilly rain; the house was turning cold.
They’d been shipwrecked there for a long time. They deconstructed life and made a mess, so it was hard to leave. But now it was hard to start building again.