Beautiful Lovers

20.

EDITED 

I want her in ways, I don't want anyone having her. Not in the sense that I want to trap her in a cage and watch her like a golden nightingale, but in a sense, I want to have her kind words and soft whispers that make me smile. And I want to make her laugh, dream with her. I want for her to show me the hidden places of her heart and let me show mine. I can't forget her. She makes me believe that I can win a fistfight, even though the list time I had tried, I broke my wrist. I can't forget her milky eyes. Or the way she swings when she nervously steps from one foot to the other. It's really hard to get the way she bites her lip out of my head and I think about what it would feel like having her in my arms too much. She tilts her head, unconsciously tries to hide the scar on her lip with her hair. And I think that she is a little broken too. And maybe I am writing this for her. Because I know that she would understand. And I desperately want something that would tell me the world is wrong and not me. Because of her, the obstacles in my life are a step on stairs leading to something better. To something exciting. To someone.

And most of all, it is because of her that the light blazes in my eyes and the shadows following me, stay behind me."

Dot above the I and a period on the end of the sentence. All of the emotions that she makes me feel, filling the neat lines. He kind of wished she shared his feelings. God, of course that he did. Even though they weren't fated, as Juliette would say. He would want to know. And with little bit of bitterness and amusement he realised how it was now the only question he craved an answer to.

Paris stood up and stretched. He carelessly hid the book in the box with a feather and his other treasures. Bena never went in his room, so there was no need to hide anything. Still, Paris kicked the box under the bed. Maybe it felt like a little bit of a dark secret. And hiding a little bit of darkness seems like an adventure. Damn, it didn't make sense, Paris thought. Emotions never do, Juliette would say. He smiled at the thought. He walked in an empty kitchen. He noticed that the countertop is tidied for once and the room next to his, silent. Now that he didn't have to dream his day away, to escape that heavy feeling on his chest, he could do something. And damn did it feel good. To live his life as his own and no one else's.

He tied an imaginary apron around his waist and opened the freezer.

"You are cooking." comments Bena with suspicion. She had just opened the door of her dark room to a lit-up kitchen. Her ginger hair is in a bun and the circles under her eyes are a little lighter than when he had seen her the last time. She had a big shirt with a university emblem on it and her wrist was in a brace. The kitchen was filled with the scent of parsley and cheese. The spaghetti was cooling on the side and Paris turned off the hob with the sauce on it.

"Yeah, I am cooking." he smiled. Bena didn't return the gesture. She frowned instead, but the boy's mood didn't waver.

"We order delivery." says Bena matter-of-factly with an empty tone. She crossed her arms on her chest and flinched from the impact of her wrist and her body. Paris knew she wasn't okay. If Bena had heard him, she would retort something along of course not, I have a fucking hand in a cast. Bena his gaze ignored though and measuredly pierced him with her stare, while Paris mixed the sauce. He knew Bena would never admit that something is bothering her. Even though you already knew. She didn't hide it, but didn't complain either.

"Usually." Paris agreed.

"Always." says the girl stoically.

"It can't be always, when I'm cooking now." smiles Paris and Bena frowns even deeper.

"Alright..." the girl defeatedly draws out. She walks over to the table, sits and instantly starts to frown at her phone. Paris would want to know what is she hiding in it. Maybe she was texting her friends. But he knew that she doesn't hang out with anyone. Bena, he doesn't go out at all. She stays in her room, studies and rides the rollercoaster of anger and deep focus; symptom of a student of medicine.