𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

Deja Vu

There are certain things in life, that I don't believe can be described with words. The English dictionary is simply not large enough. Its pages are not yet capable of capturing everything that is, nor everything that has ever been.

The first time you meet someone you know is going to mean something to you; the feeling of laughing genuinely, at something that will remain funny even in memory; the first sip of water on a hot day, or cool grass against heated soles.

Or the way I felt standing outside that pub.

I didn't really know what I was doing there, at that time. It was late, or early in the morning, depending on how you see it. In any other situation I would have been tired, exhausted even; but not then.

I felt restless, on edge. The sort of nervous that comes from experience rather than fear. I knew I needed to move but my feet wouldn't let me, having glued themselves to the cobblestone road beneath my boots. It was as if gravity has magnified and suddenly, taking a single step took as much effort as lifting a cart.

What am I doing here. I should be asleep.

I'd managed to find myself decent lodging. A single room, comfortable, clean enough. I had a large window, a bright, clear view of the other side of the street, facing a building that looked almost exactly like the one I was in, as if the town had just been mirrored back at me.

It was only my third night there, but I couldn't stand it any longer. The sound that rose each night from the street below. The incessant shouting and laughing that battered against the walls of my stay until the sun made its appearance. The lights that plastered moving shadows, flickering across the ceiling.

Until one night I'd decided I'd had enough, and marched myself downstairs almost unconsciously. I barely remember getting dressed, pulling on my shoes and lacing them up, releasing my hair and throwing on a thin coat. Before suddenly, I was outside, standing in front of it all, stuck.

Despite the burning days, the nights were chilly. And if you asked me why my arms were covered in goosebumps, I'd tell you that I was cold, despite it being a lie. Because in reality, I was terrified, and wanted nothing more than to backtrack my steps until I was back in bed, actively pretending that it had never happened.

But as the carriages passed behind me, their wheels splashing through puddles that wet the end of my dress, I found myself thinking of him, and what he had told me; that he had thought it was his fault. And while thinking of all the time he'd spent beating himself up for something I had never even thought to blame him fo, my fear turned to anger.

I was angry that it had happened to me. Angry that I could no longer enjoy something so mundane. Angry that I had never even gotten the opportunity to enjoy it in the first place. Angry that they were being so loud, that I couldn't fall asleep. Angry that no matter how much I didn't want to, I knew that I had to do this. For myself, and no one else.

The first thing that hit me was the sweat in the air, the overpowering humidity of the room. It was bigger than the one back home. Home. I heard bottles breaking somewhere beyond the ocean of people, cheering and dancing on the wooden floor. The sound of their steps shaking the space.

I had mustered up the courage to make it through the doorway, but everything else had gone out the window after that point. I froze in the entrance.

Warm light flooded the floor, seeping from candles hung on the walls. I could feel my skin begin to dampen, unable to decipher whether it was a result of the heat, the squeezing feeling in my gut, or a combination of both. I wanted out. I should go back to my stay and sleep it off, nothing good can come of this.