I'll Share With You My Heartbeat

thirty three

Reminiscing was Lennon's best friend and worst enemy. It gave him brittle hope, the kind that dissolves between his fingers and draws him towards photography.

It was January when Lennon first moved into his new apartment, journeying down the hallway in a hazy cloud and collecting dust on the pad of his fingers. He made it his own, scavenging for second-hand furniture and bringing home tiny cactus pots from the market.

It was a time when Lennon chased after solitude, so caught up in this idea that all he needed was himself, that independence was the key to his current sorrows. But as days became repetitive and silence took over his living space, he developed a habit of humming tunes. Because the truth was—

He was so fucking lonely.

He had someone who made every day mean something, and now her room was vacant.

Lennon couldn't recall how many nights he lay on the floor of that empty bedroom, reciting speeches and pondering over whether or not he should call her.

Hey, I miss you.

Hey, I left you the bigger room in case you come back.

Hey, I hope your mom's new job is going smoothly. And that your new home is treating you well. And that you know I didn't mean the things I said when we fought.

Hey, my parents keep asking about you. What do I tell them? You know they love you.

Hey, do you still love me?

But gradually as the months dragged on, his motivation diminished. He still sent her mental notes but concluded that it was best not to make a sound.

Hey, I know you're allergic but it shouldn't matter since you're not here anyway. I adopted a cat. Well, I actually found it in a building, right outside the elevator from the dance studio my photography class was working with. No one claimed him, so we went to the vet, and then I took Socks home. Yes, I named it Socks. It was the first thing I saw when I scanned my room for a name.

Socks made Lennon significantly less lonely. And the cat may not have the ability to talk, but Lennon liked to think that it listened to his rants without judgment, that Socks enjoyed his company as much as he enjoyed its.

So eighteen-year-old Lennon started to get his life together, finally mustering up the courage and acceptance to change her room into his studio. Signed up for every photography class he could find and found a decent-pay job as a bartender.

So here he was, serving drinks in an apron that was a little too loose around the waist, under the hazy noise of glass clinking and animated chatter.

Why did she call? he kept wondering, Why? His hands tightened around the shaker. What if it's an emergency? I've waited so long for this, so why am I so hesitant?

"Lenny!"

Only one godforsaken person called him that.

Cal was clothed in a denim jacket patched with ironed-on stickers ranging from the peace sign to THICK THIGHS MAKE MY DICK RISE. It was the first time Lennon was seeing him with his new buzzcut in person.

It's been a while since he had shown up.

He pounced towards Lennon, leaning his entire upper body onto the counter with his phone clutched in his hands.

"Good afternoon to you too," the chestnut boy greeted, furrowing his brows at him with a smile, "Salty dog, the usual?"

"No actually, I'm not here to drink," Cal dismissed.