after all this time | ✎

iv.

mention of death 

──

COLD AIR BITES into my lungs, the wind whips my hair back, and my steps pound in time with my heartbeat. 

My breaths are harsh and anguished, my eyes exhaustive and filled with tears as the ground beneath blurs. 

I continue running, but to where that might be, I don't know. But I understand I need to get out of here, away from those inimical, racing thoughts that devour me. 

Gut-wrenching, heart pumping— after several more minutes my legs become tired, and I divert to a walk. 

I can see the vivacious and glowing lighting of the shop as I wander across the vast parking lot, outside the shop were each with an umber vintage-style umbrella. 

Outside the sidewalk that will bustle in a few short hours is quiet, the concrete oblivious to whether it is midday or midnight. The cafe wasn't my destination, but it'd do. 

I make my way through the transparent glass door, a blanket of warm air hits me and the rich aroma of coffee which is savoury.

The coffee shop is once cloistered and closed, so many tables and so little room, that is part of it's charm. The air swirls with aromatic dreams, little wonder it is a place we artists are drawn to.

As I lift my gaze, I groan, biting my lip, eyes everywhere but on him. We are the only ones in the street corner café. The heat from the inside fogs the windows, forming a barrier between us and the outside world, entangling me inside with memories of him. 

Suddenly I'm fifteen again, and he is carrying the latte to my table and sitting down in the booth with me. Our meetings then became a routine: every Sunday at 7 pm; he'd bring me my latte, and we would chitchat for hours, staying until they shut. 

"What will you have?" I am so startled that when I whip around to look at the person behind the counter, my arm clumsily crashes over the sugar on a nearby table. 

The gruff man behind the counter stares at me like I've lost my mind. I laugh it off, tell him that I'll clean the sugar up, and search my pockets for money. 

My throat is dry and sore; every lungful is aching. "Can I have a medium hot chai latte, double steamed and a strawberry muffin?"

"Absolutely, that will be —"

"$7.69" I interrupt his statement and grin. The man doesn't make eye contact, but he lets out a muffled laugh.

"I'll have it out for you in a minute." He turns around and goes to work.

Then Kohen moves closer with those eyes that look so deeply into my own, "You still have an awful taste in beverages, cinnamon is fucking terrible."

There is something about that gaze of his, his eyes are so different at this moment, softer somehow, it is the eyes of the boy I once fell for, the one who kept his arms around me, skin against skin, hands intertwined.