Lonely Nights // H.S

20.

this is part of a double update. do not read unless you've read 19, which was posted just before this one :) 

*

'If honesty means telling you the truth, well I'm still in love with you'

*

I'm not used to his voice sounding like this. Distant and uncomfortable. His eyes reflect some of the moon light, but the golden flecks I'm used to appear somewhat colder than they do in the sun. A tired overcast, instead, one that's almost lifeless.

He watches me with caution, and I watch him with worry. Worry that maybe he'll run away, or I will, or we'll decide to stay out here and have the awkward conversation we've been avoiding. Whatever the option, none of them seem good. I could smile, say hello, ask if he's having a good night and then head back inside. But I don't want to do that, because being alone with him has me remembering all the times it felt blissful just a few months ago.

It makes me forget the progress I've made, or rather, it removes the mask I had been using to shield myself from the fact that I'm not over him. Not even close.

I've never liked the idea of defining the feeling of love as falling, because it seems quite bleak when you consider the impact at the end. Falling means you're not flying, and I'd rather the latter than the former. But as I stand here, too much space between us than I'll ever be used to, I think I finally understand why they call it falling.

It's like I'm seeing him for the first time. His hair swept back but a stray curl hanging down, beard kept clean and slightly thinner than the thickness I last saw. He wears a suit, one I haven't seen before, too. White with a pale blue shirt underneath. He looks expensive, more than usual, and for a moment I feel like I'm not worth enough to be in his company. That maybe there is some weight to the classist claims of others that those with less money shouldn't interact with those that have more.

But then he smiles, that same smile that always has me folding, melting, giving myself over to him, and I forget ever thinking that I shouldn't be near him.

"No, it's fine," I say, almost like I'm letting go of a breath I was holding for too long, my chest feeling lighter with the words.

He continues staring at me, perhaps in the same way I do him, examining the other like a history project. Revisiting something familiar but feeling so out of place by it. I wonder if he thinks I've changed too. If my complexion is paler, my hair is longer, my body is thinner. Does he think my voice has changed, too, or am I simply creating a new person to distance myself from the one I already know?

He opens his mouth to talk, but struggles with the words, choosing to scratch the back of his neck instead. "Do you want one?" I ask, holding the box of cigarettes out to him.

He waits a moment, then steps forward. "Yeah. Thanks."

The silence settles over us. I decide to light another cigarette, while he quietly goes through his. It's not entirely horrid, though there is clearly a lot both of us want to say, but it is manageable. Growing used to it as the seconds pass, him standing by the fence and looking over the city, while I remain at the bench by the wall.

We never keep this far away from each other. Never stand with too much distance. I think we both find comfort in having the other near, within our reach, so we can remind ourselves the other is real and not a figment of our desperate imagination. I want to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin again and the soft hair on his face. If I get too close, I might just out of instinct.

Inside, a song begins playing, one I recognise well. And he does too, a sigh leaving his lips while his eyes close. In the Still of the Night by The Five Satins.