Romantisme

Interlude I

{ Author's note: So as some of you may have noticed, I haven't updated in quite a while now. Half a year, I think? The reason for this is because school has been a major pain to me, and it doesn't leave me with a lot of time to be all poetic and dramatic and sad. (Actually, you know what, it turns out that last one I was still able to do. But anyway.)

Okay so firstly I'd like to thank all of you who read, voted and commented on this weird little collection of poems. You guys are so cool!! Bless you all. Please don't hesitate to ask me a favour on my dashboard/whateveryoucallit (read/comment/vote on your works) because I'd be happy to do it after all the nice things you all have said about the things I write! 

And alright secondly, what you're about to read isn't actually a poem. It's a scene I wrote about a month back out of the blue. Please take note: It's not very good, it's actually quite the opposite of it, and things may not start out very clear in the start. Or the end. I'm sorry. I don't even know why I'm still going ahead publishing it. You have been warned.

Anyway. I hope you guys at least enjoy reading it! }

An Excerpt from A Story Yet To be Written (or Not)

Scene: ? // "Your voice could put any musical composition out there to shame"

Featuring: A piano, a boy, and a girl.

Him

Don't fuck it up. Don't fuck it up.

He kept the words on repeat in his head, as if they had the power to suspend the moment for as long as possible. It probably could, at least better than he was able to by himself. He's always been notorious for ruining even the slightest sentimental moment in his life with his completely inappropriate, crossing-the-line sarcasm.

But he didn't want to mess things up anymore. Not this time.

Besides, this couldn't possibly count as sentimental. The way he sees it, sentimental meant something too soft, something too sweet; a vulnerability that can't be serious or real. What was happening right now was the complete opposite of any of that. Sure, her skin was so warm and pure beneath his fingertips that it made touching her feel fragile and overwhelming all at once, like he wanted to hold her the rightest way possible (if there's even such a thing). But the closeness they were in—the finger trails, the absence of space, the silence—felt like something more. There was an urgency there, an intensity that he couldn't describe other than just pure emotion.

She brought her head up, creating a small gap between them that was begging to be closed. "I think this is the farthest I've seen you go without averting to your dry humor," She said, her voice a little breathless and shaky. He could feel her smile against his cheek, and it nearly drove him crazy. "Should I be concerned? Should I call someone for help?"

He knew there were so many ways for him to answer her, keeping in line with the witty bravado he's always put on. But he couldn't give a shit about it. Instead, he settled on bringing back the silence—and the absence of space.

Because he didn't want to mess things up anymore. Not this time.

Her

This must be what it feels like to be his guitar.

It's a weird, borderline ridiculous thought to have in the middle of things, but she couldn't help it. She'd seen how his favorite instrument had an effect on him—how he'd play with his eyes sometimes solemnly closed, or sometimes barely looking up, like there couldn't possibly be anything else worth seeing. How he'd hold the body of the guitar with his arms as if it was the only thing he needed, as if it had more value than even himself. How he'd express and create something beautiful just through his fingers.

He didn't need words. His hands emoted enough.

She must be a narcissist, to think that he held on to her with that much feeling. To believe that she had that much of an effect on him.

She wished she did.

He lifted her up. She felt around with both of her hands, and when her fingers came in contact with a wooden surface, she pulled herself up—right onto the piano keys. A set of notes played out, coming off as a complete mess she knew her old piano teacher would completely disapprove of.

"Oops," she managed to say. She heard him laugh—and honestly, the sound of it made her feel something; something not even music could. No amount of piece reading, finger exercises, or late night practices could ever give her a sound as rewarding or beautiful.

"You think Mozart would've castigated us for this?" she asked. Her voice broke the comfortable silence that had been present in the room, and it felt odd. Violating, even.

"Maybe," he said, tracing the outline of her jaw. "But remember that one quote from him? Don't pay attention to other people, follow your own feelings, all that."

"I'm pretty sure he didn't mean it this way," she said, smiling.

"Still though. Everyone interprets famous words differently."

"You're such a dork."

"It's part of my charm, right?"

"Definitely," she told him. "It's one of the reasons I love you."

She spoke with lightness in her tone, but she knew there was some truth behind her words. And he must have known too, because he looked down and bit his lip.

"I care about you, you know." He said, voice low and eyes solemn. He took a breath. "I mean, I know I joke around a lot, and I look like I don't care or I don't take a lot of things seriously, but I do. I take us seriously."

She smiled and closed her eyes. "I know. I do too."

And then she sensed—rather than saw—a smile form on his face.

She must be so lucky. To know that he held on to her with that much feeling. To know that she had that much of an effect on him.

She was glad and scared at the same time.