Past Lovers

Past Lovers. 2

The wind began to kick up, so I tied the scarf around my neck even tighter, barely allowing air through my lungs. Damn this cold, damn this winter, damn this bloody city. 

They say New York City is the greatest place on earth. That's nothing more than a straight lie. My whole existence here has been a nightmare. After all, I can't associate it with any good memories. Hayden and I moved here after two unbelievable years in California. She said: "It'll be good for us, a nice change." She was wrong. In fact, it was right around the time we moved to New York that our relationship took a nasty turn. One year later, I found myself heartbroken in the city of love. 

California had been good to me. Just like Hayden. Words cannot describe how much I loved them both. But I have been a fool for lesser things. I made the same mistake twice, and choose another over the other, blinded by fresh lust rather than old love. 

Believe me when I say, I live in regret every fucking day. 

Fed up with the frigid winter air, I decided to take the subway, despite the short walk I had ahead of me. Was it worth the fare? Probably not, but I didn't care. I stopped caring about a lot of things over the years; the money in my pocket, the girl in my bed, the life that I knew. 

After I found an open seat on the subway, I leaned my head against the glass window, and closed my eyes for a moment. The vibrations as the train hit the tracks reminded me of her heartbeat. Sometimes, when she was fast asleep, I'd press my head into her soft breast, and listen to her mellow heart-rate and deep breathing. Those were the good days, when something so pure and small such as that could have such an impact. Now, our relationship was defined only by the "big picture".

I lifted my head, only to look to the left. I blinked a few times, rubbed my blurry eyes, and gaped. A goddess sat to my side, with chocolate locks of hair and big starry eyes. She wore a trench coat over her formal attire, and kept her focus on the Blackberry in her hand. 

This was it. It was her. After three long years, the moment had come. My heart began to race, as I searched my mind for the right words. I had written dozens of speeches, poems, and letters, all to prepare what I would say at this very anticipated moment. Why the fuck couldn't I remember any of it? 

I was speechless, lost for words; ironic for a writer. She still had that power over me, she always had. With my mouth hanging open, I could feel the moment was slipping between my fingers. I had to do something -- anything -- and fast. 

I slid over a bit, closing the distance between us.

"Excuse me?" I stuttered lowly, barely able to articulate the two words. My breathing quickened with hope, with excitement, with passion.

She raised her gaze to me, chomped on her gum, and cocked her head to the side with suspicion. "Yeah?"

The woman was beautiful, but she was not mine. I knew it was too good to be true. The alcohol was beginning to play tricks on me. I felt my breathing fall a little bit, along with my heart. 

"Sorry . . . never mind, I thought you were somebody else," I replied crestfallen, as I slumped back in my seat. 

I felt bitter, more bitter than my mother in her old age. I had gotten my hopes up, because I cared. No matter how indifferent I could be about everything else in my miserable life, I would never stop caring about her. 

I wrote a letter for her when I got home. Then, I wrote another. And another. And another. Each one more powerful than the one before it. I just couldn't stop. Seeing her doppelgänger stirred up more emotions and feelings than ever before. The prospect of being so close and yet so far was a grief like no other. 

I wanted the pain to stop, I wanted it to end. But it never would, not for as long as I lived. I would love her till the day I died. I could only numb and ease the pain, so I cracked open a fresh bottle of whiskey. I wrote and drank until my eyes could see nothing anymore.

* * *

Another week passed by, nothing out the norm. I still waited for her at the bar, still waited to run into her on the street corner, still waited for my second chance.

But love works in mysterious ways, and only when you're not expecting something, do you find yourself face to face with fate.

"Thanks." I took the hot disposable cup of coffee from the barista.

Blowing on the hot liquid, I took a seat at one of the cafe tables and pulled out my laptop. I started half-heartedly working on my newest short novel just to ease my mind a bit, knowing that it was probably a dead-end like all of my other work. Even though I made a "career" out of writing, I still used it as a creative outlet. 

I called this piece of trash "My Narrative". A working title, of course. People expect writers to always be so goddamn creative, like we're just supposed to pull brilliant ideas out of our ass. Obviously, they've never attempted to write anything of worth nor do they understand the power of inspiration; something I have lacked for years now. Hayden was my guiding light, my muse. And now that she's gone, I'm simply an artist left with no art. 

I was typing away, minding my own business, drinking my bitter coffee, when a crystal clear voice called out my name.

"Chase?"

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Okay, chapter two! I know these chapters are a bit short, but I promise that they will get longer...it's just a matter of getting started, and setting a pace, ya dig? Thanks for all the support, I'm glad you guys are so willing to read this and continue your love for Hayden and Chase.

I know some of you are not pleased with me right now...but what kind of story would it be if the characters were just all happy and lovey dovey? I know that's the cute, appealing stuff, but it has no substance, and it's rather boring. This is more interesting, if I do say so myself! But rest assure, you will not be let down. The break of light through the clouds is soon to come!

So send me some feedback! If you liked it, show it!

Much love, writexmusic!