Every String Attached | GirlxGirl

Epilogue

York's small and tentative brush strokes against her canvas were audible to Shawn even in the living room. Content with the fact that York had busied herself for the afternoon, Shawn opened her notebook, reaching for a pen on the coffee table, and seeing that Chance had left her headphones behind from the other day. She made a mental note to return it to her best friend that night when they ventured to the fourth floor for dinner.

April 17th

Everywhere I go, there's paint. Dry paint and wet paint—on the walls, the floor, or my t-shirts that York has now claimed as her own. There's more pictures than Chance and I ever hung, and York even sent a text to Thomas asking for some of me so she could frame them. It's nice, having someone care about me this much.

I still think about what it would be like if York could hear me. To be honest, she probably wouldn't have stayed around this long. That's what Chance always says, anyway.

Chance was eager to tell me yesterday—on her way home from work, where she ripped the headphones from her ears and left them on the coffee table as if it still belonged to her—that she has a date. And it's with that guy—the guy who started all of this. Aaron, I think. He's a barista at Starbucks where York used to work. He's the guy who told me her name, and that she was deaf. Chance thinks that there's something special about that Starbucks, but really, there isn't. All it took for York and I to meet was an empty cup of coffee and a little bit of cockiness. If I hadn't been full of myself then, I wouldn't have cared about being ignored by, seriously, the prettiest barista of all time. So anytime that Thomas or Chance pick on me for being a bit cocky, I just remind them that that quality is important. It lead me to the most important person in my life.

Shawn was interrupted by arms around her neck and lips against her cheek, and although she knew that York would not look inside of the book—she promised to never even peak—she closed it self-consciously. It was now filled with tiny scraps of old and crumpled paper: all of the notes that Shawn had accumulated since knowing York.

Are you painting another picture of me? Shawn asked.

York moved her trimmed bangs away from her forehead and silently scoffed. You wish, she replied.

Shawn's eyes wandered as the girl roamed around the kitchen, which was now completely and only hers, and grabbed herself a glass of water. Without even taking a sip of it, she returned to what used to be Chance's room. The brush strokes picked up again.

A part of Shawn was certain that if York was not deaf, this would be her favourite sound. It was relaxing, and loud enough to block out the world, but quiet enough to set her mind at ease. And maybe, Shawn thought, her second favourite would be her heartbeat. That seems like a sound that York would never grow tired of hearing.

These days, Shawn's heart seems to constantly race; a battle drum in a continual war. And even though she knows it's impossible, she still hopes that one day, York will hear it.

The End