Letters to The Fighter ✔

19. Defense

Dear Peter,

Today, I went on a date.

Actually, it was meant to be a date, but didn't go quite as planned. He did most of the talking, and I'm certain there won't be a second one.

His name is Travis, and oh, he's the sweetest thing. We work together and I  occasionally find him staring at me. One time, I walked past him and looked into his hazel eyes, offering a ghost of a smile, and I swear his fingers loosened and the papers he held fell out of his grasp, drifting to the floor. His cheeks turned furiously crimson as he nervously struggled to picked them up. 

We exchange smiles every now and then, and he goes out of his way to ask if I need anything. When he arrives at work with coffee for himself, he makes sure to bring a cup for me. Extra sugar, extra cream.

I don't know how to tell him I prefer tea.

Well, he finally found the courage to ask me out yesterday. He slipped into my office with a bouquet of flowers so foreign and bright and radiant grasped between his fidgeting fingers, his nerves managing to make his chin quiver the slightest bit.

It was cute. I had to give him a chance. I couldn't just shoot him down.

We just had dinner together. Travis loves to talk. He went on and on about how he got into writing as a career, how he'd traveled the world as a journalist, and how he was weak for the romantics. You and him are different in so many ways. Your dark eyes would clash with his hazel ones, which hold specks of gold just as rich as his heart. Your skin's a little lighter and tainted with bruises as his is dark and clean just like his past. Your demeanor is intimidating, and his so friendly, much like Charlie's.

Truth be told, Travis is just what I need, but he's not what I want.

I'm not sure what it is about me that entices him. Is it my tired eyes? The ones that lack the vivid colors that once resided within them, leaving behind dull, vacant clouds? Does he like the the way that a smile fights a daily battle with my lips, retreating in defeat almost regularly? Or is it the way that I move, lacking enthusiasm and purpose and life? 

Actually, now as I sit here outside this restaurant, writing this letter, there's a strange sense of Déjà vu conquering my mind, sending chills down my spine. 

He's me, Peter, and I'm you. 

He's who I was, maybe five years ago. Travis sees a fire within me that he feels he has a duty to ignite. He believes in me; he wants me to be capable of love. He thinks that everyone gets a once upon a time, followed by a happily ever after, and that love results in nothing but happiness.

He's wrong, but I sincerely hope that he never has that innocence taken away from him.

***

On the day before  Zoya's wedding, the two of us sat in our apartment, across from each other at the dining table. She was radiating, Peter. A blazing fire conquered every aspect of her. Her steps were a little lighter, her smile a little wider, and her voice a little higher. She was getting married to the love of her life. In that moment, she had everything that she ever wanted.

Her eyes were home to chaotic bliss, each speck of green shining almost as brightly as the individual stars that would scatter the night skies. She was restless, but in the best way.

"I never thought writing my vows would be so difficult," he sighed, throwing her pen down in defeat. We had been sitting there for two hours now, and Zoya, being the biggest procrastinator to ever exist, waited until the very last moment to write her vows.

"C'mon Lucy," her eyes pleaded as she jutted out her bottom lip, "you're good at this romantic stuff."

I sipped my tea, letting its warmth trickle down my throat and spread throughout the rest of my body before speaking.