Writer in the Dark

7 Spring, Year 1

A full week into the new year has passed and I simply cannot believe the progress I have not made in luring you into some trap of love. Haley has been more than considerate, nursing me through my deadly lovesickness by way of cupcakes and sleepovers. Were I alone in this minuscule excuse for a town, I likely would have stormed your farm and placed one feral kiss to your angelic mouth days ago. But alas, I have an anchor, and she refuses to let me drift aimlessly in the ocean of my adoration for you.

"So," Haley begins as the sun sets outside her bedroom window, illuminating us both in a dazy orange glow. It's got us both in a bit of a stupor, the warmth of the sun's blushing farewell kisses, and Haley is trying desperately to get us back to a focused state, but that is difficult at the best of times. Thus, we lay limply together, lulled by Emily's music as it passes through their shared wall.

Haley's hair tickles my cheek as she shifts on top of me to grab hold of something, her phone if I'm not mistaken. After a long moment of her nails clicking on the screen, she breaks the silence once more to continue, "I'm assuming you haven't gotten any dick yet, so we've still got tons of work to do." Silence and clicking follows once more, and I take advantage of her distracted state to not respond until I've gotten my thoughts together. In this warm, cozy environment, with such a striking statement thrown my way, it's difficult to even form a single thought. Alas, I must, and I do.

"We've barely spoken," I admit, my hazy mind flowing back over the images I've crafted of you in my mind. They are...ridiculously detailed, to say the absolute least. And the absolute least is all I'm willing to say about how you exist in my thoughts; anything more would undoubtedly result in utter mortification.

With great effort and massive reluctance, I turn my head to better view Haley as she scrolls through some app or another. It takes a moment, but I quickly realize that she's looking through the application she uses to shop for groceries; neither Pierre's nor Jojamart is enough for her, even for the simplest goods. I cannot blame her, however. Both are critically lacking when compared to what one would find on the mainland. Even Zuzu City's selection isn't incredible, so most of the perishable goods she orders are limited anyway, just less so than if she walked across town to Jojamart. Alas, that is the price we pay for the peace and quiet of living in our infinitesimal speck of a village. Quality conditioner was a price I was willing to pay to get away from home.

Of course, I try not to call that place home any longer; I often wonder why I dubbed it as such in the first place. Instead of the warmth of my mother's bosom, or the joy of a cupboard I fancied to be a magical kingdom, what I remembered of my family's manor was naught but cold wood and even colder people. As a matter of fact, I find I do not recall ever receiving a single embrace in those cavernous halls, barring a few surreptitious hugs from whatever young gentleman I cared for that week. And oh, had I cared for them--or, at least, I cared for the contact they could provide.

Never before had I felt so adored as I had that very first time a boy looked me in the eye and told me he cared for me. Secreted away in a hall long forgotten by my parents, the beautiful son of my father's friend had stood before me, with a smile that now seemed thin-lipped in comparison to yours. As a matter of fact, everything about that boy paled in comparison to you, my love.

Soft brown waves, once seeming as if they were carved from heavenly mahogany, now in color matched the greyed motes of dust dancing between us in the golden summer sunlight. The previously endearing mole on his upper lip now became a speck of filth; umber eyes now seeming the same, piggish and boring. Where his height and build had once seemed graceful and sure, in front of me hulked an oaf, an ogre, a troll, as bland and lumpy as grey potatoes in an unfinished clay bowl.

His hand on my cheek had before felt featherlight, pianist's fingers, long and delicate and skilled in ways I had yet to learn, but in this moment, it was if he had bashed me over the head. Really, it was! Your touch, the only one I believe I could ever bear to feel again, is pure delicacy compared to the brash blow of that boy.