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First off, THANK YOU FOR 50K FOLLOWERS! WHAT??!?
Secondly, do you like the little film noir title I've put in this chapter's photo? Since Famoux can easily feel like a gritty mystery, I've decided to lean into the melodrama and give you a new noir title every chapter. The titles of these noirs will point to the chapter's context. As if like a chapter name. You feel me?
(You DO NOT need to watch any of the films, however. Their own plots and context point to nothing in our story. I'm just using the titles that are best fit.)
I had the longest week ever! I started my two internships, so it's been a very tiring few days, but I pushed myself to find the time to get some writing done after work, no matter how much I wanted to curl up and watch TV.
I hope you like this chapter. It bears many similarities to the other Chapter Ones of Classix past, but there are some BIG differences too! I also watched the pilot of Supernatural for the first time while editing this, so...LET'S GET SPOOKY!
That's been enough talk. Let's get into it:
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emeray
It is a perfectly cloudless day in March, yet snow hits the pavement between he and I like the beginnings of winter. This should be impossible––snow without clouds, winter at the start of spring, but it wouldn't be the first contradiction that we've faced today. No, the very nature of our impending interaction breaks almost every single rule we've grown accustomed to these past months. Two hundred and seventy four days, three pens on paper, and a large team of guards keeping us apart are pretty indefatigable subjects; not the easiest of opposers to vanquish. That being said, if today it snows without any clouds to supply it, and if today decides to be winter instead of spring, and if today we can move down this pavement with full faith in our intentions, no moment should be put to waste.
We walk. And then, because we can't quite believe it, we break into a run.
Steps are calculated but sloppy from fervor. My breathing is quick and choppy. My heart careens in my chest like a time bomb ready to detonate. For a moment, I become aware of how my hands are empty, and it careens even further. It feels like a million years since I've gotten to walk down a street without a hand by my side in need of holding. As much as I'd like to relish in this for as long as I can, I pick up my speed, eager to close the distance. Chances like this don't come everyday.
