Coffee Affair

Chapter Eighteen

Leila's P.O.V.

He was gone. I was aware that this was going to happen. I didn't expect him to stay or anything. We both should of known better, our lives were distinct and there was no way we would be able to work this out. The smell of caffeine near by fills my nostrils. The red cup sitting on my bookshelf captures my attention. The steam of the warm beverage rises effortlessly, indicating that it was made not to long ago. 

My feet hit the cold wooden floor. I guess it's good to know that I can at least feel something. I navigate my way through the cluttered shoes that lay around my room, along with the clothes that I had worn yesterday. The clothes that he had once touched; the material that had once acted like a barrier to our bodies. A note laid next to the cup of coffee along with a wrapped present. My fingers played with the rim of the coffee mug as I began to read the lined piece of paper marked with his handwriting. 

        There is a moment of blindness when you rise, you have no worries nor concerns of others. It's the only moment of the day in which you actually take care of yourself in the smallest ways. You take a shower, brush your teeth and sometimes even make yourself a well deserved breakfast. The truth of your reality has yet to sink in. It's something I read somewhere but can't truly recall who had written it. This is how the morning I left the comfort of your bedroom felt. We acted like teenagers, hormones overtook our bodies and we didn't think about the consequences that would come with our foolish actions. I wouldn't take it back though. We are both at fault for falling in love with one another when we clearly knew that at the end of it all we were to go our separate ways. We did this to ourselves and it fucking sucks to think that you may be hurting as much as I am. Luckily for us their our countless of songs written about heartbreak and it's comforting to know that there are others who feel the same way we do at the moment. I hope that one day we will be able to reminisce on this day and just laugh it off. Another part of me is selfish enough to wish that when we do reminisce on this day we still feel the pain. The pain is indescribable, it feels like someone keeps adding salt to my unhealed wound. I only hope that you can forget about me. I have concluded that the most exquisite type of love is the kind laced with sadness. All the love. -- H. 

When I unwrap the present left for me a copy of Macbeth is what is left for me to reveal. The first page is once again marked by the curly haired boy, ironic really.