Wdym YOUR Gf...

wdym YOUR gf...

My gf

Hello, sweetie!! (I'll go by mint anon.) I hope you're having a great day! :) [apologies for my shitty English- its my third lang] I've been reading your work for a while and I love you and the fics you write!! (sending you a hug, I read that you were raised w abandonment issues, and I cried reading that piece, you're so sweet... :( Ily, I hope you know you're a shinning star and make me smile with your work, so, thank you for existing!) Well, I'd like to request a fic, where Leon is a little bird like creature (who can become human), who comes by reader's window often, after reader did a good deed for the bird (like giving it berries from her garden or maybe nursing its injury??) Maybe Leon knows reader in his human? (idk, you could do whatever you think would go with the story) Ig Leon falls in love with reader as time passes and he keeps visiting her place and later he spends time w/ reader irl and reader falls in love w leon as well???--- sorry its so long :/

I hope my request isn't too vague or too limiting either (if that makes sense) I get how this req may sound really cringe and you should totally ignore this if you dont like it.

this is my first time requesting anything from anyone so im a little nervous :)

If you do write this, PLEASE feel free to change the story as you wish! (---pleaseeee)

ILYYY SWEETIEEE (Big fat smoochhh)

-mint anon🍀

OMG YOU DONT KNOW HONORED I AM?? FIRST OF ALL IM SO GLAD U CAME IN AND SAID THAT IM SO HAPPY I MAKE U SMILE? TODAYS BEEN A SHITTY DAY SO SEEING THIS WAS ACTUALLY SO AMAZING ILYSM MINT ANON 😍😍😍😍 ALSO UR FIRST REQUEST IS ME AHAHAHAHHAHAHHHHH THIS IS SO EXCITING!!! TYSM!!

and ONGG THIS IDEA IS SO GOODDD LITERALLY I FEEL LIKE I RUSHED IT A LOT BUT LIKE HONESTLY? IM SO DONE WITH SLOWBURN LIKEEEE UHMMMM

(ALSO ITS NOT ME IF ITS NOT ANGST HEHEHEHEH)

HERES THE LINK 

DO YOU WANT A PART TWO? I MEAN I THINK I COULD WRITE ONE BUT IDK WHATEVER YOU WANT IM GOOD WITH!

LYSM AND DONT BE AFRAID TO REACH OUT AGAIN FOR ANOTHER REQUEST!! HAD A LOT OF FUN WRITING THIS ONE HEHEHEHE

---

so you do like compliments or you dont?? asking to be a better friend because i will shit on you if you dont !! <3

dis u bro???

That doesn’t even look like me.

---

Heyy! its mint anon, (again)

I forgot to mention this in the prev ask (IM SO SORRY)

the fic i requested, the bird one, I did request this to another writer as well, Uncouth-the-fifth on tumblr, HOWEVER, I've seen writers mention requesting fics from different writers at a time is offensive, so I'm very sorry if that's the case. :(( You really shouldn't write it if so. I didn't mean to do anything hurtful.

This is my first time requesting anything from anyone, so I might have messed up. :(

AGAIN, I'm very sorry for not mentioning it earlier.

oh my god ofc not!! dont be sorry ily <3

i can see why people might think that something like that is offensive and all but i really have no problem with it! sometimes you might like the way someone else writes but they never respond to you, so you reach out to others! i completely get that!

really im good with it!! if you ever have thoughts im always free to yap and ill love seeing u in my inbox from here on out!

---

OH MY GOD WHAT.... THE TAYLOR REFERENCE!! THIS IS THE FIC U WERE TALKING ABT? 13.5K NOT WORDS BUT POETRY BECAUSE HOW DID YOU MANAGE TO TAKE A MOVIE AND PUT IT INTO WORDS

HONESTLY?? THIS IS LITERALLY WHAT IF HE HAD BEEN WITH ME SHOULD HAVE BEEN. THAT KISS AT THE END WAS SO AIKRWUEIDKWEIORUASKDWEOIRWER

YOU CAPTURE LIVING IN AMERICA SO WELL LIKE HOW CHILDHOOD SHOULD BE LIKE THE SERENE PICTURE OF IT ALL, YK?

THE LETTERS ARE THE SWEETEST THING EVER LITERALLY I WAS TWEAKING

im sure jack is a nice man, german ref... but uhm.... no sir im meant for leon and no one else !!

WOLFIE I ADORE THIS SM SM SMSMSMSMSMS MWAHHHH <333 VERY CUTESY FIC AND I WILL BE REREADING THIS WHILE LISTENING TO CBBH AND MIAB IEWSDUWERIPUEW TY FOR THIS MASTERPIECE?

you could be someone

Leon Kennedy x f!reader

Inspired by @clandestinedmeetings's Color Theory | ao3 | Playlist

Summary: Leon gripped the train ticket tight between his fingers, it said New York to Raccoon. He thought maybe this was it—an end of something good, something he held dear to his heart. Maybe a part of it his mom had taken away, a part his father ripped out, and in this moment it was him who tossed the rest in a box, locked it down and threw it into the deep blue ocean, in an empty hope, that it would drift away to London, to you somehow.

Tags: Childhood friends, long distance, maybe a slight mention of depression, but mostly very light-hearted, happy ending.

WC: 13.5k

Dividers by @/saradika

Oh all the possibilities,

Life,

It lies in the possibilities,

Right?

You could be north

You could be south,

You could be blue

You could be bliss,

You could be a nobody

And you could be someone.

You would never expect it, but he said never to doubt. The world is small. Sometimes, it may only take a step to actually see each other.

That.

That is a possibility.

Who think you would have a best friend— the bestest of friends, who you rush home to talk to through the phone in any circumstances, who you defend in every conversation with your parents, who you think of immediately when you see a cool-American-looking cop miniature at a shopping centre...? It’s all possibilities right? He literally lives on the other side of the earth. It’s pure luck that you get to know him and to keep him in your life until this day.

Leon. That’s his name.

You didn’t lie to no one. Leon. He is real.

He’s real. Because you can still vividly picture him in your mind. He definitely has very beautiful dreamy blonde hair, that, huh, you have to scoff a laugh because he’s always been such a snob about it. Alright, everybody knows you have great hair Leon. His nose so tall like those Greek gods you only saw in textbooks, with maybe just a very slight bump but who would mind honestly? His cheeks round, and always flushed with a light pink colour when he smiled at you. It’s been a long time since you saw him smiling at you, but you know it so so well just by his voice, and by the way he throws his quip at you through the phone... it always remains the same.

And his eyes,

Beautiful, dashing cerulean blue eyes.

You would rather write poems for them.

Were they always been blue?

This, you know better than anybody.

It was August,

When he reached out to you and said:

“I think you look pretty.”

His hand fiddled a red leaf he ran to get under your seat. You were sitting on the park bench, sobbing. And the first thing you noticed, that somehow reminded you so much of New York, wasn’t the Empire State, wasn’t the statue of Liberty, or the crowded street of Times Square— it was his blue blue eyes.

He was only this tall, below your eye level when you sat on the bench, and you thought if you got down to stand fully on your feet at that time, you would be taller than him.

“I think you’re the prettiest lady I’ve ever seen.”

You stared at him. His twin blue eyes. Sparkling under his straw coloured fringe.

At that very moment, you didn’t care. Even leaves could be pretty. Even trees that lost all their leaves could be pretty. You were lost. Your parents were not there. They were nowhere to be found. You were alone in Central Park.

You cried even louder.

The best a five year old boy could do, was running back to his father and asking him about you.

You got back to your parents that day. All teary and smudgy. They told you that you were too carried away from following all the cobble stones.

Does it count as a possibility, one where you accidentally walked to him? And with thousands of other possibilities, he chose the one where he gets to talk to you.

Weeks later, your mom invited his family to your place, saying this would be a grand gesture to thank the people who found you. Plus, she said you terribly needed a new friend in this big ol’ city. At first you weren’t so big on that idea. You didn’t understand. You liked to be alone. You liked not sharing toys. You liked to ride on your own pony. You liked to keep all the good crayons... In your hometown, you got everything to yourself.

But when he waved at you from across the room, then he smiled when you two were both sitting on two sides of the dining table, you thought, maybe having a friend wasn’t bad. You could have him to yourself.

Though so, your parents had to spend hours pushing you for it, to actually entangle yourself from behind your dad’s laps and walked to him; to look into his eyes and say something much like a thank you.

He smiled, and you thought his eyes were like oceanic waves that lured you in.

When you two were twelve,

Things got easier. You went to the same school.

You had your friends. He had his friends. But you’ll always have each other.

“If you could change your eye colour, what would it be?” You were sketching out your best look ever at the time. Trying to match eye colour to your clothes even, to the bow you adorning in your hair. Purple it is. The sketchbook on your wooden bench.

You had a backyard at home. Not every townhouse had it in New York, but you did. It was summer. Leon was trying to break your brother’s record in basketball. Your colour pencils sprayed everywhere.

“I like my eyes the way they are.” He talked between breaths.

You scoffed. Not looking up at him. Colouring the sparkles in the eye. “Smug.”

“No, seriously. I like them. They can change colour. You know?”

“You’re talking nonsense. Leon. Eyes don’t change colour.” You retorted.

He didn’t react right away. Just ran in circles a few more rounds, giving couples of free throw.

You tried again. Very resilient with your opinion. “Your eyes don’t change colour!” In fact, you did believe him a little, you were just jealous.

Dropping the ball, he let it roll down to the end of the fence, and turned to look at you. “You’re wrong.”

“No.” You insisted.

He walked to you confidently; his golden strands stuck on his forehead from sweat. When he’s already right in front of you, he grabbed your shoulders and pulled you in even closer.

His eyes wide open. And so did you.

“You see?”

“Ew Leon!” You yelped, pushing him away. “You’re all wet and stinky!”

You felt your cheeks burning while he laughed senselessly before you, at you. This can not be happening. You quickly packed your things up to run inside.

“And it’s always been blue!” You shouted and disappeared behind the door, before he got the chance to catch up.

That night, you painted the ceiling with your wandering eyes, thinking his eyes could have had all the possibilities to change to every colour you had in your pencil case.

At the age of fifteen, it was one of the time you saw that Leon’s eye colour did change. The one that you always remember.

You had to go back to London.

He said he wanted to go to the same high school as you, after years of watching high school comedies together. Now there is no possibility for that.

He didn’t cry. That would be too maudlin of him. But when he helped your dad carry boxes to the truck, you saw him wiping his flushed nose several times. His eyes kept looking at the truck, at your boxes of childhood dollhouse, rarely blinking.

He had to leave before you go. And it made a terrible mark on him. His father told your parents he needed to go back to see his mom.

It’s been a while...

“Bye Leon.” You said.

But he said nothing back.

His hair flat and drenched, so out of place and lost but he didn’t care. So were his eyes. He didn’t cry, but his eyes had a glossy film enveloping his light blue pupils. You were staring at him, and he was staring at you.

For a moment, you thought his eyes turned grey. Grey or silver. Lonely or sad. You weren’t sure. But it felt like pieces of metal that shattered, and melted.

You wave him goodbye through the window of his backseat.

Though so, a bland farewell didn’t affect your friendship.

He called you every day after school, sometimes late at night, to tell you about his day. And about his new girlfriend. It’s been one year since, and nothing changed between you two. Just that you wouldn’t get to count all the time his eyes changing colours again, but you’d always remember the true blues.

“Aren’t you lucky?” You said, congratulating him every time he went home after an awful date. Sloppy make out sessions and bad jokes. But he was happy. “She must be lovely--- tolerates guys like you.”

“Guys like me!? I’m one in a million!” He mumbled, mouth full of water and toothpaste foam, hazy blue eyes under the white light of the small bathroom of his. You imagined him checking himself out in front of the mirror and fixing his tousled hair.

You rolled your eyes. Aren’t you always like this Leon. Your phone in between your shoulders and head. Scrambled eggs in the pan for your breakfast. “You wish.”

For a moment, you peered over the clock, bringing the egg out to the dish. “Isn’t it like—2 at your place?!”

“Yeah. Half past 2... To be exact.” You heard him yawning over the phone. The shuffled sound of the blanket on his bed.

“We’ve talked that much?”

“Apparently.”

“Kay...I’m hanging up.”

“No!!!”

“You should take some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

“Big day?! What big day?”

“Your exam. You want to be a police officer right? Straight A? All well-rounded scores? Your goals?”

Clicking his tongue, he fell onto the bed. “No worries. I’m so prepared.” He groaned. You could see he threw his head into the back of the pillow, stretching.

“Sleep.” You ordered him.

“Not until you tell me I’m one in a million.”

You smiled. But not open your mouth. His voice was slurring. He’s tired. Probably not in his right mind.

“Tell me I’m one in a million.” He begged, once more. Head already dipped too far into the fluff of his pillow.

“You are one in a million, Leon.” You folded.

“Aw thanks... I don’t know what to say.”

He gave you one last joke in a half-as-sleep state. Then fell into the trance.

The next time your phone rang, you didn’t pick up.

“...leave your message after the beep and I’ll get back to you.”

It was early summer,

“Hey,

Your friend calling from this tumultuous New York...

Leon here.”

It was getting harder for him. He was seventeen. His mom had been sick for a long time. Terribly sick. Everytime you see a withered leaf— a dried, deep brown bruised maroon one laying down next to your feet while you walking home from school someday, you thought of her. You wrote her sometimes, when she refused to speak through all the tubes. You had hoped the terrible jokes you made with him which might reincarnate in paper better, would make her forget about what she’d been through.

“Mom read your essay. She loved it.”

Leon’s calls weren’t as daily and as casual like before. You didn’t blame him though. He was having a tough time.

Time, it gave no mercy.

But those of the time you did pick up, he desperately needed them. He needed to hear your voice, someone whose voice he could rely on. His mom would talk to him most of the time about how things should be carried on, but once it was supposed to be her, sometimes you, now it’s just—all you.

“She doesn’t think she can finish all the books you’ve sent her. Told me you’re giving her high expectations.” He sobbed into the phone. Muffled sobs. “I didn’t like the joke.”

His breath skipped. “Are you there? If you’re there, please pick up.”

You didn’t pick up. It went straight to voicemail. His shivering voice— He told you later when you had time to call him back, it was just chemicals that made it; He’s fine. But at that moment, you weren’t there to pick up.

Your phone silent in the bag. That morning you sat in your classroom, being nervous about doing a presentation of an essay you had been working on for months. It was something about the means of actual relaxation in modern society... Nothing special, you can’t even remember the title, the thing that you wrote, but he said his mom liked the hidden sarcasm you put in it.

“Gosh it’s terrible here. Incredibly shitty... shitty, shitty couple of days I have to say... Tell me yours, please. What you’re doing? How you’re doing? Tell me.”

That exact moment, you were walking up to the front of the class. Stack of paper in hand about your presentation. You were mumbling words that were supposed to be what you needed to say.

“Please pick up. Pick up. Pick up!” He rushed the nothingness.

“I don’t think I can pass through this. I need someone. I need you.” Leon stumbled. He needed to catch a breath, but he couldn’t. His throat swelled. The phone tucked close to his dried mouth.

“I can’t...

I want to go away.”

It was something in his chest. He thought he needed a cure for it. He terribly needed one. Something was definitely eating him up on the inside, so he tried, he tried so hard to burst it out.

Where are you?

What are you doing?

He needed you so much.

“I hate it here. I hate it. I hate New York. I have nothing here to myself. You’re not here. And she won’t be here—soon...” He faltered again, then said.

“Can I come with you? Can I come to London?”

“Oh god--! Please... Anywhere but here...”

If there was one possibility, for you to...

“I don’t want to miss you like this.”

Just. Pick. Up.

Graduation day.

Not high school, but bachelor’s degrees. The prize you asked your parents to give was two weeks in New York.

“Joint Honours? First-class?!” He asked while putting your suitcase in his trunk. “What the hell are they for?”

“Better suitors.”

Leon furrowed his brows. He doesn’t like the jokes where you downplay yourself, but they were your favourite. You blinked at his perplexed face and laughed.

Once you have got to see the twin ceruleans again since years apart, you realized you actually missed him. He had changed, pretty much. But his voice, his eyes, his spirit, his soul... have never made you confused.

“Men must be blind at your place.” He closed the trunk a bit too violently. The car was old, it wouldn’t close.

“So you’re saying men would rather courting a decent looking woman than a smart, educated one?”

He stopped to redo his quip but couldn’t. Cerulean eyes moved like stirred sea. His lips pursed. Light pink.

Standing before you, he was the one person you were so familiar with after all this time, but at once, he also gave you a feeling that you were so unaccustomed to have.

You didn’t bear to comprehend the differences. Maybe because he’s so much taller than you now.

“I mean---I would have loved you either way, I guess?” He said. Eyes twinkling. Pinkish cheeks. You saw. He showed you off his wide toothy smile and those daring front teeth.

“Guess!? You guess?”

Leon ran away to his driver seat once you’re done contemplating his words.

The last time you drove in a car together was years ago, when you stole your dad’s key of his one and true love red Ford for Leon to visit his mom in the dead of a night. He, at thirteen, drove all the way to the hospital by himself with an also unaccompanied minor, which was you...

You still had that picture in your mind. The car passed streets with neon pop lights; they seeped through your windshields with colours and shapes. After weeks and weeks of woe, he laughed like a little boy he once was. In your father’s car, eyes lit rose golden.

All you had to say was ‘Do you remember’ while putting on seatbelt, and he could already finish the rest of the question.

“I think your dad hasn’t been liking me since. Maybe that was the reason why he made you go back to London.”

You chuckled. “Maybe.”

As the city coming closer and closer at the horizon, you thought to yourself, maybe all the memories are getting themselves back now.

“I’m moving to Raccoon.” He said behind the wheels.

Distracting by the wind blew from your window seat, you asked again. Dazed. “Moving---moving where?”

“Raccoon.”

“Raccoon... As in...”

“As in the city.”

You were surprised by his decision. You were curious about the choice. You were having this much fun?

Why leaving? Why Raccoon?

“New York has too many parking tickets or...?”

He giggled. “Nothing is too much for this city.”

Then why not London?

Your question hung in the air between the silence of you two. But you thought it was unreasonable to ask, so you kept it to yourself.

“It’s just too much for me.” Though he tried, slowly the corner of his mouth faded a forced smile. “I wanted to tell you in person. I’m leaving this month.”

Another shock. This month? Too early.

“When are you leaving exactly?”

He exhaled, turning the wheels over, out of the highway. He tried not to meet your gaze.

“In a week. I have an interview for a job.”

Breathing in. Breathing out. One car crossed. Two cars accelerated.

“I’ve packed. I got a pretty small apartment. Half my things are there now. I just have to... sort things here for the last time.”

You were staring at the road forward pointlessly. Your soul left long gone on the other side of the bridge you just crossed.

“Do you know what I’m gonna be? I’m gonna be a police officer. Jesus. A cop. Just like I always tell you.”

Seeing you not responding as always, he turned to look. You had faced out the window entirely, taking in the wind.

“You can come.” He said. “I’ll show you around and stuff—”

“No-no no, I have to catch up with my friends, meet relatives, all sort of things... You know. You will be so occupied with—your new job and new place. So....”

He was deep in thoughts for a moment. Then asked you again. Just to make sure. “Are you mad?”

You were thinking,

Blinking, exhaling,

Hallucinating, then sobering...

Yes, yes you are.

You were mad, because you made plans too. Not just for two weeks in New York, you were going to build your life here. And it was supposed to be with him nearby.

Somehow.

Someway.

Somewhere. Across the street, the house next door, or hall, or even just a thin wall. It was supposed to be a possibility, not eight hours and an ocean away anymore.

“No, of course not. You did good.” You said, but you called your own bluff. You had to fix it.

“I’m not mad.

It’s your life, Leon.”

Though you both insisted on spending most of the time you could for his last week in New York, agreed, pinky promise on the stoop of your old girlfriends' apartment, which was Brownstone—similar to your past house, where lied many many memories, you didn’t manage to sort out all the time possible, and so did he. You felt a little guilty, because he had carried your suitcase through all the flights of stairs.

One had just arrived. One was already leaving.

Busy people, no doubt.

His eyes were still blue when he waved you goodbye once more on the sidewalk of New York’s street.

You had lost that ability.

Or...

It wasn’t like that anymore.

Maybe his eyes doesn’t change for you.

Sometimes you thought to yourself, maybe this was how far all the possibilities could go. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be.

It wasn’t going to be you and him.

Just friends who have different lives.

Hey doll, lovely, lolly... Hi. Ho. HEY!

You must let me settle with one of your pet names because hell, apparently I’m out of resource here. How do they call pretty women in London? Give me some hint maybe? I’m afraid if I use one of them unprovoked without asking you, it would lead to a pretty destructible ending and you're not gonna believe it, I’m trying my best to avoid that.

Okay lassie,

I’m writing to you in this shabby old shed of mine in Raccoon city. Feeling so stuck. Very cramped. Very sad. Time flies, though. Here’s to our last month re-envision. Any dates? Any kisses? You’ll never tell me about that, right? You’ll never tell. Why then? I always tell you mine. Don’t you see the unfairness? Anyway, CALL ME if you happen to have one of those. I mean, I like to read your letters, I loved the last one you sent me, but there are things that can’t be waited. It’s fine discovering your point of view ages later on Henry Sugar sudden change of heart, BUT NOT THIS. I don’t want to wait ages knowing about your beau. What if he’s an a-hole in disguise!? (Sorry not sorry?) Or maybe a good-looking bland ass douche, well come to think they will never get on with you anyway or... OR a sleeper agent. Gee you would jump right into that rabbit hole, right? I know. So DON’T.

Just tell me in case I need to fly all the way over there to teach him a lesson. SHARP UNDERLINED ‘LESSON’.

About me,

Well nothing much. Nothing new. Ouch. How is it people always raving about being 23 then? I get the hype of 21. Okay. Everything was blank to us then. White pages. Nice cover. Leather bound and such. We bought a gazillion pens with an urge to paint in it the best stories we’d have. I even had a pink gliterry one in case I needed to write your name, with stars around it. Too much? No. My book. My choice.

Talk about our best stories,

You have one yet? I bet you do. Me? Disappointingly, no, no, nothing, a total mess, loads of crap.... A bunch of crossed out lines. You won’t believe how many pages I ripped out because it was so embarrassing to reread again and again. Here’s a glimpse for you. You’re holding a piece of it, the very last remnant. I don’t have the courage to keep it, so I gave the honor to you.

23, the age of trying to make the right decision for once. So far,

I think they hated me here.

Woahhh. Shock, right?

Leon! How could they hate a person with such great hair, smooth talk and nice teeth.... And... dazzling blue eyes like yours?

Alright, you’re rolling your eyes now. I know. I KNOW. This is probably the reason. But come on, it was fun with you. Here, it’s not. Irons keeps telling me to be his minister of caffeine and cocktail bar department. P.s. His taste is shit by the way, why do I have to be the only one who gets it right!? Take ages to make him a cup. And Bragnagh, he grounded me for sneaking up the stars office every shift in between. Now I have to sit at the citizen consulting table, telling jokes to old people who don’t ever get it.

And it seems like no one around here likes to have fun. Like me and you...

Oh I miss you dead, dear friend.

The tip of Leon’s pen stops there, at the end of the phrase. Is it too personal of him to say so? Will it give you the impression of him preparing to drop everything here in Raccoon and book the nearest flight to London? He guesses it is. If he wants to cross that line out, he might as well throw the whole letter in the trash. And no, he doesn’t want to throw his feelings into the trash.

Do you think I made the right decision?

He writes down these words slowly, not like the waves and winds that blew on the several lines before. His cerulean eyes search up and down the page for any mistakes. And reread his prose back to back, again and again. So all over the place. He thinks, but truthfully, he only cares about what you think.

For a moment, he glances up his table clock, which strikes 19.54; he has to go make dinner now.

He looks down the letter again and then mumbles. “Maybe later.”

Leon shoves it in between pages of his half-read Hemmingway—For Whom The Bell Tolls; it’s kind of forgotten on the bookshelf. He spent 3 months getting to where he’s at right now, but recently life has tortured him too much that he couldn’t pick the book up again.

Time has no mercy.

Once again, right decision? At 23? A bit of a myth maybe, but who will pay for the wasted potential?

“Hey, it’s me.

Leon.

I just want to call and tell you that---

I’ve bought a train ticket for early in the morning. Something came up out of nowhere, I---

You’d understand.

...

I’m leaving earlier than I expected. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but... I just really wanted to.

I---I’ve hoped to see you so much longer than just a ride home...

I’ve missed you.

Okay,... See you soon. I hope.

Bye...”

The pendulum swings in reverse.

Back to that summer where he made that decision,

It was 1.27 in the morning. He called.

His voice low and quiet, like he might going to wake you up in any second. Truth is, you wasn’t deep in sleep at all, despite of this hour. Your biological clock still worked in London time. You were watching a boring midnight show, so boring you couldn’t figure out the actual plot.

“Bye...” He repeated.

You let out a long exhale, that you were going to let him go with a voicemail strategy of his. You were giving him the easy way out he was heading to. Brief and quiet, as it was.

There was a long pause after he said goodbye, and you thought to yourself,

“Leon,”

In a desperate attempt, a small pause that was in searching for his own breaths, a last confirmation of his blacks and blues,

There came a glimmer of hope.

Sky was pitch black. It was raining all day. So you and him met, in the middle of the night, in front of his house.

You could hear his nervousness through the way each lock was opened. Standing by the door, you waited for him. His frame is pictured on the frosted glass, with the flickered golden lights behind the entrance hallway. His house stayed the same. Old and green rust. But he always gives you a different impression when you see him. His eyes peaked through the slit, erasing all the mess of tiring social chores you were having in the daytime.

He pulled you in once the door opened.

“Wandering around the street at 2 am, you’re just being bold or simply acting dumb?”

“Just a flashing thought.” You brushed your shoulders, shrugging your jacket off. Eyes wandering around his place to find old memories. He still kept that small table by the archway his mom used to store keys and miscellaneous mails on a ceramic dish. Small picture in frame of his childhood dog there— Dog, funnily that was he called him, you reached out to fix it, perpendicular with the table corner as usual, so it seemed like she was guarding the keys.

Through the arch, you found out the living room also hadn’t changed much. Just more vacant. Less cozy.

Frankly to say, the last time you saw the room, his mom was still here.

Leon quickly swooped in to clean the messy coffee table. Empty bottles and fast-food wrappers. Paper. Paper. Paper. And cards. Then packing boxes everywhere. He was really moving. You thought. You thought like you hadn’t believed him at all before. You assumed it was just a silly prank, because in your heart you didn’t want it to happen, seeing him go.

“Sorry. Didn’t figure to have guests at this hour.” He laughed away while shoving all the leftover trash into a huge bag. “Mind you giving me heads up next time?”

“It has to be impulsive or then it’s nothing.” You said. Why must you be thinking? “Sometimes that’s how it works.”

He brushed his hands off. Done shuffling things around. “What works?”

“Making decisions.”

“Decisions?” He looked at you.

“Yeah, if you ask me right now, why? I don’t know, I just do it.”

“They aren’t that hard to decide, are they?” He said.

You pursed your lips. He didn’t get it.

“Kay, make yourself at home. The couch is dying to welcome its very last guest. Beer or soda?” He walked to the back, where the kitchen laid.

“Whatever you’re having.”

“Beer it is.”

You sat down and took attention to his postcards splattering on the table. Some from his old junior high friends back when his mom first found out about her health condition, some from high school, then uni... You saw lipstick marks on it, some of it, so you guessed. Oh Leon. Wish you are here. Italy is so extravagant. Beautiful. Kiss kiss. XOXO. And so I speak French.

Another pile was from his father.

“How is your dad?” You asked him.

Leon sat beside you on the dusty old wood floor, passing you the bottle of drink he just popped open. His shoulders brushed your knees. And it was casual like that, you both been doing this all the time. He took a glance at the postcards, those with family’s picture behind them. A totally strange family to you. There were two kids, one who had brunette hair and the other same as Leon’s.

“Happy. I assume.”

“Did he visit you regularly?”

He chuckled. Holding up a picture for you to see. “Not once. Just loads and loads of postcards on every damn occasion. You see this one? They went to Tall Oak Lake.”

He might act like it is fine talking about his father, but it's never easy for him, maybe it won't ever be. There's always something chastising him, something tells him in full conviction that he has repelled his father away. And right there on his old wooden floor, you knew it all too well. He called you the night his father left.

“That little one sure didn’t have hell of a time there.” You commented, in hopes to make him felt lighter.

And it was good that he went along. “How come?” His face drowsy, so you pointed it out for him. “Gee. Yeah it would take him weeks to heal from that.” He laughed about it.

You both chuckled. And Leon kept shuffling through his card piles, but you could hear his heavy thoughts. So then you put your hand on his shoulders and lightly squeezing it, but you still saw his bottom lip quivering.

“At least he’s having a good time.”

“I know.” Leon hummed. “Just need to decide which one I should keep. And tossing out the rest.”

“Italy and France should go. Obviously.”

He threw his head back and laughed hard, eyes bright and shrewd again. “Alright. Yes sir.” Immediately he shoved the red lip markings pile into the huge bag.

“And you still friends with any of these people?”

“Hardly.”

“Wait!” Almost joining the rest with a fast swoop of his but you were quick to stop him midway. “Eddie is nice. I remember Eddie.”

He took the card nicely from you. Saved him a friend. “Kay. We’ll keep Eddie, if we have enough space.”

“And your dad’s, I think we keep the unique ones. This has a funny hat on.”

“You have eyes for things. I’d give you that.”

“Thanks.” You smiled. “I have eyes for things, that’s why I’m friend with you.”

“Really? Like serious? Not like a little bit of my charm, my beautiful personality? Just great hair?”

“You said all that. Not me.”

He chuckled again while pulling out a box that kept organized and all in good order. Some were even tagged, some stored carefully in plastic wrapping... and he shoved in it those cards you sorted out for him. You recognized your own writing in several slots.

“You still keep those?”

“Of course. All good memories. You don’t know how much they helped me traveling back time. There’s even mom’s grocery list I put in here. And let me show you this.”

And there it was, a small piece of paper, a little crumbled, but was flattened out neatly by someone, on it a little sketch of little Leon. Cerulean blue eyes. You weren't sure it looked as dashing as he actually was.

“Oh no.” You sighed.

“Seriously you really did befriend me only for my look. Those eyes take up like a whole quarter of my head.”

“This is so embarrassing. You keep it after all this time!? Sorry, wish I could do better then.”

“I loved it. We’re friends. No need to say sorry. Thanks to my mom, it didn't spend the rest of its life under the foot of my bed.”

"When was this? We were seven, right?"

"Seven." He smiled.

I didn't want to and never intended to tell you this, because this would only make my point even more proved. I think it lies in my own nature. Can't help it.

I can't shake the feeling that I've become a huge burden to someone else's life!

...but I guess I was, I have, and I am now. First to my mom, then my father... And, you.

Please in no way take this as your fault, it's mine and my problem only. Shouldn't I just be the one who's responsible for my own happiness? Yes. 100 times yes. I know that so well, then why do I always have the need to have someone tolerating my sadness??? They don't take charge of my own life, why should they be paid with the worst outcome of my feelings?

I was mad at my mom for leaving forever, and then I lost you to London.

I took the rest on my dad, and so he left too.

But you were always there for me, even not physically, but still, I couldn't thank you enough for that. I think you saved my life. Hearing your voice would be the only thing that made me able to get up in the morning. Waiting for your daily updates were the ones that kept me going from weeks to weeks. But why? Why should you have to take that responsible? Why should you tolerate me?

My dad said he couldn't understand why I had to be like this, but you said it was just a chemical reaction.

That stopped me from ruining myself, not from my dad leaving, because there was no one here to tell me I had the right to feel this way.

I was sitting at my table and reading the letters you wrote for my mom. You were the light of her last days on earth, and I can assure you that,

you were marvelous, and you're always will.

When I met you again in New York, it's even frightened me more that you are becoming a much better version of yourself even if you weren't with me. So my decision was sealed. I knew I couldn't hold you back anymore.

I took my own chance and I left.

He quietly got up from the bed and turned on the lights. It was considerate of him to pull the For Whom The Bell Tolls out of the shelf very quietly. Somebody was sleeping beside him. His pen continues scribbling on the letter.

Those were the words he managed to sort out under his messy layers of hair. He now has the courage to put it in.

He's lucky enough to have someone by his side, but he doesn't have the luxury to live out the romantic life he had envisioned. It's all just bills to pay, and who will cook dinner for tonight and did you remember to fix the faucet... And all not in any way a serene scenario. Her frame suddenly shuffles on the bed and so he jolts forward.

Tonight, she skipped dinner because he put pesto sauce on her pasta.

He couldn't blame her for being easily irritated, because she had such a rough day at work, so was he, they have to pay rent this week. And as always, he doesn't feel pissed enough to even feign a reaction. It's just tiredness.

He can't differentiate between being sad or apathetic anymore.

She's still sound as sleep. Breathing in. Breathing out. He can't sleep, so he's sitting here and thinking about your letters, and you.

"Oh gosh. What time is it? My stomach is marching on me." You nibbled on the empty beer bottle once all the postcards were in their place. He turned to look at you.

"Sorry, I had to clean my fridge. Nothing's left now."

"Yeah, I figured that out."

"I know a place still open this time. Best taco in town. You going?"

"Uh nice... But eating at midnight adds 10 pounds."

He scoffed and pulled you up from the ground. "Bullshit. Where's that science at? Besides, unlike you, I love you for who you are. Just so you know." You hit him on the shoulder for that quick remark.

His hand grasped on yours, firm and tight as you both walked to the entrance hallway, he led the way to your coat by the door; he wouldn't even let you go.

Under the lamp post of Brooklyn bridge, you were sipping on the worst lemon iced tea of your life in a paper cup and with Leon picking out pickles in his burger right by your side. It was like college rewind.

"This thing tastes like dish soap."

"Huh, told you to choose coke instead of the crap."

"Coke is bad for your health."

"That's just an excuse to not having fun." He put the bun back again, giving you a knowing look. He gushed you to burst out laughing with his expression.

"You ever thought of us going to college together?"

Brushing crumbs off his hands, he then said, "That would be one hell of a time."

"I don't know, maybe it's better this way."

"What do you mean?" He really took it into heart what you just said. "You don't want us together?"

"I like spending time with you, Leon. Don't be too confident though." You took a side glance at him and his James Dean manner method. Disheveled hair pushed back. Windy night. "It's just a bit dangerous to be near guys like you."

"Again, there's no one like me. You're not gonna find an another guy like me. Not now, not ever."

"I saw blokes acting like they're some macho in 50s movie, pretty much every corner of the city."

"If you say so." He took another bite of his burger. Shrugging the opinion off his shoulders. The point didn't stay for long.

"You're a charmer, Leon. How can girls get over you?"

"Charmer? Come on." He chuckled. "More like a wrecker."

"Tell me how many postcards you've received from Rome? And Paris? City of love huh?"

He just responded to you with a tight smile. A heartbreaker boy. That was what he is. He had all the qualifications. Blonde and blue eyes. Great figure. Lovely personality. And then he went and broke your heart. He hung it right in front of him on a delicate string.

"You really are one in a million then."

A winds blew pass you and him, as you gazed your eyes out into the horizontal line before you. Starry sky. Good time to make a wistful wish.

"She didn't make it hard on you? The moving?"

He chewed on the last bite of his late night meal and stole your beverage. His eyes glowing with the lights of the city in front of him. His jaw tense when you brought her up.

"No, she's very sweet about it." He turned to look the other way when the word sweet coming out from his mouth, then looked at you to continue. "She has moved in with me in Raccoon."

You nodded.

"She's there now." He said.

And you nodded again.

It had occurred to you, that it was a bit rude not to respond to anything after that. So you gave him an unsolicited congratulation. But your eyes dragged down the deep navy blue sea below.

The lemon tea cup was placed in between you and him. He had his side of the bridge and you had your side of the bridge. You didn't bother to move. But he looked at you while you were correlating your mood with the somber sea. The quietness wasn't something to complain about. You both were so used to moments like these. It was a calm breath of the night.

"I rarely see the sky this big." He craned his neck to admire the scene. Breathed in a chunk of fresh air. "Never realize I was only looking at big buildings and tacky billboard ads this whole time."

"Well I have." You took a small chance in that little quip. Grinning. "Went to a small village in Germany once, you can feel the whole universe when walking up the hill."

"You went to Germany?"

"I go everywhere. Basically anywhere is my home." Not to refuse it was a bit of a self-satisfied thing to say, but that wasn't your point. You had never been home since New York when you were fifteen.

His eyes scrunched to see the inside of your onion. "I get that you're trying to entice me with everything but--- You're lying." You scoffed at his sharp observation. But he continued, wilfully leaning to your ear and said, "Home is where your heart is."

You shook your head but knew well that it's true. Home is where the heart is.

"Come with me sometime." Suddenly you asked him in an extremely active way. First impression it was more of a demand, the second it sank in a little, it's an invitation. And if he was sharp enough, he'd know it's a desperate opening question to something.

This, you asked him several times, and none worked out the way you wanted to. He always had something going on. He always thought that there were dreams that were impossible, that they shouldn't even be brought up to his chaotic mind in the first place.

He lowered his head down, hunching over. "I will--" Blinking languidly, his light brown eyelashes drooping. "I just have to think about it first. I got so many things going on."

No, Leon.

You pursed your lips again.

No. Stop thinking too much.

Stop worrying too much.

That's what you wrote in your letter sending to him months after.

“Leon, if I did think about what I’d do... That wouldn’t be me standinghere. I told you it’s just a passing-by thought. A flash. Sometimes that should be how you make a decision.”

Maybe that was the exact thing he should hear. Maybe the exact thing he needed. But he has it in his blood. Decision comes with a cost. And he never had the habit to let it slip through his mind soundly. He had to think, he had to plot, to plan.

"Is there anything I should know?" You asked, as Leon slouched over the bridge banister.

"Nothing. Oh Nothing. Don't mind me."

"I actually mind Leon. I always do." You had to make sure he knew. "Like I said, I like to spend my time with you, even when it's your worst day."

He couldn't stop a smile. "I know. I know..." He gently nudged you on the side to signal that he got it. His elbow touched yours. Warm light poured on his face. "I like spending time with you too."

Sky turned violet. The sun was coming up. Slowly, you watched the dark navy blue transforming into warm purple in his eyes.

What if you said you want him? You needed him by your side? That you wished he would come with you instead?

And he picked up the tea cup to move it away. You looked up at him, his gorgeous features, and his eyes were midnight sea with bright reflections of a constellation.

My decision is sealed. I had to leave.

On the Brooklyn bridge that night, when you and Leon saw the sun was half awaken and the city was looking less like a dream, you both knew it was time for him to go home and pack the rest of his things. It was time to go back to your own realities with busy people and busy lives.

Guess you were back to that long-distance friendship again. Long phone calls, smudgy letters, and a breaking heart.

You reached out to him, not to hug him, not to hit on him out of spite, but to pick up that awful lipton tea cup behind him. Just a thought. You wanted it back all of a sudden.

Leon took that as a mixed signal and leaned in too. He didn't know. He didn't think. Maybe it was from all the leftover beers he had drunk. His mind was ablaze, with a mix of the intoxicating purple night sky, he leaned in, and kissed you on the mouth. Quick and hurry like a kid sneaking treats.

It took you by surprise that you had to take a few steps back, as you saw his eyes starting to get foolishly melted into shame. Blue waves hitting you back to your shore.

"Leon!" You groaned.

"I'm sorry!! I'm so so sorry!" He jumped. All senseless. "I didn't mean to... It's an accident! I don't know what was wrong with me...!"

"The last thing you should do is kiss me. What the hell were you thinking? What the hell ARE you thinking!?"

"I don't know! I didn't think! Something has gotten to me. I was blacked out!"

"You're such an ass! You know that!?" You got your tea, but it wasn't important anymore. It was whipped in the air by your furious hand. The straw and leftover ice flew right his way. He dodged, and you turned to walk away, calling a cab for yourself. "You have every other way to play this game. But you don't. You just have to do this to me first."

Still, he chased you down the road, shouting behind you hopelessly. "I know! I know I shouldn't be kissing you! I--I--- wait! Please! I'm sorry!"

You also didn't know what had gotten into you too, what made you that mad. You just thought you had made a bad decision, a really really bad one, where you allowed him to crash your mind with that blue cerulean eyes again, and tore up your heart. He didn't choose to come with you. He didn't even choose to stay with you. Wouldn't even open the door for you to pick up his scattered mind and broken feelings. So what was the catch? You running home and crying to your pillow for the rest of the day, and next week, you would go back to London and act like you're fine again with your big ambitious mind. Fine. FINE! You shouted to the void. But this,

To you, this was so out of line. It was like a promise he couldn't keep. A possibility that he wouldn't even dare to finish off. A memory that would take you forever to forget.

"I'm so sorry!"

You didn't turn to give him a second glance, because you felt crumbled. Defeated. The cab arrived and you got in. Hands folded to your eyes.

Goodbye Leon!

Leon rests his heavy head on his palm. The letter under elbow. He looks out the window of where he sits, wondering, throwing rocks on the ocean in his mind. What if it happens differently? What if you kissed him back, would he stay?

No, no, no. This is all just bad decisions. Unrealistic and unhopeful possibilities. New York and London, there's always been an ocean between these two.

But,

He remembers that kiss so well.

The slight touch of your nose on his. The way your upper lip landed right on his lower bottom lip. Rush but long-lasting. It was just a catch. An awful choice. He didn't know where that coming from. But he can not shake the feeling of it since.

His letter once again is shoved into the Hemmingway book, which placed nicely on the nightstand next to his side of the bed. He thinks he will send it to you someday, very soon, just...

...not now.

The green rust of his door which is now locked, will stay green and rusty like the rest of it. Farewell New York.

He takes a good jog out on the strange street he's been walking on the past couple of months. Clearing his mind, he'd hope. Nothing reminds him of anything. Even the weather. Only greyish sky and dull sets of walls. They don't even care to scrape out the poster from what, the 1980s? Anyway, it's not freezing cold now to begin with, might change when october actually comes. Soon he won't remember how his mom always told him to bring a scarf when he's already out the door.

That's a good start.

He still has to redefine how he spells out good in every situation, though. For example, when Irons tossed a tacky car key at his table and yelled him to find a parking space in a total of 3 minutes, or else the parking ticket would belong to him... Or another pile of complaints and petitions crashed his already cleaned-up desk at 5.30 pm... Good then. Nice even. He won't even be able to think of anything else that's not in the circle of his workplace, other than a parking space that was almost 10 blocks away.

When everything gets too hyped and crowded and breathless, he will pull out the box. Luckily, he didn't throw it away on some impulsive restlessness. And he calls you still, with an addition of some 90s-esque fashion, he writes letters to you, and you write to him. That's good, too. Because sometimes it communicates better.

There's probably two sides of good.

Leon, I'm dying. Oh no, not literally. Sorry! I'm dying of how hilarious your letter is. Have you ever considered to be a stand-up comedian? I think you should've added it to your career list. Apparently it's a thing here in London. Comedy is the new rock and roll as they said. Queen must be laughing. Most of the guy I hung out with always start with the pick up line like 'you wanna go to Cockfosters, I'm doing a gig there tonight', blah blah blah... but you know, I never jump down the rabbit hole, they're just not as joyful as you.

Just back from my walk this morning and my head is filled with your jokes. Your dedication is out of this world. I suppose you're working your ass off right now. How is 'great power comes with great responsibility' been going? I bet you're still doing well. You've always been good. Hey. they just don't know your real potential yet. Your mom would be proud of you. I'm proud of you!

But here's where I have to get this out of my chest. Brace yourself. I have to tell you this.

The table by the window is shaking and bumping its edges to the wall as Leon sprints to it. He immediately reaches for the Hemmingway book on the shelf. It isn't here. He panic.

In his hand, your piece of mail coming earlier than he expected it, which the mailman tapped him on the shoulder to give him while he was having his head down to the ground of his porch, looking for the key he dropped. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Absolutely embarrassing. Still, he opened the mail once he saw your name. Not minding where the key was anymore.

Now he's stumbling above his desk, shoving books around. He can't find the book. Where's Hemmingway hiding at!? He mumbles curses under his breath.

Leon, Leon, Leon, stay focus!

Seriously, you have to sit down for this. It's gonna be quick, but sure it's gonna get something out of you. So you really need to sit down.

So, here's what I think:

First thing first, I think you're not happy,

Maybe traveling the world isn't something you need after all. What you need is to feel things, many, many things as much as possible, and to experience them with your whole heart. Like I really saw you truly alive after that bursting to flame incident when I told you I didn't like Rebel Without A Cause. I still don't get it but....! I'm open to trying again at any time.

Don't buried yourself with only one feeling, don't settle down, find another, you'll see that nothing last forever, even pain. It won't last unless you want it to.

Second, you're lost,

I changed city to city like weather and time, and you couldn't even figure out what my address actually is. I don't know where I live now but I can assure you that I do know where I'm heading to. How is Raccoon city? Do you feel like home yet? If yes, good. If not, it's fine, we're at the age of finding out stuff. But in any way that makes you feel like you're escaping the reality, then you shouldn't be. Go find yourself a reason Leon. That's when you know you're not losing track.

Third,

Third time is a charm, people said. Don't you think so?

Again, make some bad decisions okay? Because only then you'll learn. You'll learn how and why your heart beats for something, you'll learn that what you'd die to do is gonna be utterly insane and ridiculous and hysterical, but if they're big enough, strong enough, desperate enough, though stupid so to think, you should make it happen anyway. That should make you you. And don't fix me on it because I'm pretty much an expert in making bad decisions, and now I know very well what I want. In all the possibilities, what do you reach for the most? What are you so passionate about? What do you want?

"Hemmingway, where's my Hemmingway? Lo! Where's my book? Did you see my book!?" He shouted. Stumbles around the tiny bedroom.

"The beaten up book?" It's on the nightstand, she answers from the kitchen. Nightstand. His side. Yes. He runs to the nightstand.

The book somehow faced down the hardwood floor, right under the bed. Crinkling. But he found it. So he picks it up, blows a bit of dust, opens it, and frowns.

"Lo!" He throws his head back, grumbling. Then calls her one more time, this time louder. "Lauren!!"

"What!?" In the kitchen, she mimics his voice. "What now Leon?"

"My letter." He stomps into the room, actually breaks a neck for once, long since he moved into this house. Fuming. Infuriating. "The letter I stuck between these pages. Where is it?" The room rang with his voice.

"Oh so the one that you SNUCK in the book!?" She fires back. "Gone."

"What?"

"Gone! I burnt it." She's holding up a wooden spoon. Soup boiling on the stove. He glares at the fire. Might as well happen.

"Why did you burn my letter?"

"Because I want to burn it that's why."

"Wh--" His brows furrow. Head shakes in denial. His mouth fumbling. "Why why why!?"

"Because you're writing to her again!"

"I didn't even send it!?"

"But you will!"

"Lauren--Lo, I've been telling you for ages. She's my best friend!"

"Best friend!? You don't write your friend intimate letters, you don't tell them about your mom, you don't tell them about your... how you're feeling so stuck and cramp and sad. I didn't even know that. You didn't even tell me that!"

"People been sharing stuff to friends all the time, Lo! I write letters all the time!"

"Not yet Leon. You even miscalled my name on the phone when I was on late shift. I called you. And not once, not twice, FIVE TIMES. You began with her name! You wanted her to call you so bad!"

"Maybe I--I was drunk okay!?" He shouts back.

"Yes, you were. You were always drunk!"

"Lo...!"

"Stop calling me that Leon. You're nothing to me. We're nothing. Nothing!"

"What are you saying!?"

The kitchen is a mine field. They throw swords and arrows and shield at each other. Strangely, the four damp walls get to actually witness a real emotional burst this time, not those quiet and stifling dinners anymore where the two were just too exhausted to speak a word.

I know this letter is coming a little early for you. But I suppose I have to send you this. I waited for yours, but isn't it taking a bit too long? Did you write one? Did you send it out? Or is it lost!? Okay if it is, I'd take all the blame because I don't even get where I live right now.

But I'm writing this in my own room, in London, still packing of course. Didn't want to tell you over the phone because I want this to be vivid, visible, and memorable.

Apparently, I met this guy two weeks ago on my trip. He wasn't trying to do jokes on me though, he really struck a conversation. He said he's a street photographer. I know what you were thinking about freelance artists and such, but his pictures are surprisingly good, Leon. I'll send you one to see. He went to New York several times. He actually does make a living out of it and is paid to fly around countries. Last night we had a really cool chat about all the best places in his hometown and mine, he invited me to his, it's Hamburg I think, but... Isn't it just too soon? Your opinion? I guess I'll come there myself to explore the country first and decide on that later. But really, it will lead to something I believe. I'm positive.

I actually got an offer letter for a Masters program in Germany. Thinking of getting there soon. So I'm packing my things. Still thinking about it, but I'll be leaving for... I don't know, three months!? And if it turns out to be good,guess it's forever.

"So, your dad's bought the ticket."

Winter in New York, first year of college.

"He'll fly--" He sniggered, felt a gland in his throat. Laying on his bed with shoes on. Old sweater and jeans. The sleeve was damp. He glanced up at the clock which was ticking. What for? "On Sunday afternoon I think."

"He really did it."

"Yeah." He paused, took a sniffle. "Said I'm a big boy now, I can take care of myself."

"You are."

"Yes, I am." He mumbled. "I am." Wet eyelashes flickered. Ten days before winter break, his father wanted to spend time with his other children. Leon was in college already; he could live alone, like every other day. He could stay in the house all by himself, having cereal without milk for breakfast and an empty lunch box in his backpack; it's alright he could buy a sandwich in the nearest store. He worked part-time in a shop. Taking train to school. It was all fine by him.

"You know Christmas isn't all that fun and interesting like people usually make it out to be, don't you?"

He burst out a small laugh. A bit hoarse. "Well the last time I checked, yep."

"It's just a night where people have the excuse for being drunk and wearing those big and god awful jolly ugly jumper."

His chest rumbled. He blinked at the ceiling. Plastic star stickers reflected the street lights out his window. The night was chilly. He heard his father's footsteps on the stairs. Warm lights of the hallway peaked in his dark room through the door slit. And nice conversations. Such nice conversations like this. Maybe this is enough. "Oh I want to kiss you right now." He said.

"Well you said it. Maybe it counts."

"It counts."

"So?"

"So, I'll tell you what. I kissed you this one time. And then the next, and the next, when it gets to the third, you will have to pack your things very quickly, bring your pillow by the way, I don't want you steal mine, and buy a ticket, get on a plane, fly all the way from London to here, to meet me, in my room, and we will talk about how our relationship should go."

He could hear you laughing over the phone. Brighten his night. "Really? I'll fly to New York?"

"Yes."

"That's tempting. Although a bit ambitious of you to say, how are you gonna kiss me again Leon? I'm not gonna fly to New York anytime soon."

"How am I gonna kiss you again huh?" He clicked his tongue and sat up on his bed, very intrigued by the thought. "Don't worry, I'll sort something out then. We'll just have to meet first. Maybe it's me going to London."

"I have a spare room."

"Spare room? I thought we're going with the only one bed trope."

"In your dreams, Leon."

He and Lauren sit on each end of the couch. Soullessly and langorously. Untouched. It isn't the biggest couch on the market; still, they are sitting next to each other like they have had a whole continent in between them. It has been getting quieter and quieter since the dawn lights were off until it gets to the point that no one has anything to say anymore. There's only voices and footsteps thumping from the room above, through the thin walls of this shed of an apartment. A shed they once called the love birds' nest. You laughed at the name of it when he mentioned over the phone.

Outright, Leon has a sudden urge to laugh. Stiffle giggles start to rain in his lungs. He has to hover a hand up to his mouth to stop himself from grinning too wide. Hiding it. The compressed sound and rumbling couch have taken Lauren's attention.

"Why are you laughing?"

"No, sorry. Nothing." Once he says it, the surge becomes even stronger; he bursts out laughing, leaving Lauren with an unknowing look. "Not-hing...!" He can't keep it inside, his body hunching over. "Shit."

"You can't even stop for christshakes!" The sheer irony has seeped into her and she starts grinning too. "Stop it Leon. We just had a huge fight. Shouldn't be laughing out loud, aren't we?"

"We shouldn't--" He stiffles his sigh, sucks on his lips to look up at her in his most composed look, but the glimmer in his eyes still won't die.

Lauren finds him so embarrassingly, exceptionally, unquestionably handsome this way. With his dirty blondeness bunching up like a mess that he is, and his glimmering eyes. Sad but glimmering now.

"What?" She asks him, petulantly. But a side of her has definitely put down the burning flame she had moments before. "What are you laughing about Leon?"

"Sorry." He combs his disarray hair back into place, strands fall over forehead when he leans over. "Just---feeling stupid that's all..."

"You aren't stupid."

"No, no. I just laughed because... I imagined telling her about this. That would be... funny."

Silence falls upon them again but this time, it's less suffocating.

"Of course." She nods after a while.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Lo--" She stops him, pulls his hand into hers.

"I know."

She knows, and she accepts it, because the most they've felt after all this time is when they actually fell out of love.

Night falls. The dark turquoise blends into their room, the couch where they sit. None of them will stand up to turn the lights on. She squeezes his hand in the dark.

"Not gonna lie but you were always a bit too gloomy for me, even your terrible jokes." She says, as he looks down to his shoes and puts on a sly smile, navy hue. "I loved you when you're happy, and salty, and witty... but, that's only when you're with her."

For a moment, he let that sink in.

"I really like you too." He whispers. He feels her breathing fanning.

"I'd love to kiss you now but I can't."

He slightly rubs on her knuckles. Lauren turns to wipe her face, then she stands up to get her purse on the table, pulling out a piece of paper. She gives it to him.

"I didn't burn it."

Leon takes it in his hand, looking up at her, speechless.

"You can send it to her."

He holds the letter tight in his hand.

"Thank you."

"You'll be good on your own?" Lauren asks as she leaves.

"Certainly."

Heathrow Airport,

London,

In the middle of the ocean of humans, he throws his bag over shoulder,

and runs.

He runs towards the gate, makes it fast over the security section, crosses through a sea of confused foreigners, jumps over pavements, they call them pavements here, right? And he catches a cab.

He has your address.

He has never come here before, but he spots your blue door from afar like a memory that leads him home. The cab driver is lucky today because Leon wouldn't even look at how much cash he was giving out, not even considered changes.

Skipping on several steps, he gets to knock on the door and takes a deep breath in to finally settle with the fact that,

he's here to meet you.

On that eight hour long flight, he hadn't been sleeping; he wouldn't need a cup of coffee even when the flight attendance was offering him one. While a lovely old woman sitting next to him shared her passion about a wonder that is of the English trifle, he was pondering on the hows and the whats he would do when he finally sees you in London.

On the mid-break of that little show about English cuisine, when the woman fell as sleep on his shoulder, he pulled out the letter and tried to think of words to finish it. It was trickier for him because he didn't want to bring his unserious sarcasm into this part, where it needed to be genuine.

"Leon! I haven't seen you for quite some time! How have you been?" The blue door flings open, and he freezes.

He cracks a friendly smile. Cheeks flushed pink from the winds. Your mom at the door greeting him. Not you. He poises. Face is hung at an undecided expression.

"Hi. It's been a while!" He let out a chuckle. Something's stuck under his throat. "How are you?" Be proper. Be nice. Be sensible. Keep on the smiling, won't he? Don't rush! Leon! Focus. He has to stop breathing so loud. She's pulling him into a brief hug.

"Look at you all grown up. So tall. And handsome, isn't it?"

"Ah thank you. Can I ask where--"

"Honey, it's Leon coming to visit us here!"

Don't rush. Don't rush. He inhales through the gap of his teeth.

Don't rush.

This time your dad approaches the door. He wasn't looking so pleased before. But, his face seems much like being pulled up by puppet strings when your mom hand comes rubbing the inside of his arm. "Good to see you." As she signaled him with her eyes, he continues with a conventional handshake. Be nice to your daughter's best friend, that was the cue. And when the casual exchange dies down, Leon has to pull it back to the conversation.

"I'm looking for--"

"She's out."

"She's out?"

Don't rush.

"Hanging with some friends, right?" Your dad cuts him, turning to your mom. He knows what Leon is looking for here. Just ask to check on the list.

"I think so. Saw that German guy picking her up this morning. Do you want to come inside and wait for her?"

And sitting on your couch, face to face with the dad and his piercing look like what he's doing now? No. Leon wouldn't rather. "No thank you, ma'am... I really really really need to see her, I--" Now that he knows you're going out with some guy, he's standing on fire coals.

"Can you please please tell me where she is, please?" Leon hastily keeps on questioning. "Please." Don't rush. He swallows a lump. Don't rush. "Please."

"I'm sorry sweetheart, I really don't know. She mentioned walking around parks and stuff. Just casual. The guy likes a very lowkey, unsophisticated style of things."

"Like his tacky photographs." Clicking his tongue, dad mumbles. And your mom hitting him on the shoulder with the back of her hand.

"Don't be so mean."

"I'm not. I'm saying the truth. The guy is tacky."

Oh! Leon is dying to turn around and run and find you on his own now. He goes back and forth, tiptoeing, leaning on the door frame.

Your dad deadpan out of his small bickering with mom, he says, "Anyway, she's at Primrose Hill. I just called to check in on her."

"Thanks, sir! Thank you so much." Can't stay on his feet; Leon prepares to dash out the street once again.

"Wait Leon!"

"Yes ma'am?"

"You can take the Ford."

"What!?"

"He's taking the Ford."

"He's not going to take MY Ford."

"He has driven it before. It's fine. Relax!"

"He was thirteen!"

"And he brought our daughter home safe and sound. That was the main thing, wasn't it? Be nice."

Mom calls him back to throw him a key, a pretty much very very familiar key, that your dad wanted to stop it getting into Leon's hand. He frowns at the scene he can't undo.

"Drive the Ford okay?"

"I will. Thank you."

Leon drives through crossroads, through a long line of traffic, quick brake on some random passersby, getting called a bollocks on some fast turns... He can hear the tires screeching on the road. The red Ford plunges forward. Here in London—Damp sidewalks. Scattered puddles. Brick walls. Phone booth. Tall buildings.

And you.

I heard that heartbreak is the worst kind of sadness.

Do you believe that?

For me, I don't think so.

Don't get me wrong, they're terrible but... time, I guess, time will heal. Humans were given great strength to overcome any obstacle, any pain... Yet, it hurts so much but I don't believe a person would die of a broken heart unless they are tired of this world enough.

Mostly they died of the things they regret. They died of the things they didn't ever do.

So I'm sitting here, thousand miles away from you, pining, reaching, hoping, that I'd be the one to tell you. Not some guy. Not any guy. Me. Just me.

Maybe it's because of the distances away that has pushed me to write this to you. The only one face in the many crowd that has given me the strength to be this dauntless, this brave. My tongue is not tied. You should give Raccoon city a point for that.

My greatest regret was not telling you this on that Brooklyn bridge... that I want you, I need you, I miss you...

And I love you,

So much.

"Leon?" You sit up on the grass. Not believe in your eyes.

Leon comes running over to you with his hair tousled and slightly damp from all the watering machines he had passed. The apple of his cheeks glow red. He calls your name.

"Hi... hey, hi. Gosh. That's a lot of running to do. Ow--" He holds his side. Breathless. Hands fall on his knees, and he takes a quick glance at the guy sitting next to you, not to be rude. "How's going, mate?" He nods with a small wave. Still out of breath.

You look up at Leon like he isn't real. Your mouth half-open. You still cannot get what's happening. "Leon? What are you doing here?"

He takes a few breaths back into his lungs and blinks innocently at your question. Why's he here then? Oh shit, he didn't think of an opening line.

"Um... delivering letter." He chuckled to himself and your friend chuckled at him, too. "Your letter."

"Then give it to the mailman, he has one job."

"Taking too long, I think."

Silence. Glances exchange.

"This is Leon. He's from... New York. And Jack from Hamburg." You introduce them to break the awkward silence.

"Ah New York, yes. Wie geht's, Leon?" They shake hands and Leon has that weird smile on.

"Jack,.... okay. What's he saying?"

"How is it going." You and Jack say in unison. Then you continue. "It's a German way of greeting."

"Oh, alright. Um---" Leon stumbles. "Alright." Bites on his lips nervously. "I'm good by the way. That's... how American says it." He still doesn't know why you haven't cracked a smile since he arrived. This is dead serious. He's made a real wrong move. His eyes dart from Jack to you then to you then Jack.

"She mentioned you a lot Leon." Jack adds. Really? Yeah. Yeah. And Leon just out there giving his best shots, and not to stumble over on the grass.

"Anyway, you two are on a date." Announcing the event that is ongoing, he tries to regain his posture back. A very toothy smile on his face, but his eyes don't. "I won't trouble you more. Getting out of your sight now. Um-- This is, your letter. Okay. Read it if you want. No, not now! Just--- when you get home and stuff. Okay?"

You take the letter as he's slowly stepping back. Your face still overflows with confusion. He backs up, backs up, then turns away until it's just a look over the shoulder and hands in pocket.

A friday afternoon, and you really thought you would get a peaceful moment on Primrose Hill. Laying on the grass with a guy. Who would've thought of this then? The sky is painted by various kinds of colours, but what you see is clearly blue and a dash of pink from the sunset. Maybe a bit greyish from the fog. And you've seen this view for a thousand times. Nothing you wouldn't think of.

"He seems exactly like what you told me." Jack commented. "Nice guy."

"Yeah." You slide, still peering over at Leon's silhouette.

Jack then tells you about the time he was in New York and met some guy in a bakery shop with 90s blonde hair that looked just like Leon. Then he keeps on and on about how affable that guy was, but you have completely phased out. No, there is no one who looks like Leon, and there is no one like Leon. He's one in a million.

He's one in a million.

All this time you watch Leon in his blue plaid shirt, walking down the hill. You watch his broad back as Jack keeps telling a story of which you don't even notice a single word he says, then you see your guy skipping over a few step on the green grass, evading a small attack of some kids flying their kite. His straw coloured hair a bit dull under the warm sunlit.

You take a short sigh.

When you were fourteen,

There was a small fair near the Central Park where you begged your parents and Leon's to death to let you both hang out at. They had a maze, and Leon was curious, so were you.

You remember him in his bomber jacket, the one you said he looked boisterous in it, going feral on every shooting range, trying to win whatever prize it was. You weren't sure if it's for you or for his own self-esteem, but you liked to think it was for you.

"What if we get lost?" You asked him, standing in front of the maze.

"I mean that's the whole point, isn't it? Getting lost in the maze?"

"Mind you I'm the one who's responsible for your disappearance."

"As long as we stay together. We will be fine." He said, then held your hand tight and ran inside.

You got out of it eventually.

Only it took more than a while, but you had fun, and the importance is... You were with him.

He thinks it's far enough; it's far enough to turn back and look at you once more.

God he was right.

He has never seen you looking this beautiful and radiant like before, and the worst part is, you were always like that, beautiful, and happy, and fun, and smart, and perfect from the very first time he saw you. He was so right that without him you would do so much better.

So he turns back to look at you again.

But you aren't there.

On that hill again, on the green grass of Primrose hill,

You aren't there anymore.

"Looking for someone?"

Momentarily, he is at the loss of words.

His face in close-up, cheekbones are flushed, very light brown curtains of those big blue eyes slightly shiver under the force of wind, his lips flinch a little, pinkish from being bitten down by the two front teeth a little too hard.

He thinks he's almost in the verge of tearing up. Reddish eyes. Just chemicals. Chemicals.

"For you, of course." He smiles.

He thought he had lost you.

Momentarily, you look at him deep in the eyes, guessing his scheme, spotting his tricks, analyzing his fear, asking him obvious questions that you already know the answer of.

Blue eyes shine.

Then, you take steps to him, three long strides, under that golden canopy of leaves, you say nothing else, just subtly slip your hands on both side of his face, holding him between your hands, lingering a few moment of silent on his cerulean blues, and kiss him. Putting your lips upon his. His hands slowly slip behind your back, then tightly wrap around the waist, pulling you closer,

closer,

closer.

The kiss. Deep on his lips. The sweetest kiss. Ever.

...Cross his thoughtless heart.

"Did you read the letter?"

"No, but I'm going to. What did you write?"

"Nothing much.

Nothing that you don't know of,

love."

New York, six months before,

Leon gripped tight the train ticket between his fingers; it said New York to Raccoon. He thought maybe this was it—an end of something good, something he held dear to his heart. It was like a part of the heart his mom had taken away, a part his father had ripped out, and in this moment it was him who tossed the rest in a box, locked it down and threw it into the deep blue ocean.

The rail was clicking, and he could hear the train approaching. His eyes suddenly burned hot. It stung. As if it's because of all the smoke? Is it because it's too crowded? His hands squeezed tight on the handle of his suitcase. Why does he have to go alone? A question arose in his head. Why does he feel so lonely, so lost in the middle of this packed train station, filled with strange bodies? Where are his parents? They should be waving him goodbye with a proud look on their face now. They should've been here.

And you...

He looked up to stop the wet feeling in his eyes from dropping, from rushing down his face. He bit on the lips that dried from the cold air and walked onto the train.

So he left then, he did it. He did it.

But he didn't want to. But a voice pulled him back.

"Call me when you're there."

The moment he was prepared to turn away, he saw you walking up to the yellow line. A tight smile drew on your face.

"Or write. Whatever you want to, okay?"

He smiled. Wide. Seeing you like this. "Okay."

Right there, you saw his eyes from all dark grey, so shattered, so melted and depressed, glowing into a shade of hope.

Blue, cerulean blue.

His beautiful cerulean blues.

That's where your home is.

You could be north

You could be south,

You could be blue

You could be bliss,

You could be a nobody

And you could be someone.

You followed the cobble stones that led you to him. And he went to pick up the beautiful red leaf under your bench, also your heart. There it goes. That golden chain of thread leads you and him to this.

All the possibilities.

'Live each day as if it's your last',

that was the conventional advice, but really, who had the energy for that? What if it rained or you felt a bit glandy? It just wasn't practical. Better by far to be good and courageous and bold and to make difference. Not change the world exactly, but the bit around you. Cherish your friends, stay true to your principles, live passionately and fully and well. Experience new things. Love and be loved, if you ever get the chance. —David Nicholls, One Day

Author's Note: Thank you Ivy for pitching my lazy ideas with your wonderful work 'Color Theory'. To make it this long, and it is quite long for me, I also had to venture in many many other things too through the span of one month creating this— like music, movies, and books, and sometimes I took references from them.

As obsessive as I am on David Nicholl's 'One Day' these months, especially the Netflix series adaptation, I pretty much imagined Leon's outlook as Dex too because the similarities of his blonde hair and blue eyes, but here I've definitely tried to give him his own personality, for our own taste. He's one in a million I'm sure.

And as a Swiftie myself, you can clearly see all the Easter eggs scattering around here and there too. Also, 'Come back, be here' and 'Message in a bottle' were two of the main ideas for the whole plot of this story. Give it up for our chairman, Taylor Swift.

And last but not least, the most important reason for me to write, you.

Thank you all for reading my work! 💙

---

Only Love Can Break Your Heart

You've had enough of not being your own person. You aren't a division of him, your husband, nor the women he sleeps with when he's bored of you.

a/n: if you haven't read the book by katherine webber GO READ IT NOW ITS SO GOOD I CANT EVEN WITH YOU !! this is inspired by that except married couple divorce not really uh yeah i needed to get those out of my system to work on requests!

tw: angst, no happy ending, mentions of smut, non explicit nsfw, mentions of drinking problems, alcohol, stuff yada yada

wc: 1.7k

When you called him from the city, you knew even despite his grumbling of the long drive, he would still make it. Still take his rusty old car all the way out here, just for you, to plead for your forgiveness. Without meaning to, you’d memorized every part of him.

That’s how you knew he’d changed.

The man sitting next to you, hands gripping the steering wheel tight, jaw set in parallel to the tight lines around his lips, pain coursing through the burnished planes of his cheekbones, setting flame to the skin you once longed to touch.

As you watch him drive, the silence between you feels heavy with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. You can feel the distance growing, like a vast chasm separating the two of you. His eyes, once the most gentle shade of the sea, now seem distant and guarded.

“Stop looking at me,” he grits out from behind his teeth.

“I’m not,” you say softly, gaze fixing on his hands.

“I can feel it.”

“Do you feel guilty yet?”

The edge of his lip curls. “No, because I don’t know why the fuck you’re mad at me!”

But he knows he’s lying.

He knows exactly what he did.

<><><><>

You thought it would be just another casual Sunday afternoon, popcorn punctuating the muffled TV in the other room. You kicked off your slippers, lounged carelessly on the couch, waited for Leon to come home.

But he’s three hours late, three thousand ticks of the clock away from when you expected him, and when he stumbles through the door, the only way you can tell he’s drunk is the slight lean he has, wobbling to the left as he slumps into your arms.

Your foot taps a rapid pace on the wooden floor, arms crossed, uninviting. You’ve been awaiting a drinking problem, you know his past, but you weren’t expecting it so soon.

First come the tears. Your husband is a dramatic man, and although you’ve waved off an occasional drink or two, the heartfelt apologies whispered between your thighs, he’s wasted enough to let those walls come crashing down, tumbling all around you, leaving only the remnants of the sea pooling in your sweatshirt.

Then, after he’s wiped his eyes and gained enough courage to look at you, come the profuse apologies that slip past his lips, wind down your shoulders and prod your chest, seeking forgiveness from your heart. So accustomed to the quiet, obedient life you had both been living, you don’t give it easily.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to, I swear. I just couldn’t stop thinking that maybe it was you, and maybe our life is a bit boring, and maybe you do the same things sometimes and don’t tell me, and she said it was all okay-”

“She?” you interrupt, voice far too gentle. “Who’s she?”

"She... she was just a distraction," he stammers, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I didn't mean for it to happen, I swear. It was stupid, I know, please, don't leave me. I love you, I'm so sorry."

His words echo hollowly in the empty space, each syllable a dagger twisting in your bloody chest. Tears trace paths down your cheeks, rivers of sorrow as you look up at him, bleary eyed, trying to comprehend why he would ruin everything.

"I trusted you," you whisper, your voice barely above a broken sob. "I thought we had something real, something worth fighting for. How could you do this to us?"

His silence is deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of emotions that swim through your legs, rendering them useless. You feel lightheaded, dizzy, and some small part of you wants to blame yourself.

It must be your fault, the voice taunts, pleads, even. You were just too boring for him. You can change, can’t you?

You find yourself standing on the precipice of what could change your life, a rocky cliff, toes poking out against the edge. What would your life be without him?

"Please, it won't happen again," he pleads, his voice cracking. "I swear, I'll do whatever it takes to make this right. I love you more than anything, and I can't bear the thought of losing you."

A part of you longs to believe him, to cling to the hope that this nightmare could be just a momentary lapse in judgment, a cruel twist of fate. His fingers are creeping around your waist, snagging you like a fish on a hook.

In a way, you assume, you are as gullible as that.

With a heavy heart and a trembling voice, you whisper, "Okay, I trust you." The words taste bitter on your tongue, a bitter pill swallowed in the idea that you’re only trying to salvage what’s left.

But deep down, a seed of doubt blooms into a thorny vine that wraps itself around your wounded heart. Can trust truly be rebuilt from the ashes of his thin apologies, or are you simply setting yourself up for more heartache down the road?

You shake your head as he disappears into the bathroom and the sound of running water covers up your soft sniffles. There’s a determined, confident, trustful smile on your face that only seems slightly forced.

Leon’s a good man.

It won’t happen again. 

<><><><>

But it happens again, and again, until all you come home to is the draft blowing in through the vent and a cluttered house. You suppose you should be grateful you’ve never had children. It’s happened so many times.

And every time, you forgive him like a bitch in heat, like a teenage girl so desperate for him, for your fake image of love, even when you know he’s toying with you. Did he ever care? You fool yourself into believing that when he pushes you into the wrinkled, old cotton sheets, or when he buys you those fragrances you eye whenever he takes you out to shop.

You’ve forgotten the meaning of love, what it means to be cared for, how it feels to be cherished. In his eyes, those beautiful, sullen eyes, you are nothing but another responsibility, another burden, another chore.

You want it to stop. You want to stop feeling this way. So you turn the tables on him, that night, when the door creaks open and his footfalls echo through the house, it's empty.

There’s a note left on the table from you, signed in that sweet, loopy handwriting you thought he admired. Leon… blah blah blah, visiting friends, need some time to myself… all just empty thoughts from a mind that knows nothing but pain.

The letter ends up in the bin that day just before he calls one of the numbers saved in his phone. It lies there, forgotten, as the sounds of muted kisses seem to crinkle it even more.

<><><><>

You watch them in the taxi, through the camera you had set up in the houseplant that you knew Leon never bothered to look at. Is that all you are to him? A drooping aloe vera, lost all its nutrition and sun, useless?

They make out wildly, planting kisses everywhere, and you realize that maybe he never loved you to begin with. Maybe this was all just a joke to him. You can see the tray of cookies you made last Christmas, when everything seemed fine.

He had pushed you onto the island, crowding between your legs, grinning up at you. “You know I hate all that sugary shit,” he had whispered, nosing the area between your neck and jaw.

“Should’ve replaced it with salt, then,” you mumble to yourself, biting your lip to suppress the sob that claws at your throat. You exit the app, then delete it. 

You’re never going back.

Leon’s not a very good man.

<><><><>

Your nights are restless, tossing and turning, when your friend groans and flicks on the lamp, expression immediately softening at your pained eyes.

She gathers you in her arms, lets you cry into her, soaking up your agony. You’re glad she doesn’t chastise you, tell you how she had seen this coming ages ago. Maybe you should start listening to your friends when they warn you about men.

He tries to reach out to you, to bridge the gap that has formed between you both, but each time you pull away, walls impenetrable with your friend standing guard behind them. The ache in your chest grows with each passing moment, a constant reminder of what once was and what can never be again.

You start taking classes again. He had stopped you, deemed it was ‘unladylike’ to be studying. You had agreed with him like a fool, stupidly nodding your head to whatever came from his mouth.

Your friend is there through everything. You only wish you had told her how much you appreciated her help when you call Leon, ready to pry him from your thoughts.

<><><><>

You finally reach your destination, the weight of the unspoken goodbye hanging heavy in the air. You know that this is the end, that the love you once shared has turned to ashes. 

“We could’ve made it work,” he argues, once again, running a hand through his darkening hair. Everything about him seems somber now, more depressed. You suspect that the alcohol has finally caught up to him.

And faintly, with pride, you realize that you don’t care.

“You and I both know that’s a lie,” you seethe. “We were never going to work, because I will always be too boring for you. Just a toy, right? I’m done with your shit!”

You don’t let him get the last word. That would nag you far too much. So you walk away from him, from the image of you that clung to him every waking moment, your back a silent farewell.

If he had broken up with you, what, a week ago, you would be left alone with the shattered pieces of your heart, knowing that you might always be missing a piece of yourself.

But now…

Now?

You are whole.

---