Let Me Adore You (N.H.)

11

People say, working distracts you.

And sometimes I didn't give a damn about what people said, what they told me to do and not to do. Life would just be easier if you let people be most of the times.

Racism. Why do you care about skin colour? Does it give you the right to treat someone worse than others? It's plainly stupid.

Homophobia. Does it hurt you to see two men or two women kissing on the streets? Then look away instead of calling them names.

Body-Shaming. It's not your body. Again, why do you care? Those are grown people, if they need your opinion, they'd ask you. But people can be right sometimes.

Not this time.

Work didn't put an end to my interminable thoughts and inner conversations. I worked and I thought. I wrote abbreviations on the white cups and I thought about Dr. Horan writing comments under my abstract. I poured coffee in mugs and I though about him drinking his coffee at home. The smell of it, mixed with his scent. I looked outside and I thought about his eyes that had the same colour as the sky.

Hell, my heart stoped every time a man with brown hair and glasses stepped into the store.

I was a hopeless romantic. I loved this complicated love, dates at home or at bookstores. Walks in winter, hand in hand. That was nothing new. I always had this glorified streak. Did it mean I wasn't allowed to believe in true love? Where would it take us? What should we dream about?

I was slowly loosing my mind. I wanted to look forward, instead I drowned in chaos. And if this wasn't enough, a particular person haunted me. Whether I was attending a lecture, reading a book, listening to music or making a Caramel Macchiato. Those flashbacks always made it impossible to think about anything else. Seems like I should never forget what has happened.

The way we were walking together, the way he looked at me, touched me. So much more. The way he had called me angel. It felt toxic in some kind of way and loved it.

First I thought I misheard it, maybe he didn't say something at all. Then I laid in my bed, texting Jo how it went. Of course I didn't tell her everything, just small parts. She said he could've said it, he just didn't realised it, as tired and exhausted as he was. Now I was thinking about it every second while he might've already forgotten it. I was stuck. It wasn't my sole fault.

No, regardless of my age, he was too open. He tried talking to me. He didn't let me go. Nothing of this would've happened if he just stayed in his zone. And if I stayed in mine.

Was there nothing to do for me? All my dreams and thoughts. I wished he would care about me. I wished he would hold me close when I was sleeping. Keeping me warm. His shadows followed me around and I felt safe like I never had before. Then why did it have to be so complicated? So different from the books I've read, the movies I've seen? Why was it never enough?

I withdrew my hand with a hiss, then there was a crashing sound. I burned my hand touching the metal pitcher and knocked it over. Hot oat milk spilled over the counter, trickled down the edge, down the fridge and onto the floor.

I hate oat milk.

If you wanted to be fancy and cool at a café, you ordered a Matcha Latte with oat milk. Just because you could and you were this hot, gorgeous person that everyone loved. You took pictures with your lilac sunglasses and your perfect skin with little freckles, wearing a cute bucket hat.

I wished I were you. But I wasn't. And most of the times, it was okay.

Oat milk smells bad. Or it might be only the one we served. I've never tried it anywhere else. But oat milk smells like porridge when you steamed it and I hated the thought of having porridge mixed with coffee in my cup. Cursing and shooing away my co-worker Louis, I went and grabbed almost a whole package of paper towels and placing it around the machine, grabbing a new pitcher and steaming the milk. Guess I had to clean it later.