the art of letting go

three - awkward reunions

the art of awkward reunions

- - -

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." I muttered to myself, attempting pathetically to organise my binder in a way that wouldn't result in my work falling out. Assignment after assignment after assignment.

God, I truly loved capitalism.

I really signed up for years worth of stress. This was going to take a least a decade out of my life span, what the fuck?

Surely they should pay me for my attendance. America needs doctors. The world needs doctors so we don't all, I don't know, die? Maybe?

Three essays to hand in within a week. Three.

Thank God I didn't have a social life.

Why did I think it was a good idea? Maybe I should've applied for Rational Thinking because I clearly did not have any.

Three fucking essays.

On Microbiology.

Those ten years needed to hurry up.

By the time I made it back to my apartment building, I was two coffees down and prepared to turn all electronic devices off so I could simply cry. But then I wanted a Brooklynn Nine Nine marathon at the same time.

Netflix or work?

Netflix it is.

The apartment that Kareem had bought me wasn't far from Dexter's and NYMC. He didn't want it to be too far from where Hendrix lived so I wasn't entirely alone, which meant the apartment block was massive. My brother had insisted that I was in a place that provided 'support', which meant it was basically a permanent hotel.

I turned away from the reception desk, heading straight for the elevators while passing through the seating area.

I almost didn't notice, because I was focused more on having to finish some stupid Pharmacology assignment that I'd forgotten to hand in on time, with my main focus being on when I would get to do my B99 marathon. But I did. First the Doc Martens, and then the legs spread out in black oversized joggers. One of his legs was bouncing, the only display of anxiety that he was letting me see. My eyes ran over his Metallica shirt, that reminded me awfully of something Sacha would wear. He was looking down at something on his phone, lips tugged into a frown as his fingers typed out a message before I watched him hit send.

Knowing that this wasn't something that I could avoid any longer, I let out a dramatic sigh. Nicolas García looked up at the noise, and our eyes met.

I broke the silence.

"Why are you here? How did you find out where I live?"

"People talk." He shrugged, and stood up. He took a few steps forward before he noticed the way my eyes flickered in warning. He gave me a lazy smirk, "C'mon, Lewis. Don't be like that."

Pausing for a split second, I took in every detail, the sharpness of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. His messy brown hair looked perfect and soft, and suddenly I could remember the feel of the strands on my fingertips, the nights that we'd spend just holding each other close, baking in the fantasy that things between us could've been different. His voice was smooth and rich, which still shocked me with how much it contrasted his appearance. He was just as tall as he always was, but the muscles in his shoulders and arms had grown in size, despite his lean stature.

Holding back a flinch from the name that I haven't heard in eons, I managed to grind out. "It's Murad, actually. Want to tell me why you're here?"

His eyes flashed as I spoke, and I could see the little golden flecks of mischief goading me recklessly. That was one of the reasons why I let him stick around, because he could always handle my mouth.