Shift ☆ Louis Partridge

23 | Shift

☆

[y/n]

_

IT'S BEEN SIX WEEKS.

I've learned to cope with the shadows following me, and if I was being honest, I'd say they were my friends. When things got really bad at school, I'd have a darkness to sink into whenever I needed to cry.

Monica and Heather have tried to speak to me, but I ignore everything. I need space—although I hate that word.

But I've gotten better. Maybe not a lot, but I've managed to leave my room and go about my life like it's normal. I go to school, I go to botany classes, and sometimes I even go to the museums. I like to stand in the middle of the impressionism museum, staring at the pictures and wishing I could travel into one.

I want to forget about him.

He forgot about me, didn't he?

I played a dangerous game comparing us to stars, and I sealed our fate when I brought Shakespeare into it—Romeo and Juliet. Star-crossed lovers, remember? Unfinished love, and an unfinished life (or in my case, reality). The past died when I woke up, and now I have to be reborn into this new one.

Or my 'current' one, if that's what you call it.

I don't like to talk about Shifting anymore.

"I'm heading out," I said loosely into the kitchen, "just need some air."

My parents were half-asleep on the couch, tired from their night shift, so they just mumbled a goodbye when I left. I wasn't being a rebellious kid, I just really needed some time to breathe. Even if it was polluted air.

Shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans, I strode down the street, my mind running over places to go. I wasn't hungry, so I ruled food out of the equation. I didn't want to go into crowded places, so museums and parks were also out.

Maybe I'll pay Lauren a visit.

Spinning on my heels, I changed direction, heading towards the bus stop near my house. I'd have to take the trolley to Abbots Lane, which wouldn't be ideal, but the destination was worth it. Maybe there was a new stock of daisies.

But as I neared the stop, I noticed my spot on the bench was already occupied by someone else. They were slumped against the glass wall, eating out of a bag of crisps, with their hood pulled over their eyes. Honestly? They looked depressed.

Sitting down beside them, I stared out into the street blankly.

"Bad day?" They asked, their voice muffled by the hoodie pulled over their head.

I didn't know why they were talking to me. "Bad month."

"Same here."

They sounded strangely familiar, but I couldn't bring myself to think. Thinking hurts. So did everything else. I felt so mellow inside, and so broken, that I failed to even pretend to be okay.

"I guess we're in the same boat, then," I said weakly, "what happened to you?"

The stranger set down their bag, crossing their arms against their chest. I still didn't look their way. They didn't look mine.

"About a month ago, I had this really strange dream," they explained, "I don't quite remember it anymore, but when I woke up I felt like I was missing something."

I laughed softly. "Did you get robbed?"

"No it wasn't like that," they chuckled, "it was a feeling, of a sort."

"Like you lost something you loved?"

"Like I lost someone."

The familiarity of the situation stuck a chord with me. It was risky to talk to strangers, especially ones who preferred not to show their face or their voice, but I found comfort in their truth. It reminded me of mine.

I paused. "I know how you feel."

"You do?" They asked.

"Yeah."

There was a comfortable silence hanging around in the air now, the two of us strangers without a care in the world. In a strange sense, it felt like we already knew each other. I suppose pain brings people together when love can't.

But then they stood up.

"Listen, I better be heading on home," they said, nodding their head, "it was nice talking to you."

I blinked. "You're not taking the bus?"

"Oh, no, I just needed a place to stay for a while," he said, taking off his hood, "ran into a group of people who were trying to steal my socks."

He laughed, and I saw the sun again.

I'd been feeling like I'd been living outside my own body, too distracted by grief to see the world around me, but now—in a crazy way—I recognized their voice.

His voice.

And I recognized those hazel eyes I'd had the privilege to look into, and know they were looking at me back. When we met gaze, the two of us flinched—and I finally knew.

I knew who he was, and I knew why he was at this bus stop, and I knew why I had the feeling to go there too. I knew why we shared the same pain, and I knew why we shared the same thoughts. He wasn't a stranger. He wasn't a memory.

He was real.

"This is going to sound really strange," he said, "but I feel like we've met before."

I'll find you, he had said to me, I promise.

And for a split second something flashed across his eyes and a smile crept onto his lips. I knew what he was thinking, because I was thinking the same thing too.

"Hello, Lou," I smiled.

And maybe we were never star-crossed. Maybe we just needed to learn how to lose each other before finding each other again, because then we'd know that we were really meant to be together.

Not in a shift, but in real life.

And even when I wanted to say goodbye, fate brought him back to say hello. He was a boy I had gotten the chance to love, and he was the one thing in life that I knew I could trust. He was Romeo. He was Peter. He was a Hatter. But this time he was mine.

And so he smiled.

"Hello, Tewks."