24-Hour

     We're sitting in one of those old 24-hour diners, pretending that we aren't stealing glances at each other from behind our worn menus. The diner's neon "open" sign flickers. It casts blue and red hues over his face, driving away the night's shadows and allowing me to see him in a new light- literally.
     I honestly don't remember why we chose this dingy, virtually empty diner to come to. The only cars parked outside were those of the diner staff, all of whom were out of sight, likely crammed into the kitchen or outside relaxing from their shift with a smoke. It was as if we were the only two people left in the world, and instead of living out the rest of our days doing the risky things we'd always wanted to, we had decided to remain blissfully ignorant.
     Blissfully ignorant and stuffed into the uncomfortable, peeling faux leather seats of a diner.
     He takes a sip of the chocolate milkshake he ordered nearly half an hour ago. It must be lukewarm by now, but if it is, he doesn't acknowledge it. His gaze shifts to me for a second, before peering out the window beside our booth. He's admiring the night sky, I can tell. I don't doubt he knows every constellation glittering against the dark of it. He knows a lot of things I'll never hear pass his lips.
     The neon sign outside flickers again. I don't think I've ever seen that sign work perfectly, not in all the years I've spent in this small town.
     'Small' is putting it mildly, honestly. This town feels suffocating some days. Everyone knows everyone. You got to the grocery store for a gallon of milk and spend an hour there because someone you haven't spoken to in ages wants to hold a conversation. This town also hasn't treated either of us nicely. You drive down the lane, spot a particular house, and you're sent back into a spiral of emotions. I think he has more bad memories of this place than I do, and he's so willing to leave.
     "One day," I told him, seemingly a century ago, "we'll get out of this dump. I'll take you wherever you wanna go."
   He'd only smiled, a wistful expression crossing his face. I had big hopes for his future. I knew he'd make everyone proud some day. "I'd like to go home."
     "I promise I'll make you the best one there is."
     Until then, we were stuck here. Sipping on room temperature milkshakes and ignoring the way our hearts beat a little faster when our eyes met. We clung onto thin shreds of dreams we had left: a cottage tucked in the woods, a soft acoustic guitar, two cats curled up in front of a welcoming hearth, and the smell of freshly baked apple pie.
     He knows the future I want. He knows I'd only want one with him.
   I move my glass to the side, reaching out. It's a split-second reaction. I don't give myself time to think.
     My fingers intertwine with his, and it feels like I'm floating weightlessly through the cosmos, untethered and unaware. It's warmth, it's a wildfire, it's everything I want.
     He gives me a look. A quirk of his lips, a tiny smile, and I realize it. He knows what I've been keeping a secret from him. He accepts it and he savors it. Most importantly- and I realize this as he gently squeezes my hand- he reciprocates it.
     One day, we're going to break free from the rusted chains of this place. We won't be held back by false promises of safety. We won't give in to the sweet nothings whispered about respect that never existed.
     I'll give him the most perfect home in the world. I'll keep him safe from all the monsters and the hunters of the world.
      "What do you want?" he asks me, softly.
     I know the answer. It bubbles up from my chest without me even wanting to stop it. It's as easy as breathing.
      "You. A life with you."
      "Then that's what you'll have."
      Despite the fact that it's midnight, and we haven't gotten the food we ordered from the diner's exhausted staff, we're happy. Even for just a little while, I know everything will be okay.
      I imagine our future.
      My arms wrapped around him as we watch the sun kiss the horizon.
      Him coming home holding a shopping bag, telling me he bought me something he thinks I'll love.
      Waking him up with breakfast in bed, a delicious plate of warm pancakes drizzled in syrup with a square of melting butter on top. A few slices of crisp bacon on the side.
      Everything would be perfect. And we'd be free.
      He squeezes my hand tighter, causing me to look up at him. Our eyes meet, and a surge of hope flares inside me.
       For him, I'd break down every wall. I'd pluck the stars from the sky.
      For him, I'd get us out of this place, one step at a time.