He rested his head on my lap after I said it was okay if he did. I stuttered a bit when I let him, but never once hesitated. I wanted him around, in close proximity that I could see him with the edges of my eyes.
And there we were, no words exchanged, just innocent rubs from the clothes we were wearing. His face features seemed softer from my point of view. He felt softer in this point of view, almost like how I remembered him from our earlier years.
I didn't expect any other interaction beside our cold banters. But he started to talk about Owen Wilson in "Midnight in Paris" and how he watched that movie twice on a Sunday night. He went to ask me what other movies gave the same vibe as "Begin Again" did. He whispered a song on my ear in his deep, false-pitched voice that oddly, I didn't mind listening to. He was there, present. He was real, his skin touched mine when he moved a little. I wished someone was there to record this intimacy I hadn't had in a while. Maybe he hadn't had too.
But if they would make a movie out of us, from this scene only, I already knew how it would end.
