August & Colin | WRU series | book 1
We take risks. We make mistakes. We lie. We love. We hurt. We lose total control.
I took a risk. I paid the price.
I made a mistake. I felt the guilt.
I lied. I lie.
I loved. I try not to.
I hurt. I still do.
...
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Every single human being has something they would suffer for in order to experience it.
The most common experience people suffer for might be the painting created by nature at the start of every single day. The summer sky right before dawn when the most beautiful colors collide with the darkness of the night. When the first rays of sunlight try to shine away the shadows of the night still hovering over the city. When they try to form a pact to coexist.
Sunrise is a phenomenon created by nature for which people rise inhumanly early, for which people suffer through miles and miles of hiking up a steep hill in the dark, sweating and sleep deprived, to get the best view, the best experience of the art in the sky.
She's my sunrise.
She's the soft warmth of the rising sun heating your skin. She's the refreshing breeze of the cold morning wind blowing through your hair. She's the chaos of the collision of colors of the sunrise and the darkness of the night sky.
She's the reason why I bare the torture of waking up early just so I can spend a couple of moments with her before she leaves for the day.
She's the reason why I torment my ears by listening to her bad jokes just so I could see that smile. The sparkle in her eyes. The unreserved, unfiltered version of her when she unapologetically shows her goofy self with her endless bad dad jokes and easy smiles.
"Okay, okay, I have another one," she beams before she takes a sip of her red wine.
She's sitting across from me at the dining table, which is decorated with candles she lighted for my birthday and a bouquet of dried flowers I got her to feed her desire to have plants in her room without running the risk of her letting them die. We just had chicory baked with ham and cheese sauce for dinner, which we made together by following August's dad's recipe. Apparently, it's one of her favorite dishes and after tonight I understand why. It was so good I overate to the extent I'm sure I won't be able to move for the next half hour.
"Am I going to survive this?" She presses her burgundy-colored lips together to keep herself from grinning at my misery but her strategy is ineffective as the corners of her mouth still curl up.
"I promise, it's a good one." She's already laughing even though the joke hasn't even started yet and the sight alone makes the corner of my mouth twitch with amusement.
Her enthusiasm is fucking contagious.
"What did the Pink Panther say when he stepped on an ant?"
"What?" I ask, playing along.
"Dead ant, dead ant. Dead ant-dead ant-dead ant- dead ant- dead aaaannntt." She hums the words to the rhythm of the theme song of Pink Panther and I start shaking my head, trying to fight my broadening smile as I watch her. I shouldn't be laughing because the level of humor of this joke is beneath zero yet I can't help it because the sight of how invested she is in the delivery of the joke is downright entertaining.
