On Hiatus
There's always something unusual about first love - as if tequila has burned our rational thoughts and possessed our brains.
For seventeen-year-old Florence "Flora" Summer, her childhood friend, Tristan Asher, is the cheap wine she couldn...
It's been a day since my heartbreak. Well, not my heartbreak, but an ache. The kind you feel when your heart muscles are twisted with a pocket knife repeatedly, and you can't help but shed bloody tears as if you're the faint line between hope and waiting. But when it comes back to you each night, your fingers get bruised with those shattered pieces, and those cries darken your eyes forever. Like you're permanently branded. There's only one thing beneath everything—pain. Only red-hot pain, nothing else. This slow rush of sharp, aching pain through my fingers, numbing my hands, up to my arms, tattooing them in bloodied excuses, gripping my veins, and inflicted to my head. It's nearly unbearable, irrevocable, and inescapable. Yet, here I was, letting the same person hurt me again and again. But I've become quite acquainted with it. At least, I'm trying to. Maybe this's it. This was what it would have to be like—burning like embers on a cold, blank surface. And that's where you can't breathe or suffocate. It's crushing, piercing, disappointing, and dry dead. You beg to get rid of it when it grasps your hand more tightly.
I stayed home the next day, hoping to find some way to breathe again, relax, and shut these stupid thoughts off—at least for a while. Mum kept the breakfast on the table before she kissed me goodbye and went out. Mums like mine don't usually overthink subjects related to us. Not that they don't care at all, but that's it. They come over, hug you tightly, rub fake circles on your back, say sweet words, and then it's another good night. All over. Even when you wake up the following day, thinking the pain has gone like a whiff of salty air, it's like you've been marked by it permanently. Life's like this—crumpled up lost letters—no matter how much you try to clean the mess, it just gets messier.
This flickering pain is the only comfortable place to fight from once you're branded by it. The place where no ships can sail long, where no one holds your hands, hears your screams, or draw you into an embrace—only you pull yourself up and swim across, and no one else. You fall asleep fast, having magenta and brown dreams, and then wake up—forgetting yesterday's mess. Those ugly thoughts now disappear, no more bothering you; deep down, they are becoming more entangled with you and turning into an everyday mess.
I rolled out of my bed and put on my slippers. The room's bright in the sunshine, and it's warm here. I know I have to go back to the hideous pain again, but this's the only second I've got to hold on to the last fraction of everything I've got to move on. I opened the chest drawer and pulled out a metal box. It's got rusted away with time, but I've managed to capture the laughter, sunshine, and bare caresses of the memories of the people who never bothered to leave me alone. My dad, Lee, Granny, my dead puppy (Rain)... all those who had never failed to bring that little light into my darkest scars.
The box opened with a loud creak as a thousand pictures, letters, and emotions rushed out of it. People change, they discover themselves—but these memories remain the same way they have been put into as glitters of nostalgia. But not in the way we like it. And that's a great thing about it, in a way. Vintage pictures, old videotapes, greeting cards, withered away flowers, my birthday gifts, Rain's collar, Dad's random sketches on his cigarette packets, Granny's summer letters, and used-up pens and pencils, mostly. It smells of old sunshine, crayons, mint and field grass. Not like lavender, cinnamon, or Mum's vanilla shampoo anymore. But more like freshly cut grass from summer fields, like Dad's pale blue shirts, Granny's knitted sweaters, and Rain's soft brown fur. Pure bliss and nostalgia.
For a few minutes, I forgot everything—my blind hope, things with Tris, anxious thoughts, peer pressures. For a while, vintage happiness preoccupied my mind. My heart wasn't beating loud this time, and I wanted another pouring sunshine to wash out every damn thing. A wave of nostalgia swept across my heart, my ever-gloomy heart. I could hear a faint orchestra of black melancholy. I pulled out a half-torn picture from the box: a black-and-white image of Dad with Rain. He was grinning widely, wearing his favorite green t-shirt. His eyes were twinkling, and so were Rain's. I brushed my thumb on the photo as I gulped down. It's been a long time since I've talked with dad. I missed him badly, scratch that—most terribly. I wish him here with us now; it's just that I couldn't stop the wavering emotions and eidetic memories overflowing my nerves, thighs, brains, and eyes. It hurt—it so much did. I wanted someone here—to listen to me, to hug me with his all, and not fake like Mum as if it was nothing.
I took a deep breath and kept the photo inside safely. Granny's letters were crumpled—brown and grey papers stuffed into the box. She used to write me often till she lost her eyesight one day. In summer, her letters were like an everyday gift. They were like a morning orchestra of rosy pink love and buttercup yellow mirth. I miss not them but Granny's elegant cursive handwriting and the roses she would send with each letter even more. Opening one, I read:
My love Dora.
And this time, the nerves got the worst of me. I let out a breathy sob and clutched the paper. Tears overflowed and wetted my cheeks. No one calls me 'Dora' anymore; I couldn't smell Granny's rose perfume now, nor can I ruffle her hair a little. I miss everyone now—so freaking much: Mommy, Dad, Rain, Granny, and... Tris. I miss my best friend—the one who brought me ice-creams when I was sad and balloons and flowers when happy. It's a foggy summer morning to me—too misty that I couldn't fathom anything. For a moment, part of me told me I was fighting for and against every even and odd thing. I realized I was alone. I didn't have Granny to kiss my cheeks and say it'll be alright or Dad to pull me closer and whisper things will get better. Wiping my tears away, I continued:
It's six now. I didn't go to church today. It's just that I'm not feeling well today. Well, not physically, but mentally. I miss your Grandad today. This evening.
Anna was practicing violin when it reminded me that it was the same song your Grandad sang to me for the first time after we met. I wish he were there; I wish I could hug him again, bury my face into his chest and smell him. There aren't any stars in the sky today. The air's thick and sweaty; it doesn't smell like roses and tulips anymore. Did I lose my eyesight, or am I dreaming? Does that mean Henry has faded away totally? No way, I'm thinking way too much. But I can't stop crying as well. Writing you calms my nerves, you know. The violin isn't swelling the air anymore; the wind's weirdly warm. The burnt blue shade reminds some of the lovely memories we had had, Henry and I. But not all memories grow as we do, do they? They remain as they were left off before we bury our sorrows and pain in the grave. Sometimes you need to let loose than hold back because the latter pains way more than you can imagine. It's not always the way you like it. Get your mind out of the burning memories, and dive a little into the happier ones. And lo, I am stilling yay!
Remember them for the ecstasy they have brought to your heart, not the ones that have ached it forever. Live longer, honey. I miss you. My roses are blooming, god! I love them so much.
I love you, baby.
Your Granny.
It feels like years when I finally finished reading. Maybe, I should let things loose; maybe, letting things go as they are should ease the tension and conflicts. Maybe, not.
But I can't risk myself on maybe.
It's just this thin line between faith and fear. But it's not always the way we like it. True, Tristan made my heart flutter; he was my first sweet kiss and made me feel like no one else does—not even Lee. It's this funny feeling deep down my heart—no swaying butterflies or hitched breaths—only a loss of words. A roller coaster of untouched emotions—raw, wild and deep. An exploding heat pooling on my thighs. But not the way I like it, not the way I want it to be or want him to be. It's the other way around, but I can't help it. I should learn to let loose than hold back tighter. Because holding the reigns firmer aches the palms, but deep down—it somewhere relaxes my nerves.
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Hello, lovelies,
What do you think of Flora? Will she be able to let loose? I hope so... I'm extremely sorry for the delay; life's turning hard again. But I manage to edit the whole chapter. *laughing sheepishly*
Comment a heart if you have enjoyed this chapter❤️
