What I Once Called Love: The Drafts

Déjà Vu

Worlds apart and yet a breath away. 

Opposing sides of the same room. 

There was no denying the connection; it became more evident with each illicit glance shared.

He was with his friends, I was with mine, but still we stifled our longing to join one another on the dance floor.

An hour passed, and things began to change.

His hand stretched out, offering me a dance, his olive skin smooth in the dim lighting. My stomach fluttered with nerves as my shaky hand found warmth in his as he guided me towards the music.

Turning to face me, his free hand ushered my body closer, my skirt encircling us both. The music slowed as our steps found the pattern of its rhythm.

The cinnamon scent from his cologne eased my residual nerves as I placed my head on his shoulder. I noted the wrinkles in his once-pressed shirt, how his open collar revealed the small black threaded necklace hiding below. I longed to know its story.

Song after song played, but still, we swayed, the peace warming the deepest parts of our souls. It felt like a dream.

I noticed the sharpness of his jaw the stubble on his chin. It was all so familiar. Lifting my head from his chest, I was desperate to memorize his feature. Slightly twitching at the sudden chill, his eyes bored into mine. They were beautiful, with their coffee-tinted depth daring me to take a leap into their warmth. Surely, I would've remembered eyes like that.

He grinned as his gaze moved the floor. It took me a minute to catch the tinge of red in his cheeks. I wondered if he was a mere figment of my imagination, that he'd disappear if I blinked. My hand centered on his chest as I lessened the distance between us, his heart's rhythm quickening, matching that of my own.

No longer were we worlds apart, yet we were still a single breath away.

What happens now?