luck for the night - rl.

34. as temporary as the smoke in my lungs.

On the train home, there was nothing else I could think about. My brain was like a broken record player, replaying the kiss every moment I closed my eyes, every moment I let my guard down.

I did not hear the announcements of the different cities we'd stopped at, I did not hear the chatter of the people around me, the clunking sound of the train on the tracks. All I could hear, see and feel, was Remington. The way his lips felt against mine, the way he had looked at me, sparks in his dark eyes that I did not recognise. The slight edge in his voice as he said goodbye, and the rosiness on his face, making me even more sure that what I felt for Remington was not just friendship.

The kiss, that fucking kiss, had set something free I had been pushing down for lord knows how long. I was falling for Remington. Fuck, I was falling for Remington.

A long sigh left my lungs. Life really had spiralled into something uncontrollable, so many things going on at the same time. The lies I had told Phoebe, so many I did not even remember them all. The fear of someone, anyone knowing that I was involved with Remington. My desire to change something about my life drastically, run far away from the UK. And now these feelings.

That was a terrifying liberation in itself. I had no clue what to do with all of these emotions raging through my body. The love, the fear of being rejected. The fear of being accepted. The confusion. The guilt. So I did what any normal human being would do: I blasted some Bring Me The Horizon and tried to get my thoughts elsewhere.

But for once, even Oliver Sykes screaming in my ears could not distract me enough.

***

I came home in a cold, dark flat that afternoon, and for the first time in months, I felt truly alone. I had been so used to Mel messaging me life updates every five minutes, hanging out with Phoebe after work, and of course, video calling with Remington every night, that a night with none of that, felt strange.

Well, I supposed that Remington would not call tonight. If I was him, I wouldn't call me after what had happened this morning.

Flicking all the light switches, I made my way to the kitchen and opened up the fridge. An eery emptiness stared back at me. In all those years of living on my own, I had made sure that the fridge was never empty, and that I at least had some veggies, yoghurt, or whatever ready to eat. But after all those days of either being at work, quickly grabbing something for lunch, having dinner anywhere but home, I had totally forgotten to check up with the contents of my fridge and make a quick run for groceries.

Discomfort fell over me, covering my skin in a thin layer of frost, like snow on a cold morning. Images of years past flashed before my eyes, the many times I had stood in front of an empty fridge as a kid, hunger playing up in my stomach. My mother's eyes as she scrounged our flat for change, so I could go get something, anything for dinner, while my parents went to bed hungry.

Those memories still paralysed me, flooded me with guilt. At times, the past was still very much on my mind.

After taking a few deep breaths, trying to overcome the emotions that took hold of me, I opened up another cabinet, where I found some pasta and a can of diced tomatoes. It wouldn't be the type of food I usually ate, but at least it was something.

Even when I tried to distract myself while cooking dinner, my mind kept wandering back to this morning, back to Remington. It was easier to think about that, even if my own feelings terrified me, than to be pulled back into a deeper past, memories I had pushed away for all my life.

So I let it go, allowed myself to daydream about what would happen if Remington was here, in my flat. Would he come up behind me while I was cooking, slip his hands around my waist, planting kisses as soft as the one from this morning on my neck? Would we sit on my sofa together, talking, laughing, touching in a way that was not lustful, but not platonic either? Would his eyes go over the books in my bookcases, as if he could find out my secrets from the titles on their backs? Would we fall asleep wrapped in each other's arms, instead of the awkward spaces that reigned between us now?