Shorties

Like I want you

Staring into those deep brown eyes tugged at the knife embedded in his heart, twisting the handle. Swallowing thickly, he licked his lips. He blinked, then blinked again, yet she was still there, seated at the table in all her glory.

Even under the terrible lighting, she was as gorgeous as the day he first saw her. He wondered if she still wore the same perfume. The faint smell of vanilla tickled his nose at the thought. Her hair fell to her shoulders, draping over the same coat she wore the last time he'd seen her. His heart throbbed. It had been months, yet it felt like minutes.

The memories of lazy days spent tangled under blankets in the winter and coffee dates flashed before him like a movie. His mind reeled at the many reasons she could be there. Was she there to see the show? Did she want to speak to him? Did-

His stomach dropped.

Was she there alone?

Frantically, he looked at the table, searching for any signs of another person, but he found none. The knots in his stomach relaxed, but his relief was cut short when their manager signaled for them to start. Taking a deep breath, he nodded, silently telling his bandmates to start.

His palms were sweaty.

He'd spent countless sleepless nights constructing this piece just for her. Yet, he never thought she'd hear it. Now, she was sitting in a small club, listening to him play live after walking out of his life months ago.

Slowly, the chattering room fell to a hush under the rich melody of the instruments. Meeting her gaze once more, he let the strums of the guitar consume his nerves. His fingers gripped the stand, his lips graving the mic, and he finally spoke.

He missed her, missed everything: coming home to someone, feeling the warmth in his bed, talking to someone late at night. Pain and sadness filled his veins. He could still picture her walking out that front door.

His voice was raw with emotions he only bottled up. The crowd and the band disappeared. There was no one else in the room but her and him.