♡ H E A T H ♡
Happiness.
It's a funny thing, isn't it?
I've been running from it all my life, but it was only five years ago, under the blanket of stars, that I asked her about it, catching her off guard. And her reaction was priceless—a mix of surprise and wonder; it was endearing, almost cute. It gave me a weird fluttering feeling in my chest, and I couldn't help but watch her, this incredible girl who made the night shine, the moon casting a gentle glow on her, lighting up those warm brown eyes that sparkled like jewels and holding a world of feelings I'd always dodged, her red hair danced in the gentle wind. It was as if she was the center of the universe, a living, breathing work of art that took my breath away.
I wasn't quite sure what to expect when I asked her about what it meant to be truly content, to be unconditionally happy. To be able to smile without a shred of guilt or regret, because deep down, it always seemed like an unattainable concept for me. Love, joy, and all the positive aspects of life have always felt out of my reach. And she was... she is out of my league. Could I, with all my flaws and shadows, really grasp such a thing? Yet, at that moment, I had this inexplicable urge. I wanted to know her thoughts, to dive into her dreams and every aspect of her being.
Her answer was pretty naive then, and now, after years apart— those words echo in me, hitting me with the force of a freight train, stirring feelings I thought I'd buried deep.
A wave of unworthiness crashes over me as I see her. It has been four hours, fifteen minutes, and twenty-six seconds since she left, leaving behind a haunting emptiness in the penthouse and in my heart. And there she stands, Mila, a picture of professionalism, dressed in olive flared pants paired with a white shirt so crisp it can cut through the thick air of tension between us; her scent wafts towards me, a subtle mix of jasmine and vanilla, evoking memories of days long past, yet still breathtakingly stunning as ever, like a fresh breeze on a sweltering summer day.
It's a relief, though, to see that she's doing well, looking healthy and happy, as if the years apart haven't affected her at all. But the little selfish bastard at the back of my mind hates it, wishing she felt as fucking lost as I do. It's fucking clear now, I've known all along, that the past years without her have been empty, a void that nothing else could fill—a complete waste.
She catches my gaze, her pretty brown eyes peering up at me through her long eyelashes, and for a moment, her facade cracks. I swear I can see every emotion she's trying to hide: surprise, confusion, a flicker of simmering anger. It's like reading an open book, one that I've studied for years yet never truly understood.
My heart thumps against my chest, the beat resonating through the tailored three-piece suit. I straighten my posture, maintaining an air of composure. With her boss engrossed in a conversation with one of the managers, I inch closer to the familiar redhead. "Ms. Young, isn't it?" I initiate, observing a fleeting flinch. A sly smirk graces my lips as I carefully modulate my voice, "Our paths may have crossed before, at Oakleaf, if my memory serves me right."
The subtle tremor of her hands, the slight tension in her shoulders, and the barely noticeable quiver in her voice betray her outward composure. Oh, my god! She's so cute, like a fawn in a forest of wolves, innocent and wide-eyed, yet with an underlying blaze within. I can't help but feel the urge to hold her hands in mine, to rub my thumb along her bottom lip, to taste the sweetness of her kiss and see if it's as intoxicating as I remember. Before my thoughts run any wilder, she speaks in that soft, angelic voice of hers. "Sorry, I think you have confused me with someone else.
"Is that so?" I challenge, arching a brow. Then I add teasingly, "Because I remember someone who was not only buried in books but also had a vibrant social life."
