Concrete Roses (Ryden)

I Loved You

Ryan's house is pretty easy to find. Just a simple text to Spencer and I'm set. Spence is excited about my decision to talk things over with Ryan, so he was more than optimistic about sharing some information with me when I asked.

I park in front of the house, looking at it in awe. So simple yet so welcoming. The vibe screams Ryan Ross.

I tap the steering wheel while I give myself a pep talk.

"He might be happy to see me."

"It's not like he forgot about me."

"I miss him. He probably misses me too."

"I won't have to lie anymore."

"I can help him."

I tentatively step out of the car, and I start walking toward the door. There's a pathway filled with rocks, and I stare at them as an avoidance mechanism. I haven't even laid eyes on the man and I'm already feeling small.

I finally make it to the door and I can't help but notice the wilting plants lining the concrete slab of a step. I make a mental note: water those later.

I rock on my heels for a moment to build up confidence, then I reach for the doorbell and I don't even have to press it. The door opens and I automatically look downcast, my feet itching to sprint back the way they came.

I look up, prepared for anything this experience could bring me. I should probably say something.

"Hey,"

The word is quiet, because I can't quite focus on what I came here for. Ryan Ross is standing right in front of me, and I've always been his biggest fan.

He doesn't look exactly the same. I'd still be able to pick him out from a group of one thousand other hippie dudes, but it's just not all familiar.

His hair looks like sex, if I had to find a word to describe it. A style I haven't seen in person before; this ruffled hair Ryan doesn't even have to touch.

He's growing a beard. A beard. He looks so... Mature.

He has perhaps one too many buttons unbuttoned on his shirt, and half of it is sticking out of the side of his pants. He must have slept in them? If he even slept. He always tucks his shirt and perfects himself while he's walking out the door, so I'm proven to be a burden.

It's only been seconds but I can't get it out of my head- I used to know this entire man with my eyes, hands, and mouth. I knew everything his heavy mind carried.

He smirks, eyebrows cocked in a way that tells me I'm lower than him. Accusatory and amused.

"What do you need, bud?"

Bud.

His melodic voice wasn't so pretty there, and he almost laughed at the end. The nickname felt degrading on its own.

"Can I please just talk to you? I don't have to come in your house. We could-"

"No, you don't have to come in my house. But you can."

Ouch.

Ryan looked over his shoulder, at his home. It's probably a bit of a mess, but that's okay.

He turns on his heel, and by the time I'm inside he's grabbing an armful of wrappers, journals, and pencils from the living room. He sets it aside before plopping down into his big recliner, fit for the king he is.

I love the nostalgic theme in this house. Grungy Victorian Hipster, Ryan Ross' signature aesthetic movement. Just above the right amount of clutter, faded mahogany paired with subtle pastels. Posters, pictures, and instruments line the walls and it's beautiful.