Her scent still lingered as I packed each memory of her into a cardboard box. Each item landing on top of the next with a thud, the sound synchronizing with the light pitter-patter of the rain as each drop hit the window. I tried not to think about the memories each object held, but I guess this couldn't be helped, because as I picked up the crinkled old copy of The Little Mermaid I could almost feel her hands on my skin as they tried, and failed, to snatch the book from my grasp.
“Harry, give it back.” She whined, an annoyed smirk spreading across the edges of her mouth. Her hands came up above her head and around my body as they tried to snatch the book from me. I held it higher, wanting her to move just a little bit closer, because I knew once she grabbed the book, the close proximity we were in, where I could feel the warm wisps of her breath creep down my neck or her hands grab my skin, I knew this wouldn't happen again.
“Out of all the versions of The Little Mermaid you could read you would choose the most depressing one to be your favorite.” I nagged jokingly, turning my back to her as I brought the book from down from above my head. She took this opportunity to snatch the book from my grip and walk as far as she could between the piles of books and boxes that she had yet to unpack.
“Oh come on, its romantic.” She spoke, hugging the book to chest as if it was the last thing she'd hold.
My throat went dry as she looked up at me through her lashes. So sweet and innocent. I wanted to snatch the book from her, hold her hard to my chest and never let go, but I knew she wouldn't like it if I crossed the “friend” boundary I swore to her I wouldn't cross. Instead I walked over to her and ever so carefully as if she would break from my touch, brushed the strands of hair that had fallen in front of her face, behind her ears.
“Whats romantic about dying?” I whispered, bending down to her eye level, knowing that she wouldn't be able to hold m gaze. Like clock work she recoiled, her body moving away from mine. As I stood up, taking the book from her hands, I rummaged through the pages. I looked up just as she rolled her eyes, her hair falling to cover her face once more.
“Its not the fact that she died that was romantic. It's the meaning behind it. She gave her life for the person she loved...even though he loved someone else.” I don't know if it was the way she said those words, or if it was the way she stared so intensely at the book, but I should of realized that day that something was wrong.
