Disguise♔ z.m

Thirty two

My sight is frozen on the door, hoping Marcel would show up. The possibilities were, he'd never come. I couldn't set my finger on the things that could have been going through his mind right now. All the fancy plates I set out were for a reason. The pasta that took me hours to prepare was set on the table, and pizza was kept in the oven in case Marcel comments on my bad cooking, which will probably happen. I twirl the end of my skirt around my index finger, standing in front of the door, wondering what might happen within the next few seconds.

Busy cars sound from the streets, making the awkward silence fade away. All lights were switched on and the place was neatly kept. It had taken me hours to make my place look admirable and comfortable. I know I don't have to do this for Marcel. I know there is a ninety nine percent possibility he might disagree to stay, but that one percent of hope is giving me the drive. I have to win him back, even though he is my friend and I will always know there was that unforgiving past between us. I hear a knock on the door and my head begins to spin. Before I come to my senses, I realize I had been watching a movie that had that particular scene going on. I catch up with my breaths and walk away from the door, looking for a tissue paper to wipe the thin coat of sweat forming on my forehead. I can't fathom why I am making all of this a big deal. Simple: he comes here, has a brief conversation with me, collects his sister's dress and leaves. In my expectation, I just don't want to have a brief conversation and lead him out the door. I want to have a heart to heart talk, telling him all that has happened to me. I want to hear his point of view and laugh when he tries being cool. I want to listen to him talk about his family and how Gemma knows no extent to embarrassment. I want my friend back or else I might end up having a lonesome night, eating the crumbs of the pizza I ordered.

I hear an actual knock on the door and gather all the atoms of my body, walking to the door and taking in a deep breath.

Be positive.

Pulling back the door, my eyes fall on the light brown boots placed on the door mat where the cursive welcome was scribbled on. Briefly fluttering my eye lashes, I look up, and the soft emerald eyes sparkle, but the positivity was lost. Marcel's cheeks were red, the shade you could hardly find. Perhaps I could compare them to the strawberries I ate on my way back home yesterday after spending many hours with Five seconds of Summer. His lips were pressed into a thin line, holding back the words I bet he wanted to say but couldn't. His brown locks were unruly, just the way I preferred them to be. His eye glasses were in his hands and I believe he had been rubbing his eyes before knocking on the door. His thin white shirt and ebony black jeans looked breathtaking and I noticed he got a little tattoo on his shoulder. I nearly gasp as I see few more tattoos, but decide not to talk about it.

"I am glad you came." I say.

He smiles, but doesn't say a word. He digs one of his hands into his tight pockets along with his glasses and looks at the ground.

"Come in?" I open the door wider, gesturing him to walk in.

"I am fine out here." I feel my heart sink into my chest at the disapproval. I knew he'd disagree, but I never thought it'd happen right away.

"I made lunch." I stay fixed on the spot, knowing that the Marcel I had spoken to weeks before things began to change, won't be so heartless or mean.

"I'm not hungry." He says, chewing on the bottom of his lip.

"It would be lovely if you do stay," I answer, walking in and getting Gemma's dress from my room, only to return and see Marcel still standing outside. I place the dress over the arm of the couch, and stand, fidgeting with my hands.

"Please Marcel, come in. It has been long since we've last spoken." I sounded and looked weak.

He walks in, and I smile, but my smile breaks when he takes the dress into his hands and begins to walk back to the door, murmuring words I couldn't make out. I hold him back by the sleeve of his shirt, but the difficulty escalates and my hand's grip is losing its strength.