Inception

The sun was warm on my face, burning the back of my neck, causing sweat to bead on my forehead. My hair stuck to my skin, my body feeling heavier with each step. The rays of heat were visible on the hot summer day, my hair already growing into a foreign style that I have yet to tame.  The streets were empty as I walk split down the middle, counting my every step. As I stare at my worn down chucks, the road had come to an end.

            Everything seemed so silent, so tranquil. I could almost hear the silence in the air, the buzzing of insects the only sound for miles. Even my breathing seemed off, almost too slow. I felt calmer in essence, feeling the world and worry slowly but surely lifting from my chest, making me feel light.

            Light? I seemed delusional; confused. I was almost sure I was dreaming when the familiarness of his voice had brought me back from what seemed like a fantasy.

            “Kyra,” he called for me. I turned on my heels, remaining gin the midst of the quiet street. I looked at him, examining the way he stood, surprisingly straight, and the way he looked at me, his amber eyes seeming strangely mystical in the daylight that shadowed half his face. I stood quietly, my posture compared to his being utterly atrocious. I felt diminutive in his presence, the way my hair created a curtain around my face and how my shoulders slumped forward, almost as if I shrugged and never got my arms placed. He called again, the large space between us diminishing as he stepped closer.

            I couldn’t concentrate on him; my mind was going off in a billion directions, the world almost completely secluded from my thoughts. I felt the lightest breeze on my skin, the air biting at my ears. The sky had turned to fire, the blaze battling the water and winning. I felt his hand on my shoulder, gentle, like he just needed to feel me there, with him.

            “Kyra,” he says quietly. He places his palm to my cheek, placing my hair behind my ear. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice being oddly uneasy and distraught.

            “I’m okay,” I croak. My voice seemed inaudible, seeing the strain for him to hear me.

            Now he held both my shoulders and looked deep into my eyes, studying my face with great precision. “What’s wrong? Please talk to me,” he pleads. He seemed desperate now.

            “Nothing’s wrong, Elian,” I snap, stepping away from his grasp. From the look in his eyes, he was hurt. I felt the guilt rise, wanting to just come out. He quickly placed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, biting on his bottom lip, staring into the distance.

            I step forward and place my arms around him, my head residing against his chest, hearing his heart beat. He breathed a sigh of relief, wrapping me in his arms, resting his chin atop my head. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

            “Kyra,” he says. Every time he says my name, it seems like he hasn’t said it in a million years. “You know you could tell me if something was wrong right?” I nod my head quickly and got closer. He knows that I’m hiding something, Elian isn’t dumb. I’m just quiet, shy, and closed-minded.

            Elian was a good person and a popular guy. What made him choose me over the parade of cheerleaders who offered to hold his books and doused the air with their blinding perfume? God-knows-what. Not to be self-indulgent, but it made me feel like I was better than them. And for me, that’s a very good feeling, trust me on this.

            The air felt cooler, Elian holding me, in the middle of the street, the darkness closing in on us. I knew I’d hurt him, made him feel like he wasn’t doing enough. But Elian did everything. He was what seemed like the boys I read in books; the hero, the one who saved the damsel in distress. I was the damsel and Elian was my Superman.