Love Is Symphony |✓

| 7 |

"So, you like baking?" you asked from behind the open door of the transparent fridge that held bars of butter.

I wanted to say no. Truth was, baking had never been my forte but it was Sunday again, equivalent to Cake Day. It was a tradition that started when I turned eighteen. A pact that my dad and I had for three years now, a pact that I wouldn't want to break.

I briefly glanced over my shoulder to meet your eyes and shrugged. "Guess so. I mean, it's not something I take seriously or I could say that I'm pretty passionate about, but I enjoy baking a lot. It's a good stress-reliever."

You grabbed two bars of butter from the fridge and shut it close with a shove of your elbow. "Huh. You don't seem like a stressed young girl to me."

I had to laugh at that. "Well, you better get your personality-assessment radar checked then."

My mind came to travel back to the time when our financial problems have just began to arise. Back then, I was just a typical kid with the typical problems. Money to buy this new top that had just been on sale, tests, annoying professors, my celebrity crush's new relationship status, my friends' boy-problems, food and just all the simple things that a teenage girl in college should stress on about.  Now, things were very different, and that was me sugar-coating it.

No more nail-spa appointments, no more late-night dinner with pals, no more extra cash for cute tops, no more dates, no more uni. And that was what sucked the most. How ironic it was, when back in the days I'd sacrifice a limb or two just to be anywhere than inside of a classroom listening to my professor go on about Literature. Now here I was, experiencing what wishes I had mumbled on and on in between stabs of my pencil onto my notebook. How I wished I could take everything I said back, how much I'd give up to be in that very same classroom right now.

How much I'd give to make things okay again.

A classic tale that should be taught to pre-school kids, or better yet, this could be another box-office hit with all the perfect clichés.

I often wonder—do humans really always ask for something they don't have and regret once it was granted?

Pretty much like today. Ever since that phone call, I always wished that you would ring me again. I wished it while cooking, taking a shower, at work and before going to sleep. But when I finally got what I wanted and my phone rang, flashing your name across the screen, the sudden feel of anxiousness took a huge place in my heart.

Should I answer it? Should I let it ring until it finally stopped?

But I guess, a girl with a crush would always be a girl with a crush, so I picked up the phone and met you here at WalMart to buy the necessary ingredients for my lemon cake.

At first, I was quite reluctant to let you see this part of my life that not even Imogen knew. It was my guilty pleasure.

Baking every Sunday on my day-off often consisted of trips to WalMart, baking pans, flours and a cake. Truth was, baking a cake every week wasn't practical, it took a good chunk off my salary that could've been used to buy a new couch or pay the water bill. But I just couldn't stop. I couldn't let go of the whisk and the warm fuzzy feeling I always get whenever the aroma of a freshly baked cake started to waft inside my kitchen.

It was the one of the few things my mom left me. It was one of the few things that could assure me that she was real—that she was more than just a figment of my imagination and late-night fantasies. I had a mom, and her name was Tara, and she loved to bake, and she loved me. And despite my strong attraction toward your pretty face, I wasn't quite ready to let you in on one of the most sensitive parts of my life. But here I was, pushing a grocery cart filled with flour and all the other baking necessities along the aisles of WalMart, the wheels of my cart squeaking against the bright floors.

A sudden playful bump on my shoulder cut the train of my thoughts, and I looked up to see your smiling face. "Don't you think that's a little too judgemental, though? You think my radar's a little rusty just because I got that one assumption wrong?"

I had the sudden urge to scoff at the sound of your playful teasing, but I resisted it and focused on the aisle of oats instead. "Nah. You've proven enough to be judged."

"That's just terribly mean! Who would've thought that a sweet girl like you had it in her."

Grabbing a tub of oats, I turned to look at you, Sean. A playful smile that matched the one that you held earlier, now on my lips. "You really have to get that radar checked, then."

We laughed, Sean, the sound of your deep chuckles mingling with my conscious ones, and as the melody of our voices began to weave together, molded into a symphony of all the emotions that I felt for you, I let go of my fears.

As the remnants of our laughter slowly withered into silent contentment with both of us staring straight in each other's eyes, I handed you the tub of oats that we didn't need for baking.

And you took it, you took it along with my offered heart.