Sweet Nothings - GirlxGirl

Chapter Two

A/N: Melissa is a Pakistani. I imagine her to be like: Aisha Linnea Akhtar. I've attached an image of her. So, so gorgeous. As for Melissa, I imagine her to be like Phoebe Tonkin but with blonde hair 

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MELISSA:

The next morning, I wake up alone but I'm not surprised by this. Nowadays, the chances of Amira waking up next to me is practically slim to none. I don't let it bother me. I remind myself, it's not her fault and she needs to do what's best for her. I just wish it wasn't pushing me away and making me feel used in the process.

My mum hands me my usual plate of breakfast, kissing my temples before rushing out of the door. Her demanding job means less and less time to spend with her.

Dylan comes and sits next to me, yawning into his fist.

"Y'alright?" He asks, grabbing a bowl and pouring the cereal in. "I slept great, man."

"Good for you."

He raises a brow at me. "Moody much?"

"Annoying much?" I retort before I sigh, realising I'm doing that thing where I displace my negative feelings onto someone else. I shake my head, looking down at my stack of pancakes. "Sorry."

"Nah. No problem."

"What's the plans then?"

Dylan shrugs, shoving a spoonful of coco pops into his mouth and munching on it loudly. "Might hang out with my girl, go for a movie or something, you?"

"Homework, probably."

"Want a drive to college?"

"Yeah, please."

As usual, Amira is waiting outside the college gates for me. She has a cigarette between her lips, sucking on it hard as her eyes twinkle because a guy is giving her attention. The guy, greasy and dressed in tattered clothes, is winking at him and giving an exaggerated 'phone me' gesture before he walks through the gates.

I try not to scowl as I approach her.

"Who's that, then?" I ask, my voice bitter before I can refrain it.

Amira's eyes filter to me, her smile instantly brightening as she takes a drag of the cigarette and blows the smoke out. Yesterday's bruises are nearly nonexistent, they've been patted down and covered with makeup. It blows my mind how effortlessly she's able to hide a lifetime worth of marks and abuse.

She's as charming as ever, her features welcoming and her smile wide but only I know it doesn't reach her eyes.

Only I know how Amira looks when she's sincerely smiling.

When Amira sincerely smiles, her entire mood shifts. She's exposed, her eyes are electric, her nose scrunches up a little like she's in disbelief this much happiness in one go is even possible. I want to be the one to give her that happiness.

God, I'm pathetically in love with her.

"Just some guy," she shrugs like it's no big deal, her cigarette between her index and middle finger. "You okay, though?"

Amira asks me if I'm okay when it's her who gets battered, beaten by her father every other day, when it's her who's battling mental illnesses and pretending like she's not drowning constantly. I'm mesmerised by how she holds herself together. No one would ever know she's the same girl who calls me at 2am, crying, barely able to breathe. She's the same girl who's contemplated suicide. She's the same girl who wants to run, so far, so fast that she suffocates herself with the thought.

I'm burning with how much I feel for Amira, how deeply.

"You left this morning."

Amira's eyes dull a little, bringing the cig back to her lips. "Yeah, so?"

"Since when do you smoke?"

She lets out a startled laugh. "Um—since forever?"

"I thought you quit?"

"No, not anymore," she sighs. "I can't resist it, yuh know?"

I don't.

I shrug anyway.

She takes anything that'll help her take the hard edge off. Drugs, cigarettes, alcohol—anything. I worry about her more than I want to.

Amira gets up from the wall she's leaning on, dropping the stick on the floor and stepping on top of it. She loops her arm with mine, interlocking us together, as she guides us through the gates towards the building.

Though we're both doing A-Levels, our subjects are entirely different.

She's doing all Science subjects—per her father's request, of course—in hopes to get accepted into med school. She does the lot: Biology, Chemistry and Maths and she absolutely hates it. She dreads her lessons and finds excuses to escape them.

Amira cries in my arms whenever she has to complete an assignment, cries out of frustration and anger because we both know she likes to draw.

And by God can Amira draw.

She has a talent with her hands when she's holding a paintbrush. The strokes come out practiced, ease—she doesn't even struggle. She can do it with her eyes closed. Her hands work over the canvas until she's created an immaculate masterpiece. She draws tragedy. It's always dark, portraying her mood and it's always beautiful.

I do an abundance of normal subjects.

Photography (because I like using cameras, capturing moments to treasure forever. One might even say, my hobby and interest in life is photography), Psychology and Religious Studies. A boring, unusual mix that work well for me.

"So... um," Amira stands outside my photography class, her eyes filtering in the class where all the pictures are plastered on the walls. "I'll come over after school, please? If you don't mind?"

She's asking for a silent reassurance we're still okay.

I nod, opening up my arms. She doesn't waste a second to walk into my embrace, snuggling her head into my chest and exhaling sharply like she's been waiting to do this all morning. I notice how she stops fidgeting instantly, how her eyes flutter shut like she's content.

I can't help the twinge of pain that runs through me.

I want Amira close to me, like this, for the rest of my life. I never want her to stray too far. I want her to hold me, I want her to kiss me. I never want anything else. I would never want anyone else.

Finally, Amira pulls back. Her eyes are glistening.

"Wait for me by the gates, yeah?" She requests. "We'll stop on the way home for alcohol, obviously."

Obviously.

Because, Amira can't stay around me for too long if she's sober.