Sweet Nothings - GirlxGirl

Chapter Four

MELISSA:

The next morning, I wake up to kisses being smothered down my cheek. I smile into my pillow, inhaling the scent before I open my eyes. I want this moment to last forever. Amira's legs tangled under the sheets with mine, her arm around my waist, her lips pecking me. I want this every morning.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," she whispers down my neck. "I miss you. C'mon. Wake up."

I turn my head around, facing her properly.

She's stunning in the morning. I know she doesn't sleep well during the night hence the red rimmed eyes, the dark lavender eye bags. Her hair is wavy, falling past her shoulders and she has a lazy smile sprawled across her lips. She's still naked, her full breasts on view and her heavenly thighs circling mine.

"Morning," I mumble, unable to bite back my own smile.

Amira has this effect on me. Unexplainable, genuine joy.

As well as heart-wrenching, painful angst.

There's moments I can appreciate with Amira, though. When the entire world has slowed down and it's just us two, no other obligations and commitments. When she looks at me with stars in her eyes, ensuring me we're okay and it's only us in that moment of time. When she kisses me so tenderly like I'm about to slip away but she has a strong grip on me, not allowing me to drift.

Amira loves me. I'm sure of it. I'm just not sure she knows how to treat the people she loves. I'm not sure she knows how to accept love that's given to her. She's been subjected to a lifetime of abuse and neglect so I'm not surprised, she's never been shown or taught.

"C'mere, chéri." She requests.

I hum, closing the distance and connecting our lips together. We both smell of morning breath and we need a shower, remnants of last night's party still evident. Yet, everything stops when she cups my cheeks and she kisses me.

"I love it when you speak French."

She grins, leaning back and settling on her forearms to look at me intently.

"Uh huh? Is that so?"

"Yes, so fucking hot."

"Vous êtes chaud."

"Really?" I raise a brow, my heart soaring as she compliments me.

Amira simply shrugs, like we both know it's the truth, and kisses me again. Once, twice. Then she pulls away and gets out of bed, grabbing the cigarette from her discarded jacket pocket and lighting it up.

"Wanna gunshot?" She asks.

"Sure."

I crawl towards her on the bed. She holds my chin between her fingers, staring into my eyes like she's trying to see into my soul. I try not to squirm. She's intimidatingly attractive. There's always a glint of something dangerous in her eyes. Amira is fearless. She can go into any problem head on, without a worry in the world, and I continue to admire her from afar.

Amira takes a long exhale on the cigarette, leaning down. I open my mouth and she blows the mouth into my mouth. I swallow it.

We repeat this act a few times before Amira walks to the window, opening it up and leaning against the pane to blow the smoke out in the air. I follow, wrapping my arms around her from the back and try not to notice how she stiffens.

"Someone might see us," she reminds her and there's a small quiver in her voice.

I shrug. "So."

"So, stop." Amira says firmly, pushing me off and giving me a glare.

I sigh. It's a continuous back and forth with Amira, never sure what our boundaries are and aren't. I walk away from her, not bothering to give her a second glance as I crouch under my bed and pull out our scrapbook.

We had made our first scrapbook together when we were thirteen. Amira had come to my house, crying her eyes out because her father was being scary. To calm her down, I grabbed a spare notebook from my cupboard and we sat on the floor together, our pictures and decorations scattered all over the floor. Her fingers had been grazing my thighs but we were innocent and we weren't aware of what we were feeling.

Maybe a part of my soul has always loved Amira from the beginning.

I flick through the scrapbook now, my fingers lingering on the ripped edges of pages as I observe the pictures.

There's pictures of school trips, of our school dances, of our teachers, of Amira's first drawings when she had started to get into Art, of us hugging and holding hands. Even at thirteen, we had done everything together. We had shared our lives together.

Amira turns around to observe what I'm doing, exhaling sharply when she sees the notebook in my hands.

She puts her cigarette out, throwing it out of the window before making her way to the bed. She snuggles into my side, her arm entwined with mine as she settles her head on my shoulders and watches me turn the pages.

"You were so beautiful, even from the beginning," Amira says, her eyes fixed on a picture of me.

It had snowed during Year 8, the entire school field was full of layers of white and ice. The teachers had warned us, telling us that it was dangerous to play but no one listened. Amira and I had ran onto the fields, hands twined as we flopped onto the cold and made snow angels. When I had gotten up, there was bits of snow all over my hair. Amira had taken the photo, claiming I looked like an angel myself.

"Mhm." I hum.

I miss those days.

We were young, there was no commitments, no worries and Amira didn't hide her love for me. Because we were innocent. Because we didn't know how else to label our relationship. Because the feelings for each other could be deemed as friendship and we were okay with that.

"Is your mum home?" Amira asks next, removing her head from my shoulder. I try not to acknowledge the loss of warmth.

"Nah. Work."

"I haven't seen her in a while."

I shrug, closing the scrapbook and putting it back in it's designated place.

"She works most of the times, it's only Dylan who's around."

She smirks, nodding. "Bet he'd like me to play GTA with him," and with that, she walks out of the room, skipping down the hall to where Dylan's room is.

I hear the knock and the casual conversation.

I refuse to follow after her. I sit down on the bed again, grabbing my phone and texting a few friends. I refuse to let myself lose my mind over Amira. I refuse to.