"This is what it's about, Isla."
I glanced at him, studying the way the corners of his mouth lifted to form a perpetual smile.
"Sitting on top of the National Art Gallery with a virtual stranger playing a game with no rules or context?"
He chuckled, and I discovered I was happy to have made him happy.
We sat, curled on the edge of the building, looking at both the stars and the trees.
They spread above and below us, differenced in only their matter.
I found myself wanting to know what it was.
"What is it about?"
His lips parted, air whooshing out, visible in the cold night.
"You and me, right now."
"Yes, Max, this is what it's about."
"Do you believe me? Can you agree with certainty?"
I couldn't see his eyes, just the light glinting from thousands of stars above us.
My heart was pounding in my bones, and I imagined I could feel his heart, beating in sync with mine. I imagined what it would be like if our hearts glowed, if our hearts would pound and glow in sync and they would see it in space and think: that's what it's about.
"Yes."
YOU ARE READING
We Met In London
Historia Corta"Let's play a game." He starts it all. He dances around in my mind, laughter ringing in my ears, even after it's all over. ▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂ Isla has a way with words, not boys. After years of trying to maintain failing relationships, s...
