Forelsket (George Harrison)

CHAPTER SIX

| SIX |

REESE

Click!

I groaned as I shifted my head on the comfortable pillow I was leaning against to.

"Just so you wait," I muttered, "because I am really going to murder you."

Reil . . . you, walking disturbance, go away.

"Do you know that I am totally exhausted from all the stuff at the uni?" I muttered. "I'm trying to sleep."

"What?" the voice beside me also muttered in response.

I groaned, slowly opening my eyes. I felt something hard on top of my head. I looked at the pillow I was leaning against. It wasn't a pillow but a human and my head was lying on its shoulder. Suddenly, I felt terribly abashed from my actions.

What was I doing? Leaning against some stranger without thinking? Emma, you deserved a tremendous round of applause. You had officially put yourself into a very sappy situation with a stranger. I slowly lifted my head up from the person's shoulder, making its head droop.

"Gee, I'm terribly sorry," I muttered.

I turned to look at the person and I abruptly felt overwhelmed because I never thought I was leaning against the person who rocked my universe. I mentally gave myself a heap load of reprimands and I shook my head. He was already awake and he turned to me with confusion until it all waned into a smile that seemed to engulf happiness within me.

I wondered how I could even dare to look at him for how many seconds without having this feeling of infatuation. Perhaps, the answer beneath that question was, I already became immune to guys like him - manipulative, making delusive promises, and I might add, good-looking.

Suddenly, a conversation we had earlier flashed through my mind.

George decided to stay even though Robbie was already sleeping in his room. We talked about our interests, just random things that immediately came in our minds. It was utterly strange, the surrealistic situation sweeping over me was turning into a point where I thought I must had turned myself into a delusional freak. 

I chuckled.

"That was an awful topic, wasn't it?"

He looked at me with a brow raised. Then he answered, "Well . . . not really."

"What? We were talking about love. It's just so . . ." I trailed off, looking for the right word to describe what I was meaning to say, ". . . cliché."

He laughed from my remark. "You think so?" He asked, "Because you're bloody right."

"Loove is . . . overrated," I said. Suddenly I stopped, thinking about what I'd uttered. "Love, love is overrated."

I looked at him, surprised of my abrupt thought. He only looked at me with his brows furrowed together. "Every single time, we'd watched those different sappy love stories, giving us their own version of the theme's meaning that the notion itself became overrated. You see, we never actually have our own meaning of that word because we believe on the words that they put together to form that definition. So, for you, what is love?"

He was silent for a short period of time. Although he only looked at me and muttered, "Well, I think that, love, for me, defines the girl in front of me."

I looked at him with my eyebrows furrowed together. "Um, you were saying . . .?"

Suddenly, my confusion diminished as a notion of another book to write came into my mind. Our conversation made me thought of the idea that I had to yell in a whisper, "Holy cow, you're so awesome, George Harrison!"