All of my 5sos work

Postcards From My Past

From every city, every country and continent I received a different postcard. He would never fail with a new postcard, a new way to make me smile as he got further and further away from me. 

Each one would have some sort of funny message to make my day that little bit brighter, to remind me I have a reason to remain hopeful and positive. I was amazed by his input in these postcards, every week there would be one and a memory written from that destination along with a promise to take me there someday. 

All of the postcards are placed into a box that was now full to the brim of various colours and sights along with his rushed handwriting that made me smile. During nights when I would lie awake and stare at the ceiling in complete misery knowing the option to pick up the phone and call him wasn't possible, no matter how much I just wanted to hear the voice of comfort. Instead I'd pour the postcards out in front of me, look at his written words knowing they'd be as effective as his verbal ones. 

Of late, the postcards have been something I rely on more and more often. The words are like a security blanket to me, knowing that he wrote them for me rather than multiple people like their songs. Even though many of these are tattered, the corners bent or the images faded the meaning is still there, the writing is still handwritten and slightly smudged but remains effective to me. 

Around ten months ago most forms of conversation between us diminished, even our postcards came to a halt. Now I have the nostalgia of these cards, no longer a frequent thing to add to my memories. My last postcard still has the tear stains on it, the writing smudged ever so slightly as my tears dried against it, permanently etching my pain into his kind words. 

My late sleepless nights have become more frequent, it pains me knowing the person I could always rely on is no longer an option for me. Who knows when he's coming home, if he'll even want to see me. Sighing I shuffle and look under my bed at the box and reach out. Yet, as my hand connects to the box I hesitate and stare at it with the broken cardboard lid. Why do I have to be reliant on someone else's words to keep me motivated, what am I supposed to be motivated for anymore? Pushing the box further away I return to my previous position, staring at the atrex on the ceiling and patiently wait for sleep to arrive. 

*

Waking up I rub my eyes and glance to my clock, 6:38am. It was too early but I knew the likelihood  of my eyes closing and sleep masking my body would be little. Forcing myself out of bed my body felt heavy, the urge to pull the postcards out was like an addict in their first few days of withdrawal yet I persevered. 

It was another day, I'd get on with my usual jobs. A cycle that seemed fixed now, never changing or ending. That was until my parents sat me down and muttered four words I didn't think I'd hear, "Michael is coming home." 

At first I was unsure how to process it, react to such news. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I remained silent and nodded. Both of them seemed perplexed by such a reaction but I just got on with everything, like I'd even see him anyway. 

Days were going by and he was closer and closer to being home. The withdrawal from the postcards was aching more and more until I could no longer bare it. Picking up the heavy box I took it up to the loft, storing them out of sight and out of mind. All except for one that fell out by the ladder, resigning by my feet. 

Looking at it I smiled to myself, it was from Barcelona- the first time they went. As I examined it one word was in a different colour, missing. Curious to what this could have been I sat down on my bed and read over the postcard again yet, nothing. Why was this single word in a different colour, a bright blue whilst the others remained black? 

Shrugging the feeling off I pinned it to my wall, leaving it there as a reminder to figure this out, whatever it meant it must mean something. Michael was always tactical like that, probably still is. 

More sleepless nights followed and the blue word still clung onto my thoughts, I'd pick it up and try and figure it out but each night got me no nearer to understanding. My logical reasoning was useless, the chances of the far out ideas seemed pointless to consider. Was it meant to be some code I was misinformed of? Maybe I was just too dumb to understand. 

A loud hit on my window woke me up with a shock. I found myself sitting upright breathing heavily I lightly walked to my window. Looking outside I stared in disbelief at the hooded figure waving up at me. I backed away from the window, unsure how to take this situation. 

Before my mind had decided my body was opening the window, seeing him climb up and carefully avoid the trinkets that crossed my desk he stood before me. Unable to move or speak we remained standing in silence, the moonlight behind him illuminating his dark form with a smile softly worn on his face. 

He lowered his hood and messed up his hair. I could feel my heart racing faster against my chest, the uncontrollable rush of emotions never ending. "Miss me?" Chuckling to himself he opened his arms, aiming to hug me but I turned my back to him, remaining cold without his embrace.

"You left me Michael. You just stopped." Keeping my back turned I focused on the mirror, I could see his reflection and disheartened expression clearly. "How am I supposed to let you back in after that?"

His hand reached out and was placed on my shoulder, "I thought you figured it out." Mumbling I turned to face him, the soft look in his eyes now melting into sorrow. 

"Figure what?" I felt like shouting but my tone remained low, it was too early to wake my parents up and I doubt they'll be happy to see Michael in my room whilst I remain barely dressed. 

Moving past me he reached out and picked up the one postcard I had on display, the illustration of the city in black and white with 5SOS written in the corner by him, the same as they all have. "You've read them all, right?" Sighing I nodded, the frustration rising. "All I can say is look at the words, the ones that stand out." 

Before I could open my mouth to speak I was held in a tight embrace. It was the sort to hold all emotion, the one you need after a cry or being in a long distance relationship. Eventually I raised my arms and held onto him as tightly as he did to me, forgetting how much I really missed him. As he pulled away his warm lips lingered against my forehead and then he was gone, leaving the single postcard by my feet.