➴ O L I V E R
When Oliver woke up the next morning, he was two seconds from sliding off Keenan's couch. His knuckles brushed against the rug as he pushed himself up and rubbed the back of his aching neck, a side effect from sleeping lopsided on a couch that had suffered too many poker nights. He was surprised he managed to make it through the night, the chirping birds outside his window a reminder of the time. The world always continued to revolve even if half of its population was asleep.
Oliver had fallen asleep last night with a book in hand, losing himself in the middle of the sentence. On nights where his mind refused to shut off, he always pulled out a book from his bookshelf. After years of working at Leo's bookstore, Oliver learned that a couple of words on a page had the power to create another universe. And sometimes all people needed was to focus on a reality that wasn't theirs.
When Oliver realized he had lost his place in his book, he released a sigh that seemed to ricochet off the four walls that bordered him. As he got ready that morning, he thought about all the lives that ended in the middle of sentences. Somewhere in the world, a husband could be speaking to his wife for the last time through the phone before he got into his car after one too many beers. On the other side of the world, hundreds of families could be peacefully sleeping under their rooftops as a bomb plagues the heart of their city. For all Oliver knew, he could have a neighbor in this apartment complex with numbered days.
There was so much uncertainty in the world, but the last thing Oliver wanted was for his average, surburban life to end in the middle of the sentence. If someone were to ask what his last words were, he wanted his children to be able to say something more than a couple phrases he murmured haphazardly in his sleep that meant nothing more than empty promises.
Sometimes people drew the shorter straw in life and walked into situations not knowing they were seconds away from their last words. These were the people that screamed for help as a bullet pierced through their skull, the father that accidentally fell off a ladder as he tried to fix the leak in his daughter's bedroom, the mother who hid her cancer from her children for years because she couldn't stand to see them in pain. These people passed him on his way to work. They were all around him.
As Oliver climbed out of the shower, he heard his next door neighbor step into the shower. He could always tell because she loved to hear herself sing to NSYNC and the Backstreet Boys in the shower with the jets on full blast. Life was too short not to enjoy the little things.
✵✵✵
Keenan had already left for swim practice before the crack of dawn, leaving a banana peel on the kitchen counter and the blender plugged in, remnants of a protein smoothie in the sink. Even on the days when he didn't have early practice, he left before the sun came up to get a workout in before his morning classes. No one had more energy than Keenan Quintiliani in the morning.
Oliver cleaned up Keenan's mess, scrubbing the counters clean with whatever supplies he could find under the sink. After he was done rinsing all the dishes, he opened the refrigerator to find nothing more than an expired carton of milk and some stale bread he should've tossed out last week. As he left the apartment with a breakfast bar he had been saving for a rainy day, he really hoped Keenan hadn't used the expired milk for his smoothie this morning.
He definitely didn't want to clean up that mess.
✵✵✵
There were some days when Oliver took the long way to work so he watch the world around him quietly buzz and revolve. Some strangers passed by him on their phones or in the middle of a conference call, completely unaware of their surroundings. Others passed in deep thought, only aware of the way the sun shone through the clouds that day. There were some people, however, that simply looked lost as if they were drowning in quicksand.
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Historia CortaIn which a troubled boy who often finds himself at a loss for words falls in love with a poet who only has her words.