Unknown

Forty Three: Comfort of Caspar

My broken hair flies into my eyes, covering my vision momentarily as I wipe my face lightly. I try to conceal the need to cry about the images that replay in my mind. I was going to kiss him, I actually wanted to kiss him. We held hands. We laughed together. I didn't want to be alone. He knew. He always knew. I was just too slow.

Everyone else knew. They saw the signs and told me to my face, but I ignored it as I was too afraid to understand what this was, what I really wanted. Now that I remember and the veil has been lifted each moment of that night is restored to my mind. All I want to do is see him, hope he'll let me explain and maybe, just maybe I'll tell him. 

Perhaps he'll hold me in his arms, laugh at how long it's been for the both of us to have a moment where we both knew it was more than it seemed. It would mean no more hiding, no more excuses or thinking he is just my friend. He's my brother's flatmate. But he isn't just that anymore. Instead, there is so much to him than just that and I've been an idiot to not see it. 

Panting lightly I walk through Carnaby street, unsure where I am heading since I got off at the wrong stop. I brush my fingertips across my locket, wondering if they'd be proud of me. Would they be proud of the daughter they barely got to know, that she conquered her mental illness, that the voices diminished beside my own? How I have found something that I don't want to let go of or risk losing again? 

Mentally I read through the words my Mother wrote for me, the stories she told me when I was too young to understand what she was even saying to me or that they had any form of significance. I see their loving glances to me, moments before they were killed in that accident whilst I sat, screaming and crying. All too naive to understand the significance of that moment. 

I glance by those who walk past without a care for anyone else. Most are plugged into their phones, eyes locked on their screens and are most likely unaware of the white clouds that line the blue above us. All of them are so unaware of everything. I can see each of their faces, the man in the suit keeping his eyes focused on his smart shoes, not wanting to scuff them. A woman who keeps glancing behind her at the gentleman who wears a smirk on his face. I pick up the pace, my heart beating too quickly. 

My hands continue to shake violently in my pockets as I try to think of what I could say. The revelation that this still shocks me, and partly I want to laugh out loud at how ridiculous this all is. I want to go dancing with him again, this time without any consequences and just have fun, the two of us. Part of me wants to tell each and every one of them, to scream it, shout to the world about this discovery. It's all too real, it's all too raw to feel true, but it is. 

Reaching into my pocket I fumble with my phone, I dial the one person who'll know what to do, what I should say, how to compose myself as I stand by a stereotypical red phone box. Deeply breathing I can see my chest rising and falling rapidly, my giddy heart refusing to fashion itself like my mind is attempting to. My fingertips hover over the keys, unsure what to type. I glance up to be greeted by my reflection, one that seems too dissimilar to be my own. 

Before me is someone happy, a smile crosses her face as her ivy eyes remain glossy. She moves the outgrown fringe from her eyes, her newly cut hair still taking time to adjust to. Yet she shows her scars, the damages that were caused to her too visibly. Her arm remains bandaged, but her leg is hidden behind the black denim. 

She crosses her leg over the other and leans against the telephone box, raising an eyebrow to herself. All I do is smile, and she copies. I look down, and I see I've already typed what is necessary. All I have to do is press send, but why is it so difficult to tap an arrow? My thumb quivers as my heart speeds up as if it were on a treadmill having lost control. I glance back to my reflection, the easiness has been removed from her face.