Love Is Symphony |✓

| 26 |

You finally invited me to your apartment into the second week of our relationship, and I was over the moon. To me, it felt like our relationship was finally taking off despite the past hurdles that caught its wings.

The plan was simple. You would pick me up after the recording of a song from your debut album, and I'd wait outside Infusion after my shift. We would go to Walmart, because you always hated small grocery stores, and we'd buy something to cook.

I told you that I wanted to eat steak, but you said that you didn't have an oven in your tiny apartment. Until things weren't carved in stone yet, you wouldn't have enough money for a better place. Soon, you promised me, sounding almost breathless.

"I'll move into a better apartment and we can eat all the steak you want," you told me while we were in the car. Eyes twinkling with so much hope under the dim lamp posts obscured by your tinted car windows.

"It's okay, I don't mind," was what I said.

"How about carbonara, instead?"

I secretly smiled when you said that. Trust me, Sean. It didn't matter as long as you were with me. It could be steak, carbonara or even boiled eggs, and I wouldn't mind. The taste of your lips as it pressed against my own—sweet and tempting—was all that I needed.

Smiling, I turned to you. You smiled back, content with my silent answer. "Carbonara it is."

Now as I stood in front of you while you struggled to choose a better brand for pasta noodles, one pack measured against the other, I began to imagine a future filled with you everyday.

In the mornings where you would smile at me over your shoulder as you toss pancakes in the air before it fell smack in the middle of the pan in a perfect acrobat. On lazy afternoons, watching Netflix on our brand new leather couch that smelt of milk. Or late at night; me underneath you as we danced to the song we knew by heart under the moonlight. It'd be wonderful, Sean. Blissful. Beautiful. Which only made everything worse, because I knew your dreams weren't made of the same days. They were composed of flashing lights, screaming fans and the constant strum of your guitar.

"Which one?" You turned to me with a frown, both packs of pasta noodles raised in each hand for appraisal.

"Left," I absentmindedly said. Truth was, I didn't know which one's better. I never tried either brands. My dad and I always opted for the cheaper ones at the bottom of the shelf. The ones that always expand way bigger than what should be considered appetizing no matter how much I tried to watch over it.

With a shrug, you tossed the green packet into the cart, it clanked against the side of the cart, and soon, we were rolling away to the next aisle.

"How about some toast?"

"Yeah, sure."

The cart pulled to a stop. You turned to look at me, a frown beginning to form on your face. "Is something wrong?"

"What? No. Nothing's wrong."

"Are you sure? You sound different."

"Nothing's wrong, Sean," I reassured you, reaching out to hold your hand. Eyes falling to our clasped hands, you looked as if you still weren't convinced, but instead of protesting like I expected you would, I was rewarded with a bright smile instead.

"Okay." You squeezed my hand, and I smiled back in return.

There was nothing wrong, Sean, but it didn't mean that everything was right.

-

"You could sit with my personal assistant. It wouldn't take that long, I promise." You were looking at me with that puppy-dog eyes of yours; fully aware that those eyes could easily make me do anything that you asked for. It was sad how true that statement could be. I should know. It only took one smile, a non-relenting gaze and a quick kiss to lure me into coming to a lion's den of your recording studio.