authors note; this is this the opening to a book I'm halfway through reading (it's called 'the truth and lies of ella black') it's a really good book and i wanted to share it - i altered it slightly though <3
i am huddled on a bench, shivering, but i don't care about being a bit cold because i'm busy. i have a pencil and a sketch pad balanced on my knees, and i'm sitting in a park in front of a view that has some architecture in it, leaning on corbyn, who is reading a book. i'm totally focused on my drawing. i'm not actually drawing the view in front of me; i do have a few pages of this specific building in my sketchbook, but it's just not the thing that seems to be appearing on the page.
"are you nearly done?"says corbyn. "i mean, you have to take as long as it takes, but it's going to rain and . . ."
he shifts around and looks at my drawing.
"oh," he says. "oh right - a metaphorical interpretation of the view?"
"Yep."
"y/n has made me shiver in a bench for an hour so she could draw a picture of . . . y/n?"
"it's not y/n."
"sorry to break this to you sweetie, but I think it really is."
i look at it. she looks like me but she isn't me. i wish Corbyn could see that, though i don't know how i could possibly expect him to. if i told him, he'd probably understand in the end, but i have never told him and i never will. i laugh for a bit, from nerves, and he does too.
"how's your book?" i say.
"brilliant actually. the apocalypse is well underway. hey. you know, you're right. this doesn't look quite like you. it's like you but with psychotic eyes, isn't it? it's you thinking about something you really hate."
i look at him. i steady my breathing. "yes," i say "yes, actually. it really is.'
"you're not thinking about me, are you?"
i look at corbyn: blond, unexceptional-looking and one of my two best friends in the world. One of my two only friends in the world. i love his face. i love the way we know each other's secrets. though really i know his big secret, but he doesn't know all of mine. i might not know all of his. i probably don't.
"of course i'm not thinking about you, you dick," i say, and a raindrop falls right onto my drawing and blurs it's face. i close the sketchpad, and corbyn puts away his apocalyptic thriller, and we run to a big tree and stand underneath it, looking at the rain and the people putting up umbrellas and hoods and walking fast to unimaginable places, and we wait for it to ease up enough for us to walk into the town centre and catch a train home.
