// part ix

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{ The part we've all been waiting for. I stole a few lines from John Green's Paper Towns. Favourite, comment and enjoy. }

♥ ♥ ♥

jasmine // part ix

Shawn leads me up a steep set of stairs until we emerge at what I assume is the top floor, and out onto a small balcony. The night seems a lot colder on the roof on the recording studio. The breeze has a bitter sting to it, but it is not sharp enough to take the beauty out of the view below.

“This,” Shawn stretches his arm over the abyss, “is my favourite view in the world.”

My gaze scans the view before me. Beneath us I can see the flashing DON’T WALK signs at intersections, the streetlights running up and down the city in a perfect grid, the crane towering over the construction site which will one day become an American Apparel. Cars drift past the window, their headlights illuminated the evening like millions of sparkling shards of confetti that shower the city. It paints streaks of red and yellow against the darkened sky, contrasting and blending all at once. From a distance, the city looks peaceful. The dark, glistening exteriors of skyscrapers hide the secrets which lie beneath the city walls.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.

“I know,” he replies, the words barely escaping past his lips. He clears his throat, speaking out loud. “It’s more impressive from a distance. You can’t see the wear on things, you know? You can’t see the rust or the weeds or the paint cracking. You can see the place as someone once imagined it.”

“Everything’s uglier up close,” I state blankly.

“Not you,” he answers softly.

My stomach churns and I look away. But my shoulder is against his arm and the backs of our hands are touching, and my whole body feels like something’s set it alight.

Here in these city lights, there is no him and there is no me. There is just everything and nothing in the spaces between, like flickering lights against a never-ending, black sky. Here in these city lights, there is nothing to lose and nothing to gain. There is just an empty night pregnant with promise, like untouched pillows and fraying guitar strings and rusty engines. Here in these city lights, there is nothing to hide and nothing to reveal. There is just candid smiles and wasted tears and bottom lips chewed off, like the overflowing boulevard of things unseen.

And then a firework bursts over a boulevard overpass. It hangs there, shimmering in the night sky before blinking into a cloud of smoke.

“Fireworks,” I grin, my mind darting to a memory of me and my father at Halloween many years ago – me perched on his lap with the pointed top of my witch’s hat grazing his chin, as we admired the fireworks which sparkled at the bottom of our yard. It’s an old sadness, more of a ghost than an ache, but it pulls on me here harder than it has for years. The memory is vivid, but blurry at the edges as through it is slipping away.

Three more fireworks shoot up over the city, contorting into purple stars as they burst against the dissipating smoke. The sky is stained the color of charcoal, the constant stream of fireworks a flash of color against the dull backdrop of the sky, a kaleidoscope of vibrant shades.

“Who does fireworks this late at night?” Shawn raises his eyebrows quizzically.

“This is New York,” I remind him with a small grin, “But it’s in the direction of this awful academy that is kind of known for its pupils doing...dangerous shit.”

“Some reckless kids trying to host a revolt or a riot just for attention,” he guesses.

“Some uneducated adolescents rebelling against not being allowed to smoke weed in school,” I add. We laugh, and I find myself leaning towards him without thinking about it; resting my head in the crook of his neck and letting his warmth envelope me. He reaches for my hand, entwining our fingers together. The fireworks sparkle overhead, pounding like drums and shadowing the bright stars which freckle the night.

“Hey,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder.

“Hi.”

“This is nice.”

“Very nice,” he agrees, gesturing to the parking lot immediately below us. “The nicest parking lot I’ve ever seen.”

I shake my head at his terrible attempt at humour. Three fireworks burst in tandem; purple-green-gold.

“I hope I can come back to New York soon,” he murmurs, the breeze carrying his words away. Something unidentifiable is laced in his voice and I turn my head to glance at him. His face is just inches from mine; his warm hand reaches up to cradle my cheek. His breath fans across my lips, warm and slightly minty, as if he has been preparing for this moment.

“I hope so too,” I whisper. His eyes dart to my mouth as he grazes his perfectly aligned teeth against his bottom lip. A burning desire pulses through me, and I can’t trace what it is exactly. All I know is that he has a very endearing effect on me for someone I only just met. 

But then he closes the distance between us and all coherent thoughts are pushed from my mind. The only thing I am aware of is Shawn’s lips, gentle and soft yet insistent on my own. My very own fireworks explode in the pit of my stomach; even more tangible and vivid than the ones erupting overhead. All the cheesy descriptions about kisses with chemistry and fireworks evolve into life and suddenly I develop a new respect for whoever first recorded these internationally recognized metaphors.

It doesn’t matter that I only just met him. It doesn’t matter that nothing will become of this intimate gesture. It doesn’t matter that my mother is probably beside herself with worry right now, frowning at my vacant bed. Nothing else matters, except the embrace we are caught up in.

And as Shawn’s mouth moves against mine, a thousand pieces of my shattered heart tug back together in my chest.

Insomnia // Shawn MendesWhere stories live. Discover now