overture | newsies imagines

ben fankhauser || hurt, i can't shake

This took forever, but I'm proud of it!! I hope you get the whole theme of it. It's confusing, but it's there. Enjoy! ♡

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I lay myself down beside my bed, sticking a hand underneath the piece of furniture and stretching out my fingertips. They briefly brushed over the side of a cardboard box that was shoved up against the opposite wall. I managed to get a hold of the box and I dragged it out from underneath my bed.

I pushed myself away from the bed and leaned up against my dresser, crossing my legs. I sniffled slightly, pushed up the sleeves of my sweatshirt, and popped off the lid of the box. The edges of it were rounded off by now, and the cardboard was worn down to a mildewed color. It smelled of nostalgic flowers and burnt candles. I took a deep breath and peeled inside.

The first picture that sat on top of the many others was a Polaroid. A white frame that was tinted with yellow age. Chicken scratch handwriting filling up the empty space below the actual photo. 'you and i ♡' was written here.

I brushed a thumb over the words before applying my attention to the actual photo. A pair of hands, so tightly intertwined that there was a pinkish blush on the crease of their knuckles. Sunlight created streaks of light across the hands, pointing out some faint hairs and skinny bones that pressed out from her skin.

I sniffled again and twirled the photo around in my hand. I squeezed my eyes shut, holding my breath until the water fell back into my brain. I breathed deeply and let the projection unravel in my imagination.

Warm sunlight breaking through the glass windows. Messy hair sprawled over a jacket's shoulders. Teeth peeking out from behind cracked lips. Snow drops melting onto chocolate eyes. A woman. A man. In love.

Words. Useless, precious words spitting out from her lips. She was making him laugh. She was the cause of his happiness. She didn't think there was any other profession that she wanted to have. She simply wanted to make him laugh for the rest of time. Her free hand that wasn't clutching his was in his hair, twirling locks around like wheat between teeth.

He wanted to kiss her. Again and again and over and over and. He laughed again and again and over and over and. The jokes. They were stupid. Weird punchlines she's googled the night before their long train ride home to her mother's house. But her eyes, they were trained on his, and her leg was in his lap, and her hands were on him, and he couldn't help but laugh.

In love.

I set the photo down onto the floor beside me. I flicked open my eyes, shaking out the images. The next photo. Him, this time. 'bedhead ♡' this time. The scene crushed itself through my ears and willed itself to happen before I could stop it.

The girl tip toed across the cool wooden floor of his apartment. She picked up the Polaroid camera that was stuck inside of her duffel bag. She put the strap around her neck. Tip toe again.

She crawled back onto the bed, kneeling over top of him. He twisted around slightly, still sleeping soundly. His hair was everywhere. On the bed sheets, his forehead, her shirt, her skin. His hand was pressed into his cheek, his elbow creating a canyon on the sheet, the blankets pulled up around his chest.

She toyed with his other hand and picked it up to her lips. She kissed his knuckles, closed her eyes, and breathed in the moment. She wanted to remember it forever. No matter what.

He stirred around again, taking his hand back and turning away from her. He assumed the same position. Giggle. Hush. He'll wake up.

Shutter and click. A photo. Fell onto his bicep. She plucked it up. Shook it out. Held up to the light. Grinned. Tip toed and shut it away with the rest.

I felt the tear slip out of my left eye. I brushed it away lightly, tilting my head back force the others to fight the gravitational pull back inside. I nearly ripped the photo apart as I argued with the tears. I tossed it aside and picked up another.

'party favor♡.' A golden crown on her head. A hand holding it down. A phone flashlight lighting up her expression.

Laughter. A common theme in this tale. She leaned back in her chair, hugged her knees to her chest. Laughed.

He reached across the table and cake and streamers and set the crown upon her head. It sunk into her curls. Glitter fell down upon her cheek bones and the tip of her nose. Highlighted her in the dewy lamp light from the corner of the room.

He picked up her camera and sat back down in his chair. Her foot rested upon his under the table and he smiled at her. She grinned, ignoring the other people in the room to focus on his lips. He put the camera to his face and. Shutter. A whir. The photo. Shake and focus and develop. A party favor.

I no longer fought the storm and allowed myself to cry. I rubbed at my runny nose, sniffing and sobbing and shaking all over. I reached for another photo. Pressed play.

'je t'aime♡.'

Sheets again. Legs entangled. Lips bite lips. Hair on skin and foot on foot. Eye to eye in the dim lit apartment. A single person finally attitude by sewing needles. Words suddenly catch the air. Laughter as she attempts to detach her lips and sputter a simple phrase.

In the wrong language.

French kissing.

I continued this pattern of photo after photo until I reached the last one. Their last day. Before the chaos ensued and she lost the single greatest person in her life. In my life.

We broke because of distance. Metaphorically. He was big and famous and our hands could never seem to reach each other at the right time.

He was always gone. When he was home, i was gone. When I was home, the cycle repeated. I was home, bags across the room and picture box the last thing to in the room to pack away.

He was at work, unaware of the letter addressed to him on the table in the kitchen. He would come home and see it and fall to his knees and cry. He would cry. He would miss me through and through.

And I would miss these photos. Only these photos.

Your's truly,
and
P.s. i don't wanna be you anymore.