MyStreet ~ Stupid One-Shots

•Winter's Brink•

Just go-- get out.

It's been months at this point. Yet, the guilt over what I did to you that day still eats away at me whenever it crosses my mind. Which, these days, is often- more so than I care to admit.

Gene, please! I didn't-

Just leave!
I don't wanna hear it.

Couldn't even blame it on the hangover, could I?
And with tears I so much wish I could unsee, but can't;

I'm sorry.
I'll go.

I hate thinking about it. I do. But it's not the type of thing my mind will let me forget. Won't let me live down any of the wrong I've done. To you, especially.

Which is why, lately, I've learned to focus on other things-
smaller things.

Like- It's such a gorgeous day out. I choose instead, to focus on that. On the light but bitter wind that whistles through rustling plants. How it carries with it discoloured leaves. And against my bare neck- although subtle, the breeze- it's frigid. Sharp. And I shiver. Though, it's the perfect kind of cold. One where I can see my shallow breath crystallizing in the air. Yet, it's still at a point where I can get away with donning but a leather jacket as a shield. Where I won't freeze to the bone without the bulk of a winter coat.

The sun's out, sky's ridden of any clouds; and for a short moment, I'm able to bask in it. Wallow in the golden-hued glow that's fallen over quiet streets. Though, the relief's short lived--

With a sight-
An open guitar case, propped up against the concrete base of a rather tall Central building; you too. Your hair's a bit disheveled- grown at a considerably awkward length. And as I approach, there's clear stubble that's patched beneath carved cheekbones.

You wear few layers. Of an old sweater you used to wear in high school that I guess still fits you. And loosely draped over your shoulders is a trench coat which honestly doesn't look as if it could do much to keep you warm - were you to wear it properly, that is.

And honestly, part of me's mad that you don't look different enough - beat down enough that I can't recognize you. Part of me's mad that I even noticed you at all because now, there's no playing it off as if I didn't. Not without a growing remorse taking over if I just pretend to forget and walk away.

So I cross the empty road. Slowly approach you, without even thinking about it at this point. Focused solely on the pounding in my ears and the fact that even though my boots are now in your line of sight, you continue to pick at the strings of your guitar.

You actually sound decent, and I can't help but wonder how long you've had out here to practice.

I did this to you, didn't I?

And I swear to Irene, I'm about to hurl. But instead, comes out the faint whisper of your name;

"Zenix." Though, of course, you don't hear me. So, in a lame effort to gain your attention-

"Hey. Pea brain," I say, clearer this time; your ridiculous nickname that somehow stuck. And with that, the plucking of the strings ceases. Your head lifts up, your eyes are bloodshot- though, they aren't looking at me.

Rather you nod a grateful nod to a passerby who'd just flipped a coin into your guitar case, and only then do your eyes meet mine.

And all I can muster is a rather awkward smile. No more words. Not for now, anyway- as I extend my hand to you, and only hope you'll do anything but reject it.

Unlikely-

Yet, you smile back.

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