October.
I was walking around Luke's room, carelessly picking stuff up, admiring it, then putting it down. I wandered here, after Ashton came home and asked Luke to help him set up the new DVD player that he bought in the living room. I watched them for the first five minutes, got bored and excused myself.
I noticed the picture frame on his nightstand and pick it up suspiciously. It was a picture of me, all blurry and bright and I can't even remember the time this was taken. It must've been one of the days I spent here. I smile, run my fingers across the small glass and perch it up back in its place.
I then pick up his journal, which laid neatly next to the frame, with a pencil in between the pages. I opened it, skimming the messy pages full of writing, when one phrase stuck out the most to me.
01/09/15; 10:49 a.m.
do not fall in love with an artist;
because they will draw flowers in your lungs.
and although they are beautiful it is so
fucking hard to breathe.
I felt my heart drop to my gut, my stomach tightening. What? Was this recent? When did he write this? I check the date again. January fifteenth. That was only two days ago.
I was confused. Maybe this wasn't about me; maybe he was just writing some poetry shit that came into his mind. But it was all right here.
It is so fucking hard to breathe. Michael's words from work today popped into my head, about me being "clingy" and how there are some girls out there who "suffocate" their partners. What if I was one of them?
I stare at the first line over and over again. Do not fall in love with an artist.
Do not fall in love with an artist.
My stomach was now a combination of fluttering butterflies and bile that threatened to come up from being so nervous. What did this mean? Wait a minute - did this mean that Luke loves me?
But if he did, why do his words sound like he was being pushed under, or pulled, at this case? What was I doing wrong?
I felt like I wanted to cry, or pull all my hair out in frustration. Why did I need to like- no, love him so much, that I smothered him much to his capabilities?
I felt selfish; I felt needy. It's like I was lost at sea all these years and he was my lifeguard, my rescuer who swam out to help me get out. But I'm pushing him down, so I could keep my head up as long as possible, enjoying the bliss while he was drowning.
But the thing is, he wasn't my saviour and I needed to learn how to swim on my own. Because that's all I was: on my own. And if I kept depending on Luke, then he'd run out, and would be left with nothing. All because of me.
And the most greedy of them all, no matter how many times I tell myself, I wasn't going to let go. I loved him, God, I loved him. But I was too mean and inconsiderate to have him slip from my fingers for him to leave me here all alone. I needed him.
Then again, he could've just swam back to his boat, leaving me here to immerse into the dark waters. But he didn't.
I roll the sleeves of Luke's sweatshirt over my thumbs and dab the corner of my eyes to soak up the tears that remained at bay. Thank God.
Someone knocked on the door making me drop the book all together, and with one final sniffle I turned around, plastering a fake smile on my face when it turned out to be the one and only, Luke Hemmings.
"Hey, DVD's fixed. You can come out now." he beamed, then he tilted his head slightly once he realized I was just standing there. "Okay?"
I nodded, smiling with my mouth closed, but it turned into more of a grimace, if anything. "Peachy," I replied, making my way towards the door and he followed next to me, keeping the sleeves of his sweatshirt over my hands which swung by my sides.
Luke.
There's something wrong with her. I can feel it. I mean, there's something going on with me too, but I feel like there's this barrier between us; like plastic wrap. Even though she's sitting so close to me on my couch, her coconut-scented hair was rested against my shoulder and her legs were swung over my own, I could feel her warmth yet there is this thin border separating us. I could feel her, though she wasn't there.
We were watching re-runs of How I Met Your Mother, a show that she introduced to me just today and I was already hooked. We were only on Season 2 and I could already tell that the blonde guy was probably gay in real life and the brunette was hot.
"If you watch all of the seasons, there's no doubt that even you will start crying," October chuckled, not taking her eyes off the TV. I moved my head to get a better look at her, and notice that there was something off. Her attention might've been on the episode playing now but I could tell, that in that little head of hers, the gears were turning. Hell, she could probably be the Big Ben clock in London.
"Penny for your thoughts?" I nudge the top of her head with my cheek and she looked up, while I kept my gaze on her lips. When was the last time I kissed those?
"I like you a-a lot," she blurted, playing with the sleeves of my black sweatshirt and pulling on it lightly. I couldn't contain the smile on my face.
"I like you a lot too," I replied, grabbing her hand that she used to play with mine, intertwining our fingers together.
"Okay," she responded quite flatly with a sad tone, then brought her hand back onto her lap. Okay. It's all we ever say, now. Okay.
She shifted in her seat, putting a good few inches between us. I frowned at the distance. Did I miss something?
"Hey," I pulled on the sleeve of her - my sweatshirt that she was wearing. She didn't reply. I tugged on it more. "What's up?"
She pulled one shoulder up and shook her head, waving me off. I wasn't having any of it.
I used my hands to push my weight off of the side I was sitting on, to close the distance between us, wrapping an arm around the front of her waist and watched as she tried to hide a smile. I rested my chin on her shoulder, looking up at the side of her face.
It was like the light coming from the TV, or anywhere was made just for her. How it reflected off of her brown eyes, and how it lit up her cheeks, so whenever she smiled, the skin looked so soft that I couldn't stop myself from kissing them. So that's what I did.
She pulled away shyly, whining as she tried to pull her arms up from my tight hold. "Luke, let go." she complained, trying to break free.
"Nope, never. I will never let go." I sang playfully, burying my face on the side of her arm. She stopped struggling.
"Luke," she whispered, her voice almost inaudible. "Please, let go."
I glanced at her, her eyes boring into my own, but I could tell they were elsewhere. "No," I repeated. "I don't want to."
She sighed, sounding relieved as she let my arms tighten around her, leaning her head back on the couch. "Good," she restated, a gentle smile on her face as she turned back to the TV with her fingers trailing over the skin on my arm. Fuck.
"Good." I returned my head in the pit between her shoulder and jaw, having her words replay in my head. Luke, let go. Nope, never.
I felt that it meant way more than she intended it to be.
