Paris Wills is a dreamer. His father always said he got it from his mom, an artist who was unlike any other. Her virtue was painting, and Paris' is poetry. No matter where he is, Paris finds inspiration for his poems.
In the summer after his sophom...
I'm awoken by a hint of light peeking out from the blackout curtains covering the big bay window. With a slight yawn, my eyes flutter open and adjust to yet another day waking up in a hospital room, Paris' near lifeless body resting across from me, Vanessa seated on his left with her rosary and his dad seated on his right with that glassy gaze in his eye.
Except, today is different.
"Hello sleepyhead. I thought you'd never wake up."
I catch a hint of joy in that familiar, albeit muffled, voice. I laugh in disbelief, stunned by the blurry figure before me.
Skeptical of what I hear and see before me, I grope for my glasses and find them on the windowsill, hastily slipping them on to see things clearly. The hospital bed is upright and Paris' chocolate brown eyes are staring right at me, wide awake. My eyes start to water as soon as my emerald eyes catch his gaze. I thought I might never see those marvelously beautiful dark eyes again. Now, the whole world will be able to see them again.
"We'll give you two a few minutes," Vanessa says with a comforting half-smile, ushering Paris' dad and herself out of the hospital room.
Sitting up from my seat at the bench, I tiptoe over to Paris and fall down at his bedside, the tears in my eyes drifting down to my neck. His dry, peeling lips curls into a slight smile, every movement slow and carefully calculated. Nevertheless, he's here, and that's all I could ever ask for.
Paris wraps his fingers around my hand and I clutch them tight before reaching up to plant a soft kiss on his pale forehead. As I move away, Paris sluggishly wraps his arms around me, bringing me close to him. I place my hands gently beneath his back and hold him near, pushing away the blinding hospital lights and dreary white walls. Right now, it's only Paris and me. Nothing stands in our way. He's going to be okay. I'm going to be okay. We're going to be okay.
Once we pull away from our close embrace, I return my gaze to Paris' eyes, studying them carefully as I speak,
"You can't do that again, Paris, I need you."
"I won't. And I need you too, Gray."
Paris breaks into a sob, realizing how close he came to death. The finality of it all. It's a miracle he's even sitting here now, breathing and conversing and living. He's been given a second chance and, hopefully, he'll never fall into that dismal darkness again.
I sit on the bed and run my fingers through the unruly curls on his head, allowing him so let out all the tears he's been holding back for so long. Eventually the tears subside and Paris blows his nose on my shirt sleeve, eliciting a laugh from me.
"Promise me no more secrets. You don't need to hide your sadness from me."
"But you didn't sign up for all this," Paris replies, motioning his hands to encompass the hospital room.
"I signed up for all of you. Not just the happy or the romantic. Everything. I signed up for you, Paris. And I love every aspect of you."
Tears form a film over Paris' eyes as he responds, "Then I promise. No more secrets," before falling back into my warm embrace.
"And promise me you'll let me help you. We can go to therapy, seek professional help, find an antidepressant-"
"No, Gray. I need to do this on my own. I love you, and you made this past summer the best time of my life. But I can't expect you to fix me, nor can I expect you to be there for me every time I need you. My aunt and I already discussed it before you woke up. Once I regain my strength, I'm going to check into a psychiatric hospital for a few weeks, maybe more, depending on how it goes."
A rush of relief overcomes me, and I can't help but smile.
"I'm so proud of you!"
I gently rest my head on Paris' abdomen and he runs his hands through my soft, blond tresses, soothing me and bringing me a sense of peace I haven't felt in days. It still seems surreal to be resting here beside Paris, when hours ago he was near death.
"Will I at least be able to visit you?" I ask after a few minutes.
"Of course!"
I let out a relaxed sigh, overcome with joy that Paris is receiving the treatment he needs and relived that I'll be able to see him. I've already spent a week without Paris in my life. I'm not missing two more.
"Gray?"
"Yeah?"
I turn up my head and stare at Paris, our mouths mere inches apart. It's been days since I've felt his lips against mine, and I'm tempted to feel that rush of energy between us again. Except I'm too terrified to make a move, not wanting to hurt his delicate and fragile body. Sensing my hesitation, Paris presses his lips against mine and I sink into him, wetting them with my tongue while cupping his freckled cheeks. Our mouths drip with saliva when we pull apart and more tears fall down both our faces. It's messy and tragic, but it's the best kiss we've ever shared. It's more than a kiss - it's a hope for the future. Paris is alive and seeking the help he's needed for a very long time, and I'm here for him too. I'll always be here for him, and he'll always be here for me.
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