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You're a Gemini. He's an Aquarius. You don't know how to say it or how they might take it or if they're going to like it, but you love him in a world that thinks your love is wrong, and so perhaps you're no...
Based on the song If Our Love Is Wrong by Calum Scott for the #Songifc Contest.
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Your life is ordinary—your family is upper middle class with a white picket fence and manicured lawn; your friends are normal, young men in the hierarchy of the social ladder who rule the sports field with an iron fist, who you watch but don't interfere when they shake down other kids for lunch money or dunk their heads in toilets; your girlfriend is normal with normal hair and normal eyes, but hair and eyes you love.
Your life is ordinary. Your life is mundane as the days blur together.
You're a Gemini. You're intelligent with an outgoing flair. Anna likes that about you; it's why she loves you. It's why she stays with you. But you're also impulsive, as you bust the tires of your dad's expensive Land Rover doing burnouts at the end of the street with Frankie howling next to you.
You don't believe in star signs. You don't believe in the planets aligning or fate or any of that voodoo shit. You think what Anna says about you two being destined to be together is bullshit.
But you're different.
At least, you think you are.
It's what you feel.
You don't feel like you're some jock like your friends. You don't feel you're the same as Frankie or Tom or Ben. You don't relate to Anna as much as she thinks. She doesn't know you like she thinks she does. You know because there are things you haven't told her. Things you can't seem to decipher yourself, like you're trying to piece together what you think is the puzzle of your life but the pieces won't fit together as hard as you try to jam them. Things you're hiding, because if the guys or Anna found out—if the world found out—it would be the collapse of everything.
You call Adelaide your home. It's known as many different things. Some know it as the City of Churches. Some know it as a murder capital of the world. There are enough churches in Adelaide to make a town in the Bible Belt of the United States look pitiful—more than five hundred of them scattered out among the city and suburbs, one edging every corner. You don't know why your home is considered a murder capital—you've lived here your whole life and haven't once felt afraid. Perhaps it's because of those murders in the 90's in that suburb ten minutes away from your house notorious enough to have a movie made about it; the murders that turned into a thinly veiled threat to children decades later that if they didn't do what they were told, they'd end up stuffed in barrels too.
You're a rugby player. You love it. You love the feel of the ball in your hands and it against your boot when you catapult it across the field. You love the feeling of pain ricocheting across your body when you slam into the defensive line in a desperate push to the try line. You love the comradery of it. You love the brotherhood of it.
You're a Gemini. You're brave and honest and true. You're susceptible to rebellion. You push when it comes to shove. You're the river that refuses to flow in the right direction.
