the month of december (bxb)

it was not meant to happen like this

road trip, chloe moriondo
O1ST DECEMBER, 2019
TWENTY-TWO YEARS.

It was not meant to happen as it did. I'd forgotten about him, honestly, as though he was nothing but a figment of the past buried beneath the ruins of old, un-rekindled love. His eyes, I'd forgotten, as his lips and the way he smiled, the scrunching of his nose and the red life that evaded his cheeks so often. I'd forgotten how he spoke in his tone of softness, of care and wonder, coupled with his art-hoe (as I'd classified many years prior) aesthetic: rounded glasses, freckled face, straight brows. That was Seth Marken. I had forgotten about him, completely, or so I'd told myself as I sat on the plane to New York five years prior to this. That's what I told myself today, even, typing away on my laptop profusely—essays and assignments plaguing my emails and every element of 'free time'.

There was no free time when studying english literature. False advertisement, I'll say.

It was not meant to happen in the café that day, where the smell of tea wafted up my nose as the cup, steaming and lonely, attempted to gain my attention. A light beige decorated the colours of the walls and chairs, the bookshelf situated in between them being my number one vice: I'd ditched work for it many times, eyes scanning its contents with a devilish delight. It was strange to get such a thrill from books, but I couldn't help it. It seemed that every story, good or bad, was better than mine. That sucked, when you thought about it deeply—but I didn't think deep, and sometimes I didn't think at all, so it never bothered me that much.

It was not meant to happen at eight in the morning—that's for sure. I'd barely gotten dressed before I'd charged over here: toothpaste decorating my checked shirt of a deep red and black, now complemented by the pasty white of its remains. Hoops dangled from my ears—I thought I was retro. Judging by the look on his face, I was not—alongside the ring that fumbled from my lip. Both were a startling gold, and, in the midst of winter, had dulled profusely to a meek and sad yellow. My hair sat messily beneath a beanie of a deep grey, converses pounding the snow as I practically ran to the shop to seek shelter. The essay was due the next morning, and you can be damn well sure I had not completed it—or even started it, for the matter.

When he walked in, I stopped writing. I stopped typing away, the caffeine from the tea fleeting my system. I stopped breathing—possibly, potentially, maybe—I stopped blinking, I stopped staring, and yet I stared at him all the same. That certainly was not meant to happen.

He hadn't noticed me yet, but it felt like he had. His eyes—a light brown against the caramel of his skin—darted in every direction apart from my own, drinking in the artificial light, bathing in the chatter that fell from the mouths of customers, admiring the wood beneath his feet, and the horrendous squeaking from the worn chairs. On his head sat a thick hat, his hair must've been tucked underneath. A large jacket of black hugged his body, slim jeans wrapping themselves around his slender legs. He looked unusually bare: the glasses from seven years ago were still there, as for his noticeable freckles, but his eyebrows had become faint and unruly, lips cracked and dry. Perhaps it was due to the distance between us, physically and mentally. We'd grown and we'd changed, but still I could feel it: something there, between us.

His eyes snapped to my own, and the smile he gave me—why, it was worth the world.

Jasper? He mouthed, those lips suddenly loosing their cracked texture, the grin widening on his face to the point where it looked like it hurt. His eyes widened in recognition: taking in my hair, my clothes, my face, my work. He took a step to me, and another, each long and daunting like a weight was upon his legs. But he moved—and each time he came closer I drew in a breath. It was not supposed to happen like this.

"Jasper." He breathed in front of me, clutching the chair before him. Sweat trickled down the side of his head, the smiling strained as though it caused pain. I think it did, judging by the stiffness of his motion—he once sat swiftly, daintily almost, and now he sat with caution, as though he was going to fall. "Jasper." There was a tone I couldn't quite catch beneath the word: a content-ness, an ease almost.

"Seth." It was a whisper, which undermined the confidence I thought it had. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, waiting to resume their action once more, but I knew they wouldn't. Not when Seth Marken sat before me. Not when my first and only love was there—breathing, smiling, staring at my soul. "I ... It's been a while."

"A while is an understatement, Ainsley." He called me by my nickname as if we hadn't spent five years apart. Exhaustion clouded his features, his breathing laboured and harsh.

"You okay?"

He nodded. "Yeah, are you okay?"

I fought a smile. "Yeah, yeah, just writing an essay."

"Oh!" His eyes lit up. I remembered how he always wanted to major in art.

"Didn't you want to take art?"

"Yeah, yeah I did."

"What happened?"

"Things." He trailed on, shaking his head. It was only then that I realised no hair was beneath his hat. I could see the shine of his bald head against the artificial light of the café. "Life goes to shit sometimes, but what can we do?" He shrugged, as if the look on my face was one he'd seen many times. Pity.

"Do you still draw?" I decided to venture from the subject.

That smile again. "Yeah! I've even started my own comic!"

"No way." I let surprise cloud my features although I could believe such a notion. Seth was always talented. He had always been skilled in the subject of art—and it was one of the things that made me love him. I stared into his eyes, which bore into my own. Green against brown, creating their own mix of hazel. "When did you start it?"

"Few years back." Just after you left, I heard him say, but his mouth never moved. I looked at my hands, at their hovering over the keyboard. "I should let you continue your essay."

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, it's due tomorrow, hah." I scratched the back of my head.

"Hm." Was all he said, staring at my hands once more. "They haven't changed at all. Who would've thought?"

"My hands?"

"Your hands." He reaches out to touch them, and I flinched. I wasn't used to the action, I'd forgotten it, and he could tell. "I'm sorry, I lost myself there for a moment."

"No, no, it's okay." I extended my arm further. "You can touch my hand."

And he did. A small smile appeared against his face, like it used to. "They haven't changed a bit." A sigh. "Not one bit."

"Where can I find you?"

He stared into my eyes, face blank—and then he smiled. "The hospital."

"There are many hospitals."

He looked down at my hands again, his fingers grazing the tips. They were light, small and soft, with an air to them that felt like they were fading away. "You'll know the one. Trust your gut."

"That's very vague."

He shrugged. "I've always been vague, haven't I?"

"I guess that's another thing that hasn't changed, right?"

"Right."

And so he held my hand on that first day of December as the snow kissed the pavement beyond the window. Artificial lights bathed our skins in colours of brightness and yellow, eyes never daring to hold a gaze for longer than a few seconds, content in the staring at our joint hands. I couldn't help but feel a wave of nostalgia, as though we'd never even broken up.

It was not meant to happen like this.