Adieu

Thank You (Michayla)

Much to Michayla's surprise, the armchair that he had all but claimed as his own sat empty upon her return. Not only that, but her bed had been haphazardly made, a bit of tidying up done through her space. This just further proved that this strange, beautiful being did know more about Michayla's routine than he let on. He had loosely draped the comforter over the sheets and placed the pillows on top just so instead of taking the time to properly tuck and fluff. When Michayla has had a particularly rough night, rather it is with sickness or night sweats, she normally just straightened up a bit, knowing that later in the day she'd replace said sheets and put the soiled ones to wash. Despite the situation and the odd happenings associated with, Michayla couldn't help but smile softly at the gesture.

It was then that she heard the rustling in the kitchen and the smells that accompanied the busy sounds. Closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, Michayla followed her nose to the adjoined dining area attached to the kitchen. The table that sat adjacent to a large bay window was set accordingly with a fresh cup of brewed tea, honey to taste, and a piping hot bowl of freshly made oatmeal. And there, across the table from the display, did he sit. While he naturally carried himself with an air of finesse and radiance that was unmatched it was there, seated at her breakfast nook, draped in a curtain of sunlight, that he looked absolutely celestial in standing. Stepping up to her chair, it wasn't until further inspection that Michayla realized the actual length the man had gone in order to prepare the most important meal of the day. Mickey noted the leaves of chamomile that floated atop the green tea, surely plucked from the potted plant above her sink. Looking down at the bowl of oatmeal that sat hot and ready, it was almost as if Michayla had stepped into a memory. The fresh strawberries, a sprinkling of brown sugar, and melted butter to top it. She was also willing to bet that upon the first bite she'd be welcomed by its creamy richness from being steeped and cooked in milk as opposed to simply water. When she had still played for the Orchestra, she rarely had time to pay attention to the small details of things such as how her oatmeal was prepared. Since her diagnosis, she had focused on the sickness itself instead of appreciating the things she had been living for.

Michayla picked up her spoon then, dug into the rich oats, and tasted. Instantly she was transported to her childhood. The countless mornings sitting at the kitchen table, sneaking bits of strawberry as her father prepared breakfast. How he'd reprimand her for the act in front of her mother, then casually hand her a few more behind his back with a wink.  Teaching her how to properly pick and rinse the flower petals before adding them to the pot. The last time he had ever made it for her...

Mickey could feel the burning prickle of the dam breaking. When was the last time she had taken the time to do this for herself, to remember and just sit in her nostalgia? Putting the spoon down and placing her fingers to her waterline, she sucked the tears back up and inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly.

"Thank you." She whispered quietly. In her lap, Michayla began to knead her hands together, twisting her fingers into an anxious knot.

"You hate to see me cry and you know how my father used to make my breakfast, down to the smallest detail."

Michayla gripped her knees tightly as she brought her eyes to meet his own before continuing. She wanted to read his face, to watch his eyes as she spoke.

"You're here, sitting across from me, yet it feels like you're not truly present. On top of that, I feel like I've known you my entire life."

Pausing then, Michayla shook her head a bit and laughed under her breath, bringing her hands to run through her now soft and bouncy chestnut waves. Pressing her elbows into the table, Mickey bit at her bottom lip before cradling the back of her neck between her palms and continuing, "I feel absolutely mad. I mean, you're a complete stranger but in the same breath, your energy feels nostalgic. What sense does that make?" Bringing her hands together in front of her now, she rested her forehead against them and inhaled deeply. She needed to stay calm and cool-headed.

"Please..." Her voice was barely above a whisper but she had the intuition that he heard her, regardless. Peeking over her hands, Michayla opted to place them on the table as she simply asked, "Who, or what, are you? How do you know these finite things about me, my past? I need to know."