𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰

7 - Meanings.

What truly was love for her?

“Elsa... Please answer me,” Her heart must have clenched too hard when she heard how desperate and weak his voice had grown. And once she blinked, tearful beads of green were present, nearly glossy.

She could have sworn her nails can wear a hole in the leather of the book as she clutched it like it was her only life source, and pain was visible in Aiden’s moist lids. His non-existent pride may have been bruised as he internally scolded himself to be seen like this alike of a wreck, nonetheless by her... but nothing had ever felt so right.

Love dug its own grave and died with her parents in that car crash.

Love took away the only person left sticking around and it’s been two years ever since.

Love is something that is repeatedly taken away from her without leaving any opportunities for her to do something about it.

Never had Aiden known that the silence between them could break him so much. He knew it was pointless; being forward and finally admitting what has grown but now has crumbled. Destroying things and putting them into chaos was his best doing—like now.

Green irises focused on her, as if he’s trying to read what she had in mind for a reply. A thrilling guessing game he pursued fearlessly, and he’s simply afraid his guess can come out wrong. He had the urge that it had always been wrong.

“No... I should ask you something myself,” Elsa hissed and she shivered, she hoped her voice didn’t sound too frigid and cold like how other people discerned her to be.

“What are we, Aiden?”

She wanted to know. Badly.

The words he wanted to say died in his throat. He shuddered and he tried to move an inch, but warmth pooled in his cheeks after he felt dainty contact envelope his wrist just like what transpired between them earlier.

He attempted to regain his voice and prayed that he would successfully, but oh no, his soul felt like it had a mind of its own and the more seconds passed the more he looked like a frozen fool in front of the woman who had dragged her into her mess.

Not that he didn’t voluntarily dive in the chaos.

His mind went blank when the woman holding his wrists moved—leaned closer to his still figure. Elsa’s hands remained locked around the tense muscles he had in his wrists, and wordlessly, she laid her head on his chest, took something from him on her own, and he was happy to give it anyway.

His worries of looking like a nervous wreck washed away when she already knew how nervous he is just by the evidence of his erratic heartbeat.

She just stood there, ears pressed against the soft fabric of his office shirt, against his heart.

His tone was sad, and he brokenly mumbled, “We aren’t real.”

The intoxicating scent of vanilla made his nose drunk, and he felt like he could just get paralysed by such an addictive aroma. As his chin weakened on top of her hair, he found himself wrapping his arms around her as if he was ushering her to just stay where she is, because later on he’s going to have to let go and it would be so hard.

He can’t have a lot. He’s already led a life of twenty four years living with that.

Elsa withered relentlessly under his clutches, all questions in her head being answered at long last. She frantically read his gentle grip, until his warmth was too infectious for her to not move forward and convince him that everything can be real.