Thousand Paper Cuts

Twenty-nine : smiling like rain of stars

Mark :

There was a memory, deep inside his heart and mind, and he couldn't stop thinking about it :

Beautiful spring....or maybe Autumn, with all tree's leaves falling like a confetti : and their beautiful perfume scent. He is sitting on the bench under those big old magical trees you see in films. And it's quiet. So quiet that he can hear his own breaths, in the miraculous and momentous moment. But he doesn't, really. Because he's too busy hearing her heartbeat, while her head is resting on his warm lap, as if it's made to be there. She is wearing those old cardigans her grandmother bought from Yard's sale. And her red crazy curls are putting those Autumn leaves in shame. In fact, the whole splendid Autumn ceases to exist the moment he looked into her eyes. Nothing is bad. Nothing is good. Because everything is perfect, like in his favourite books. He is finally happy, that eyes-smiling kind of happy, and he kisses her temple. She doesn't smile halfway, but instead she laughs too loud that brightens his void of suffering. She is hers, and he is the luckiest green-eyed boy ever to live.....

Of course, in reality, none of those things had happened, because she was so far away, and he had chained his doors for her.
But, he wanted to live that memory he kept on seeing.
He couldn't go back to her because she loved someone else. He had to refrain himself. He felt like a prisoner of his own mind. He even had to get his knuckles bloody so he could not try to run away back to her, even if she was so beautiful...so lovely...and in the world where poetry is dying, she was his muse and a mystery he could never figure out. And, whenever he looked at her, he saw poetry.

Skye :

In a world where decency had ceased to exist, he was a beautiful boy who always wore long black coats with pure magic and scent of daisies she wanted to sleep in forever.
But he was gone, and this was real life, and nothing in real life resembles the books she read, and real life is sad, real life is a mess, and in real life people don't get happy endings, and nothing could hurt a writer more than that.

When Sunday's morning sun came up, she called Adam, because it was the right time. (No, not really).
She bit her thumb while waiting for him to attend the call.
But he didn't. His tour might be driving him crazy as nuts.
So when he didn't pick up after her infinite tries,  she sent him a voice mail :

Adam, we need to talk. Call me when you're free. I hope you're fine. Take care.

Something had really changed inside of her, as she looked out of the window at his large drab house, fearing she'd never see him again.
The outside wind was moving slowly like a caravan, but the inside of her heart was terribly howling.
Her eyes traveled towards her tiny desk, where she used to write him all those stupid letters. She wished she had never done that, so they wouldn't have met. She should have just refrained from getting "fun" from her neighbour. But she couldn't help at that time. She was a sucker for those kind of mysteries.
Anyway, on that desk was placed that sunflower in a vase, that he'd given her on her birthday. It was all dried up, despite of her watering everyday.
But, she didn't take it out of the vase, even though with all it's fading colours it's beauty was no more. She didn't take it out because, whatsoever, it was still a memory, rooted deep in the chambers of her heart.
She also loved to put safe all those things people would give her. For instance, there was this bottle of wine that Adam had gifted her last summer, and even though it was empty, she'd still kept it. Because it was a memory. Or that candle box that Mia had given her when they were sophomores, and even though candles were utilized, she still had that box saved.
So, she was also a sucker for that kind of crap. (She was a sucker for so many things, and these little desires had ruined her : my heart, my very own heart/ has haunted me for so long )