Nothing Like The Stories

Jasmine had read countless novels. Many of them included different variations of the same exact moment of reconnection: both dragged out to a party by friends that swore to be concerned with their wellbeing, preaching rehearsed versions of inspirational quotes where the main theme is often about moving on or knowing your worth, she'd heard them all before. Before the main protagonist had even poured themselves a drink, they would inevitably find themselves alone in the kitchen, abandoned by the friends who'd promised to cling to their hip like a sloth to a tree. Then it happens, often making a b-line for the door, the two main characters find themselves suffocating amongst the crowds of people, all dancing lazily with drinks in their hands, and their eyes lock. Suddenly, everything slows for a second as their hearts drop down into their stomachs whilst beating at a rate that would likely cause any doctor to faint out of complete overwhelming concern. Ears ring and mouths dry as they find it impossible to look away, no longer bothered by way careless elbows are lunged into their sides or drops of liquor splash out from cups that are held loosely in exhausted hands, decorating the outfits the protagonists had likely borrowed from a friend.

It wasn't like that, not for Jasmine.

Their eyes had met, widening significantly at the sight of the boy she'd grown to hate. Colour drained from her face and heat pricked at her temples, knocking the girl slightly nauseous. Her breath never faltered, jaw never dropped and time never slowed, she was still painfully aware of everything happening around her, painfully aware that the gawking, wide-eyed figure stood just metres ahead of her was that of Christian Marino.

Her heart didn't flutter for him anymore, instead her eyes glazed over and she felt nothing. Nothing at all.