Cellophaine’s Archives

In preparation for a new season, the stage calls could be as late as 10:30 PM. On performance days, you'd stay at the theatre, getting ready with your hair, makeup, and costume before helping others. You would often leave the theatre very late, walking fast with your head slightly down, a pocket knife clenched in your fist, hidden in the full bag. 

Your bag is still a reflection of your day. It holds a single pair of soft shoes, a water bottle, and the keys to your apartment and mailbox. Its inconsequential weight on your shoulder speaks for what you think of yourself – aimless, unmoored to a real and substantial purpose. No ballet class, no performance. No adoring audience who cheers for you as you take your bow at the end of the night. There are over eight million people in New York. No one cares that you used to dance for a mid-tier ballet company, and now working as a secretary for a mid-tier law firm. You have nothing except for the self-imposed helplessness. And it holds you motionlessly at the entrance to Jo's new gym.

You're torn between two opposite points of the axis – the yearning to go back to the one thing you've done your whole life, and the fear that your moment was gone the night of your injury. You know that you can't stay away from ballet for too long as the fleeting nature of your youth and the tragically short career you chose, and still love, pull at the back of your mind. They tell you the more you spend away from the art, that’s more time you don’t have wasted. But when you finally decided tonight was the night you finally made a tepid return to ballet, you're still scared. What is the point? You can never be as good as you used to be. The thought has been exhaustingly persistent. But seclusion has provided you with a comforting contemplation that you can accept. There is no audience that you have to perform for tonight. There is a sense of self-assurance that even if your dancing is mediocre, no one else will be around to witness it, except for you. You don't even have to dance if you don't want to. You quickly insert the key into the lock and turn, the door opens to your newfound determination. 

Upon entry, you can already see why Jo bought this place. It has an old-school vibe, and of course, the boxing ring to the left of the room. New lockers spread along the wall near the entrance, breaking up by a hallway and Jo's office from what you can see. A couple of towel carts gather below the window looking out into the gym. The back of the sign Fogwell’s Gym is prominent even in the low street lights, each letter red, big and bold in their respective glass pane. Sandbags spread sporadically throughout the room, but you’re not here for them. You keep straight and reach the new addition to the gym as Jo instructed on the right, opposite the boxing ring. You wave at Leon – the night cleaner – before entering the room.

The studio is small and separated from the open space, and more narrow than the room you used to dance in at Lady Liberty, but it works better than your apartment. A large floor-to-ceiling mirror covers the length of the wall, reflecting the empty room except for a standard moveable barre on the opposite side. The window blind is drawn on the view of the boxing ring and the rest of the gym, and you keep it that way. You bring the barre to the middle of the room, vertically to the mirror, and put on the shoes. You didn’t bother putting on a leotard and tights, settling for a pair of leggings and a fitted shirt. The simple and form-hugging outfit is enough to see your lines. 

The music playing through your phone speaker is loud enough for you to follow in the stillness of the building. Plié, tendu, ronde de jambe à terre. You go through each exercise with ease. Balançoire, fondu, ronde de jambe en l'air. Your mind and muscle memories work in tandem, guiding your movements. Frappé, petit battements, relevé. Every day for five, sometimes six, days of the week for years. Adagio, grand battement, arabesque penché. Your body is warm, your alignment refined and you find yourself not too concerned about the predicament you're wrapped up in as you move onto centre work.

After a couple of simple combinations, you recall the Cupid variation from Don Quixote. It was nowhere near the hardest variation you'd done, but with the level you're on at the moment, the agility and quick footwork required would be a challenge. But you want to feel the satisfaction of successfully executing a complete piece. So you search for the music, and mark it out with your hands and feet.

Music fills the room, a little louder this time, but doesn’t mute the sound of pressure every time your feet touch the floor. You can’t land as softly as you used to, but you try your best to hold your weight. You feel a pinch in your leg on a piqué turn, but you push through to the flow of the music. As the variation almost nears the end, the door to the main area of the gym creaks loudly, and whoever enters inadvertently takes away your focus with them. Your feet knock together clumsily on an assemblé, making you lose balance when you come back to the floor. You stumble, letting the notes float past you and eventually end. The muffled conversation in the other room announces the unmistakable presence of another. Jo let you know about Leon, and you haven't expected the company of anyone else during the gym's off hours. You peek through the blind to find the familiar shape of a person your eyes perpetually search for throughout the workday. You open the door but stay at the threshold. And call out hesitantly.

“Matt?”

He turns to your direction and says your name. He's surprised to see you, but there is a moment of delay as if he already knew you were here.

“What are you doing here?”

“I'm here to work out.”

He’s wearing a black tank, grey sweatpants, an old pair of trainers and a gym bag by his side. Your eyes trail over the stretch along the arm holes, noticing how worn the shirt looks, and how his arms look so much bigger than you've imagined. Not that you want to admit you have thought about his arms, but you can acknowledge that the dress shirts and suit jackets he usually wears are quite deceiving. 

You course correct at his plain answer.

“But the gym is closed.”

“I can say the same to you.”

“My friend gave me the access. She owns the place.”

He thinks for a moment. 

“Ahh. That explains the new equipments.”

You cross your arms over your chest, aware of his attempt at redirecting your attention.

“You still haven't answered my question.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, amused at your directness. 

“Right, well, I also get after-hours access because of Leon.”

The man mentioned has already gone home, it seems.

“Oh yeah? You bribed him, didn't you?”

You lean against the door. Matt puts both hands up, feigning innocence.

“I admitted to no such thing.”

Your conversation has taken on a playful edge, and you allow yourself to lean into it.

“It’s clear to me that that’s what happened.”

“Are you conducting a cross-examination on me?"

"It doesn't have to be, but since you insist …"

He shakes his head in amusement.

"Can't believe it's only been two weeks since you started working for us. If I didn't know any better, I would think you'd been with us from the day we opened the practice.”

“Thank you. I’m just a quick learner. You’d know that if you came to the interview.”

Matt wets his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. You were only joking, but when he speaks, you can hear a touch of seriousness in his voice.

“I’m glad I missed it.”

“Why?”

The question was only a notch above a whisper, but he heard it. 

“That led us to here. You're working with us. And I get to see you more often.”

His admission draws a soft intake of air from you. You feel the skin on your cheeks and ears grow warm as your heart quickens its pace.

“Flirting with me won’t distract me from the fact that you’re trespassing.”

He turns his head to curse softly under his breath in a slightly exaggerated manner. You chuckle at his attempt to make you laugh. 

“You’re good.”

He says, shaking his head, the smile on his lips widens.

“Don’t worry, I’m just joking. I won’t tell Jo about this.”

Jo is already on the fence about Matt. Knowing about his trespassing will only aggravate her.

“What about you? What are you doing here?”

Matt asks. You straighten up from where you’re standing, suddenly feeling defensive despite the question being innocuous. 

“I’m here to … dance. I want to slowly get back to ballet. My apartment is too small for what I want to do so … here I am.”

His face brightens.

“That’s great. I’m glad you’ve decided to give it another chance. You told me how much you missed it."

You're surprised to see he still remembered what you told him on the first night you met. 

“You'll regret that when I play the same music over and over.”

“Go ahead. I don't mind. I need to expand my playlist.”

“Let me guess. All you listen to is emo, broody music that fuels your tenancy in court.”

His head tilts slightly to the side at your poking fun at him.

“Broody? Is that what you think of me?”

“A little bit. Sometimes. It’s just that … you have that air about you. Like you’re suppressing something, all the time.”

A flash of something you can't name crosses his face. But it's gone as he puts on an easy smile. 

“Hm, I didn’t expect to be cross-examined on top of a psychoanalysis coming to the gym tonight.”

“Maybe I really have spent too much time with you three.”

You share a laugh. The banter is nice. You get to talk freely to one another, and your overthinking ceases to make an appearance in this moment. The air is not laden with dread, frustration or misunderstanding like two nights ago. You have thought about the situation since after that night, and you feel like you owe Matt honesty.

“I should apologize to you. For the other night.”

Matt’s brows furrow as you keep going. 

“I misconstrued your words and intention.”

"You don't have to apologize. I could've handled it better. I should've addressed you properly–"

You interrupt with a call for his name. 

“Thank you for doing that, but it was mostly my fault. I was overly sensitive, and frankly, in way over my head about a similar situation. I was just worried that you … might have changed your mind."

“Changed my mind about what?”

Honesty, you remind yourself.

“… About me. With all of that stuff that happened with my old company, I thought you might think that I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

Understanding dawns on his features. He softens.

“What happened at your old company is not your fault. I meant it the first time, and I still mean it now: anything happened between us will stay between us."

You know that now.

"And I enjoy having you around the office. I really do.”

You can't tame the happy smile on your face. You let it mirror Matt's own. 

“I enjoy being around you, as well.”

A quiet understanding makes the air between you lighter. The knot in your stomach unravels. You clear your throat, bringing both of you out of the comfortable quiet. 

“I’ll … let you get back to it.”

“Me, too.”

“I’ll close the door so the music won’t be too loud for you.”

“I really don’t mind either way.”

“Accommodating, as always.”

With a final remark and one last look at Matt, you retreat into the room and close the door anyway. As the night goes on, you can hear the rhythmic punches on the sandbag next to your own classical playlist. The melodies blur into one another, making up their own unique existence in an unlikely place.

/

You start going to Fogwell’s every other day. You find yourself looking forward to the visit for more than one reason. Every time you push through the discomfort that your old injury brings, the experience invigorates you, and you feel like you’re gaining a fraction of the old you back. You retrieve fragments of your old balance, strength, and flexibility. You're not confident enough to practice in pointe shoes yet, content with dancing in soft canvas shoes. You've been looking into ballet classes for adult dancers. A structured class with lesson plans can bolster your own framework and accelerate your improvement. You used to have classes at least five days a week, but for now, once to twice a week would be sufficient. Ballet classes are plentiful in New York, you just need to take the plunge.

You see Matt on and off throughout the nights you go. Seeing him is the other reason, but you can never admit it out loud to anyone. The delicate balance between you is restored, and you don't want to overcomplicate it. But there is no harm in innocuous talking that often veers on the side of flirting when both parties are willing participants. You chat and rehash about what happened at work before going back to your own things. You don't like staring at Matt, the act is too desperate, but your gaze does linger from time to time. The sandbag shakes from Matt's exertion, and you find yourself wondering if that's how he got the scars on his knuckles. The size of his arms, which are corded with muscles, fluster you when you've stared for too long. 

You have been avoiding Jo's invites to hang out. Not to keep Matt's trespassing a secret, but you don’t like the way she tries to overshadow your thoughts and opinions with her own. The last time you saw her, she only said what she said because she was looking out for you. But you also know how once she has formed an idea about someone in her head, it’d be hard for her to let it go. If you agree to meet up, you know that she'll ask you about Matt again, and even worse, if you tell her about the misunderstanding, she'll only double down and urge you to quit your job at the firm. No matter what, you can't win. For right now, no one needs to know. Your connection with Matt remains as yours and his alone. 

/

Time goes by, and the most accurate measure of it is your growing closeness with Karen, Foggy, and especially, Matt. To be more specific, it has been a little over a month since you started working for the firm. It’s not enough time for you to comfortably get drinks with them yet, but enough to be included and tag along on coffee runs and lunch breaks. 

Therefore, you notice that Matt is late this morning, even though technically speaking, he was late on the day of your interview as well. He's always early or on time, so for his office to still be empty by the time the clock hits 10:45 is not like him. You pretend that you’re not even glancing at the time every five minutes, but you do. When you're even just a little restless, your mind takes over and forms an unpleasant thought. Matt must've spent the night with a woman. 

The sudden delivery of the notion feels like a sharp sting on your cheeks. Your heart clenches, and what feels awfully similar to jealousy flares in your chest, making your stomach churn. You try to push the bitter feelings out, but it's too late. The silent acknowledgement is enough for your mind to helplessly dive deeper into the hole the invasive idea has dug. You don't have the right to be jealous, you're only Matt's colleague. What he chooses to do outside of work is none of your concern. With anyone is none of your rights to even question. Still, as much as you try to pretend that it doesn’t affect you, it does. Did he treat her nicely like the way he did with you? Did he kiss her with the same vigour? Same softness? Did he listen to her problems? Did he make breakfast for her this morning and that’s why he’s late? Maybe he's kissing her goodbye right now, with the promise of more whispered on her lips as he pulls away. The mental image of Matt kissing someone else pulls and cuts into your increasingly sensitive disposition. You look away from the document you weren’t really reading, willing your mind to make the words make sense again. 

You haven't made much progress when Matt comes through the door a few minutes later, looking quite pale and dishevelled. He says good morning to you and quickly crosses the space to go to his office. Your response fades on your lips as he closes the door behind him. The cold demeanour is enough to spark a disappointment ember. It grows hot in your chest and along your skin as the conclusion clicks in place: he did spend the previous night with a woman. You look at the computer, hoping a vision change will help you forget quickly.

Matt often observes quietly, heedful of every little thing. He chimes in when something doesn't make sense, or when a question needs an answer. But in today's meeting, he is unusually silent. You notice the way he pushes his glasses up on his nose every other minute, the way he touches a particular part of his torso more often than not, and when you angle yourself in a way that grants you a view under the unbuttoned suit jacket, you find red spots that look like blood on his white shirt. You can't help but blurt out.

“Are you bleeding?”

Ms. Carrero turns to you, as do Karen and Foggy. You don’t care the way their bewildered gazes as you pull on Matt's hands, the ones that are trying to button his jacket up.

“It’s nothing.”

You part the material to find the small splotches of blood seeping through the cotton. Foggy’s voice is alarmed when he asks.

“What happened?”

Matt stumbles over his words, trying to smooth out his explanation.

“Oh, uh … kitchen … accident. I ran into a knife that I forgot I put there.”

“Are you okay?”

Ms. Carrero asks with concern laced in her scrunched brows. Matt nods, giving her a tight smile.

“You should probably get that taken care of.”

“It's not that bad. I can wait until the meeting is over.”

You know what Matt is trying to do, and you refuse to let him slide this under the rug. You say without giving him another chance to make up an excuse. 

“Karen and Foggy can take care of the meeting. I can help you clean up.”

Karen nods while Foggy agrees with you. Matt hesitates. You lower your voice, almost pleading with him. 

“Please, before you bleed out in front of Ms. Carrero.”

Matt concedes after a brief moment. You excuse yourselves as you stand up and walk to the door, holding it open for Matt to step through. The meeting reconvenes while you lead Matt into his office. You pull out the chair so he can sit and ask him to unbutton his shirt. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me out to dinner first?”

Despite the cheeky remark, he listens to you, shrugging off the suit jacket. 

“That’s a great idea considering how your kitchen skills don’t seem to be that great. Let’s keep you away from those knives for a while, yeah?”

You pull the chair on the opposite side of the desk and set it up next to Matt's. 

“Ouch. Here I was, thinking we were having a good thing going on.”

You roll your eyes at him even though he can’t see it. Your voice softens.

“I’ll be right back.”

You search for the first aid kit in the kitchen before moving to your desk. In your bag, you find the tin of all-heal ointment balm and a Tide pen. You return to Matt’s office to find him leaning back on the chair with the few buttons unfastened from the bottom of the shirt. You set the kit on the desk, settle into the chair and ask.

“Can you hold your shirt up for me?”

This time, he listens without a sly remark. Your knees knock together as you get closer, and he accommodates you by parting his thighs. You slot in between, trying to calm your nerves at your proximity. He folds the material and holds it to his chest, revealing the expanse of smooth skin, well-defined abs, and a bloody bandage at his side. You're distracted by the sight momentarily before informing him of what you're going to do, and he nods. The wet patch comes off slowly under your careful fingers. The cut is much deeper than you thought, and the way Matt’s playing it off like it’s nothing alarms you. When you voice your concern, he only shrugs.

“I’ve had worse.”

“How? I’m very worried about your worse if this is nothing.”

The knot in your stomach tightens. You observe the wound, and it looks deeper than a simple kitchen knife cut. 

“It looks a lot worse than it feels, trust me.”

“It also doesn't look like a simple accident.”

“Just my luck.”

"Did you try to impress someone? A woman you met at the bar, perhaps?"

You hope the joke didn't come off as forced as it sounds in your head. Matt gives you an easy, playful smile.

"No, there was no one to impress. My kitchen wouldn't be a mess if that was the case."

You release a disbelieving hum, and Matt holds the free hand up.

"I swear. This was a one-off incident."

"Right."

You shake your head, the corner of your lips involuntarily curl into a grin. You dip your head to take a closer look. Even though the wound is small and manageable, it still has a gaping opening, so slapping fresh gauze and bandage on top won't hold the edges close. You look into the first aid kit and are surprised to find the basics of what you need to properly clean and seal the injury. You put on a pair of gloves and grab a packet of anti-bacterial wipes.

“I will have to give you a couple of stitches so the wound can stay close, okay?”

His brows raise above the red glasses. 

“Do you know how to stitch up a wound?”

He hisses softly as you clean the area with the wipe. 

“Of course I do. I’ve darned shoes before. Can’t be that hard to stitch you up.”

You chuckle when his expression betrays him. He looks worried and on edge. 

“I’m just joking. I know enough to take care of a simple wound like this.”

You clean the needle with an antiseptic cloth and prepare the thread.

“If I hurt you, let me know, okay?”

The smirk on his lips is cocky, yet simultaneously endearing. 

“I’m a big boy. I can handle a needle.”

“But not a knife, apparently.”

That draws a deep chuckle from Matt. The room gradually falls into silence as you pour all of your focus on steadying your hands and making sure you don't pierce his skin too deeply. He takes the pain exceptionally well with only a few sharp breaths and soft gasps here and there. 

“Did you have to do this a lot? Back when you were still dancing?”

His voice is as gentle as your hands. You take a moment before responding. 

“Not really. It didn’t happen as often as you might think.”

His thoughtful silence gives you the courage to go on. 

“I’d get blisters, cracked toe nails, things like that. The company started out very small so we didn't get proper healthcare professionals until about three years ago.”

Your hands are steady as you make it to the other half of the wound.

“It was the first performance of the season. I needed to rehearse for this one role, and all of the studios were taken. So I practiced in a closet full of costumes and set pieces. When I … basically spun around the room, I cut myself on one of the metal poles that they used as the foundation for the set. Tore through my tights and I started bleeding. I went home, wrapped it in a piece of gauze, secured a bandage on top and hoped for the best.

“During the show the next day, the wound opened and it soaked through the white tights I had to wear. After the show, the director said that if I pulled something like that again and didn’t get my injury in line for the next day's performance, he would bench me for the rest of the season. I didn't have enough money to get it checked out at a hospital. So I went to my friend slash roommate.”

“Did that friend happen to be Jo?”

“Yes. She used to be a professional boxer. She taught me how to stitch up my wound. Since I had to dance more than one role, on top of the two performances every day for six days straight as well, the wound would rip a little. So I had to add one or two stitches here and there.”

He breathes sharply as the spot you poke through is particularly tender.

“That sounds awful.”

“Dancing with the cut wasn't the best feeling, but at least I learned how to stitch up a wound from it.”

You cut the thread off and dab away the blood seeping through the now-closed cut. You take the gloves off and open the tin. A faint scent of soothing tea tree extract emanates as you take some ointment on your finger. You carefully smear a thin layer along the edge of the cut. Matt keeps still, holding his breathing to an almost motionless state. You close the lid and tap it twice before placing it on the table.

“Apply this after your shower, and whenever you change the bandage. It’ll help a lot.”

“Thank you.”

You cover the wound with new gauze and bandage.

“Thank you for telling me. And for stitching me up, of course.”

“Thank you for listening. Now, we have to take care of your shirt.”

“Right. Can’t go to my next meeting like this.”

He moves to unfasten the rest of the buttons, but you put your hand on top of his. 

"You don't have to take it off. I can do it with this pen here."

He keeps his hands to the side as you flatten the material over your palm. The spots aren't too big, nothing a little diligent work can't fix. You dab the tip of the pen on the spots repeatedly before spreading the liquid. You watch as the red diminishes into a light pink then the barely-there colour of rust. 

You put the implements back before closing the kit. You're about to stand up to leave when Matt reaches out and holds your wrist, keeping you there.

“I appreciate you doing this for me. Truly.”

Your heart stutters at the small swipe of his thumb on your pulse. You think about what Jo said. The man sitting in front of you is proving that he is anything but the terrible, awful things Jo thinks he might be capable of.

“You’re welcome.”

The moment is transient, and you miss his warmth when he lets you go. You're about to leave the room when he calls out to you.

“Will I see you tonight?”

“Not tonight. But tomorrow night. Definitely.”

/

That night, you take the subway to Greenwich Village. The ballet studio is on the third floor of the building, and you're the first one to arrive for class. You go through your warm-up routine in the corner of the room, staying out of the way as other students trickle in. Your guts alternate between excitement and nervousness, and both do little to ease your mind. This is an intermediate class for pre-professionals and advanced students. The room is filled with mostly younger people, and everyone gathers in groups.

The class goes quiet when an older woman enters the room with a big notebook on her arm. Charlotte Hill. She was an intern at the American Ballet Theatre for two years before quitting to found her own dance center after her name. You did a quick Google search before coming in, wanting to know the teacher a little more before the class. Everyone quietly put the finishing touches on their dancewear and grab their spots on the barre. Music flares through the speaker, and everyone starts the plié exercise without guidance from the teacher. You quickly follow others by watching them, but you still feel lost. Barre exercises vary depending on the teacher, the studio or the school. But to dive right into it without a single word going through the steps is bizarre. At Lady Liberty, the headmistress always went through the steps, even if it was just the names of them.

Because your spot is in a corner, when you do a soutenu turn to the other side, you have limited vision of what others are doing. There is no mirror on the wall when you work on the other side. You try your best to memorize the unfamiliar combinations as barre stretches on, but you can't keep up as well as others. Charlotte makes her way towards you, watching you struggle as the music changes again and again. The other students in the class go through each exercise easier as if they have done this so many times before, and you realize that is the case. You're singled out, your dancing is quite stiff with the teacher standing only two feet away from you. Her face is grim, and you can feel the mild contempt in her gaze, following your every movement. When she finally walks away, you can see discreet and sympathetic glances from a few students who look at you. Your nose burns, but you refuse to cry. You move your feet and your arms, you incline, raise and tilt your head. You keep dancing. 

After putting the barre away, the class has a moment to drink water. One of the students who spared you a glance earlier comes up to you. 

“I recognize you. You used to dance with Lady Liberty Theatre, right?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I get a seasonal ticket every year. I watched you perform several times now. You danced beautifully.”

“Thank you.”

She probably didn’t mean it, but the past tense has an unwanted effect on you. You swallow the lump in your throat, smiling as she introduces herself. Judging by the teacher's look of disinterest for you at barre, it's not an uncommon thought that you're no longer capable of dancing like you used to. 

The class ends on a disastrous note. You could follow the centre works Charlotte gave decently, but that wasn't enough for her. You were asked to repeat a combination because according to her, your techniques were off. By that point, your muscles were strained, you were tired, but you carried it out anyway. You did everything she asked of you, even when she got into your space, following you as you moved through the space, shouting each step into your face. When you stumbled, she scoffed loudly, expressing her displeasure at your mediocrity while everyone else watched.

You stuff everything into your bag and try to leave the class as soon as possible, but the teacher calls out to you by your full name. So she knows who you are. 

"We have classes for little children. Maybe you can come in and watch some day. You might learn something from them."

You're enraged, and you don't care about the consequences. Your voice is level when you answer her with defiance.

"You're just a terrible teacher. Don't project that onto me."

The sneer on her lips sours into a scowl. 

"Your career is over. It's time you look for something else to do instead of wasting my time."

"Who are you to speak to me like this? At least I had a career. I'll be more than happy to never return to this place again."

You walk away before she can come up with a rebuttal. You know that you shouldn't have stooped to her level, but you don't care. You refuse to shed a tear over the teacher's deplorable hostility. Despite the positive changes in the ballet world in recent years, with more inclusivity and acceptance of races, body types, and backgrounds, there are still remnants of the old system that refuse to die. Those bits and pieces are carried on through people like Charlotte Hill, believing that ballet is the type of art that is reserved and accessible for people of certain classes. You scorn and reject that belief. 

A smaller, but more insistent part of you thinks that the teacher's attitude stemmed from the fact that your place in ballet is not yours anymore. You chose to step away, to give it up, and you don't deserve a second chance. 

Your hair is still wet when your head hits the pillow. You're exhausted and wracked with guilt and self-hatred. The night floats by, and the sun peeks through the open curtain, the soft light touches your unmoving form gently. But you're already awake, unable to sleep with the teacher's spiteful words and contemptuous looks embedded under your eyelids every time you close your eyes. 

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The truth is, you miss the feeling that dancing gave you. Everyday, even though you don't want to concede the power it has on you. When you danced, your head cleared, your problems and insecurities became nonexistent. How much you weighed and how your body looked didn’t matter when you could do thirty-two fouettés without a single slip-up, when you embodied the illusion of a feather as you propelled yourself into the air and landed on the floor with a soft thud, when you concretized gracefulness as you keep balance on only one leg, while the other parts of you go through with the variation. Your artistry possessed a beautiful impermanence, something that was meant to be witnessed and enjoyed in the moment. When you were dancing, your body worked to its fullest potential to tell a story, to paint the music a prepossessing visual representation. Despite what Roger had to say about the way you look, a part of you knew that his hollow criticism didn’t matter when you were able to carry out a variation beautifully and artistically. Critics seemed to agree with the way you danced. You hung onto that feeling when self-doubt crept in, trying to make you see things differently.

The ballet world has moved onto someone else, and you are forgotten, vanished into the midst of so many other dancers who have sacrificed so much yet never graced the edge of recognition. It's a beautiful art form to be seen from the audience's seats, yet, behind the closed curtains, those who adhere to impossible and misogynistic standards are empowered enough to abuse their influence, twisting the art into something repugnant. You hate to think of yourself as a victim. You're simply an unwilling participant who suffers the consequences of not playing the game, and you're not the only one.

The conclusion is reached, and you put an end to that thought by standing up and putting on some music for the barre exercises. You pull on the dining chair and hold onto the back of it. You take a breath, and your body moves on its own to the music and the memories that were embedded in your muscles, while your mind strays towards a familiar destination, Matt.

He's one of the reasons why you have contemplated going back to ballet in a casual way, as you hope it would clear your head the way it did back then. You think about him all the time, even though you know you're not supposed to. When you're at work, it’s hard not to steal a glance every so often when there’s only a wall of glass separating you. Your eyes trace over the shape his body makes, the way he sits while reading documents, preparing for depositions, the move he makes when he adjusts his clothes. You would trace the lines of his lips, and the memory of the way he kissed you would come rushing back as if it happened just moments before. You touched your lips involuntarily as if to savour the kiss one more time. You wanted to feel his lips on yours again, on the expanse of skin he had yet to discover. The ache for another taste, for the state of being devoured and swallowed whole in his desire, accelerated the rhythm of your heart. And when Matt tilted his head up from his position, you jerked yours away, feeling caught doing something you shouldn't do, even though you knew he couldn't see you or what you were thinking. It was sobering, and you forced yourself to clear the mental image away. You reminded yourself once again that he was your boss, and he'd continue to be for a long time. You need to let go of the longing for him for as long as you work here. When you made a quick glance over to Matt, you saw the way he seemed to fix on you as if he could see you. You returned to the computer before you, and started typing out an email you needed to send.

You worked through pliés, tendus, glissades, battements, and now moving onto ronde de jamb. After the conversation, neither of you really communicated besides work stuff. In front of Karen and Foggy, you maintained an air of friendly professionalism. But when it was only the two of you, there was a stilted formality that you couldn't help but fall into. When you sat in meetings to take notes, you noticed his reassuring nature when talking to a distressed person, and his charming smile when he knew exactly what to say to leverage for the clients. You didn't miss the way he occasionally leaned into your space and whispered what he wanted you to make notes of. A simple act, imbued with his familiar scent, was enough to make your heart beat faster. Matt seemed to notice your perpetual nervous and frigid state whenever you were around him, and he tried to alleviate it by trying to make you laugh from time to time. You appreciate what he was trying to do, but it doesn't change the fact that you must control the longing for someone you can't have.

Matt seems to be an inescapable, neverending topic in your mind. You stop the barre exercise even though your body is properly warmed up. The music stops as you pick up the phone to call Jo.

/

“I think I might take you up on that offer.”

Jo gives you a triumphant smirk, throwing her hands back in an 'I told you so' way that you know so well.

“I knew it. I knew you couldn't really stay away from it.”

You only give her a blasé shrug. Jo loves being right, and most of the time, you just let her gloat. She goes on as you roll your eyes in amusement at her.

“Because I predicted this, I already got the floor installed. The portable barre arrived on Thursday, and I’ll have people installed the mirror on Monday. I can drop off the extra key and keycard at your place, and you can get started as soon as next Wednesday.”

“I can stop by at the gym to pick them up.”

“There’s no need.”

She dismisses you with a wave of the hand.

“By the way, I can’t believe that we haven't talked about your new job. How was your first week? Are the people there nice?”

“There's not much to talk about, to be honest. It was … good. It’s a small team, so it didn’t take me too long to get to know anyone. They're very nice.”

The internal debate on whether you should tell Jo about Matt is still raging on.

“That’s good. It sounds like an okay pit stop before your eventual return to dancing.”

Mild annoyance picks at you.

“We’ll see about that.”

Jo levels you with a look of suspicion.

“You don’t seriously think about quitting ballet entirely, do you?”

“No, I just … I don’t know what I want.”

“It’s obvious from my point of view that you want to get back to ballet. And you will.”

“When I want to. Right now, I’m okay with not dancing professionally.”

The words came out sharper than you intended. Guilt floods your conscience when Jo backs up, her tone is softer than it was before.

“Of course. When you're ready.”

She seems uneasy at the way you snapped at her. You're different people, united by your passion for the things you do. While you try to be understanding for her in the way she would want, Jo tends to do it in the way she thinks is best. You're already drowning in self-condemnation for choosing not to keep pursuing ballet after the recovery, and for Jo to say this is like a slap in the face. However, you can’t blame this entirely on her, as she doesn’t know the reason why you’re not in a hurry to make a comeback. For now, you're willing to give up a different piece of yourself to distract her.

“Anyway, remember the guy I told you about?”

“The one who didn’t sleep with you?”

Jo knows who you’re talking about. After the interview, you caught her up on everything, including the encounter with Matt the night before. Jo was quite surprised that you were bold enough to approach him since you’re a shy person, often withdrawing into yourself. You were slightly offended by that, but again, she was right.

“Yes, that's the one.”

“What about him?”

You purse your lips, still deciding on whether you should tell her or not. Jo waits with an arch of her brow, and you eventually concede.

“He’s … my employer. One of them, anyway.”

Her jaw falls slack, and her eyes widen in disbelief. She repeats your name several times, and each time, the level of teasing increases, making you hide your face in your hands.

“Holy shit.”

You take your hands away, voicing the most basic line of inner thoughts that you haven't told anyone.

“I know! What are the chances that the nicest guy I’ve ever met turned out to be my boss?”

You return to the previous position with your head between your hands. Jo adjusts her position to look into your eyes.

“While I have to admit that it was very nice of him not to take advantage of you and respect your boundary …”

You look at her through your splayed fingers.

“Why am I sensing a but?”

“… but … are you sure you can trust him to be an actual decent guy?”

You narrow your eyes.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Hear me out. You asked to go home with him, you made out, and you decided not to sleep with him. Correct?”

“It wasn't really a decision. He could tell that I was nervous, so we didn't go through with it. But, yes, correct.”

The two of you sit straighter in the booth, the old leather seats squeak under your weight and movement.

“Now that you’re working for him, which makes him your boss, how do you know that he’s not going to give you a hard time for rejecting him?”

That never once made it into your circulation of thoughts despite how much Matt's been in your mind.

“He … said so. We talked about what happened, and we both agreed not to bring it up again. He said what happened between us would stay between us for as long as I wish.”

“Do you know him like that? Know him enough to trust his promise?”

You fall silent. Jo goes on as you process what she just puts into your head.

“Look, he might not be a rapist, but he’s still capable of making your life hell for not sleeping with him.”

You scowl, exhaling a sharp breath at the preposterous notion.

“Jo! I don’t know him like that, but I … I do trust him.”

“How? You don’t have the best track record when it comes to men.”

Her rebuttal hurts you. While you understand that Jo is overprotective of you, especially after what happened during your career at Lady Liberty, she has taken it too far.

“You weren’t there. He really took care of me. And I have a feeling that that’s just who he is. A genuinely kind person.”

You can't explain it, this innate feeling that Jo is wrong about Matt. She's looking out for you, you know that, but her black-and-white view when it comes to the opposite sex can be skewed sometimes.

Jo shrugs before departing her last thought on the topic.

“If you say so. All I’m saying is, he’s still a man. A man that has power over you at that. So just be careful.”

/

Jo’s words carry their weight into your second week at the firm. You don’t like how Jo's words have more of an effect on you than you thought. You know that Matt is a good guy, but that doesn't negate what your friend said. When it comes to the men you put your trust in, most of them have failed you. Whether it's poor judgment on your part or simply bad luck, you don't know. But Jo was right. Being careful is better than having your trust broken later. So you try not to indulge too much in Matt’s jokes, and you don’t notice the way he seems to fall into silence too when you don't reciprocate his effort. You stay quiet when you have to work closely with Matt, not saying much other than what is being discussed. It is not as difficult as you've thought, as the week starts with not much of notes.

Thursday comes with light precipitation, scattering wetness all over Manhattan throughout the day. Around 4:30 PM, a case arrives with an early time for the deposition the next day. You're staying late with everyone to help them out. Karen has gone out to talk to a journalist about the case, while Foggy and Matt are waiting on the phone for the district attorney's office. You're sitting next to Matt, your eyes roam over the report, your hand poised over the notepad with a pen. The call is patched through and Foggy handles the talking while Matt listens. He asks you to write some things down occasionally, and you're quick to do just so.

You feel your phone vibrate in your pocket as a call comes through. Pulling the phone out from your back pocket, you see that it's from Amy. Sucking in a sharp breath, you realize that you're supposed to meet her for the biweekly check-in and dinner afterwards. You forgot to text her when Foggy asked you to stay earlier. You decline the call and put the phone back, only to take it out again as Amy’s second attempt comes through. You're about to decline it for the third time when you're interrupted.

“You should take that outside.”

Matt says without leaning in or turning to you like he just did moments ago.

“No, it’s okay. I can call her back later.”

Your phone rings incessantly.

“Must be something important. Go.”

His command is brusque, and his tone is clipped. A small sting zips along your nerves at his dismissal, but you listen. You quietly remove yourself from the meeting room and only answer once you're in the common area. Amy greets you in a cheery tone.

“Hey, where are you?”

“I forgot to tell you. I have to work late tonight, so I won't be able to make it to our appointment.”

Amy can't hide her disappointment.

“Oh no. What about dinner?"

You suck in an apologetic breath between your teeth.

"I'm sorry. Rain check?"

"That's fine. We can try to reschedule the check up at least.”

"Yes, absolutely. How about tomorrow?"

"My schedule is full tomorrow."

The urgency to get back to the meeting room starts to toy with you.

“Next week? I feel fine honestly.”

“Hmm, okay. No pain or discomfort while you stretch?”

You told Amy about your decision to slowly get back to ballet, and she made you promise not to overdo it.

“Nothing, I promise.”

“Save it. I know you can hide pain and ignore them very well.”

“Not this time.”

Amy concedes.

“Alright. Such a shame that those tacos will have to wait. But, I’ll see you soon.”

“See you.”

You return to your seat in a rush. Foggy is still talking on the phone. You pick up the pen when Matt says.

“You can go.”

He doesn't acknowledge you when he says it, and you feel as though he's dismissing you with an indifference that's hard not to notice.

“Sorry?”

“That sounded important.”

“No, it really wasn’t. Did you … listen to my conversation?”

Matt opens his mouth as if to say something, but he goes quiet. Frustration is teeming at the seam of your body, but you reel it in.

“I apologize for taking a personal phone call during work hours. You don't have to worry about me wasting the company’s time. It will not happen again.”

The chair creaks softly under his weight as Matt sits upright to face you.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“That’s how it comes off to me.”

“I–“

Foggy calls for your attention at that moment, asking you to write something down with his gestures. You direct your full attention on him, moving towards Foggy to listen better, and to add distance between you and Matt. You can see Jo's face and hear her voice saying 'I told you so' so clearly in your head. To think that Matt was different is a mistake on your part. You feel a familiar waft of shame burning under your skin, but you push that feeling down to focus on the task at hand.

/

A little while later, when the clock strikes 8:22, Matt comes to your desk as you sort through the files Karen brought back with her. He stands at a reasonable distance away with a hand on his hip. The other hand flexes and relaxes on the side as if he doesn't know what to do with it. It's almost like he's waiting for you to be done and then acknowledge him. You spare him the wait and say.

“Anything I can help you with, Mr. Murdock?”

“You don’t have to call me that.”

“I'm just trying to be respectful, sir. I don’t want to get into trouble.”

You take on a well-mannered tone, albeit on the constrained side. Matt takes a small step closer to your desk.

“I’m sorry for the way I came off earlier. I understand that I was rude. I shouldn't have listened to your phone call.”

His apology takes you by surprise. Still, words can only take one so far, and you're not going to make the same mistake again.

“I appreciate that. Now, is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, you can. Are you okay with Chinese food?”

“I’m sorry?”

Matt makes a gesture towards the conference room, where Foggy and Karen are bowed over even more documents.

“We’re going to be here for a little longer, and I’m sure we’re all getting pretty hungry.”

At the mere suggestion of food, your stomach grumbles. The plan was to go to a new restaurant near Amy's practice after the appointment and have a big dinner, so you didn't pack much for lunch. And now you're hungry for some food.

“I’m okay. Thank you for asking.”

You're quick to return to the stack of files before you. But Matt stops you.

“We’re keeping you here late, and we want to feed you.”

“I’m getting paid for all the hours I’m here for, so I’m okay.”

You give him a forced smile, hoping he can hear that through your voice.

“Are you sure? Maybe you want something else, from somewhere else?”

Chinese food sounds great to your stomach, so it makes a noise in protest. You put a hand over your stomach as if that can suppress the sound.

“I’m okay, thank you though.”

“They have soup dumplings, fried rice, crispy noodles, lo mein …”

Matt keeps going with the list, and even though you're opposed to it, your stomach is not. At the sound of braised noodles, it grumbles the loudest. You clear your throat loudly, hoping that it will somewhat cover the sound of your empty stomach.

“Seriously. I’m okay.”

Matt nods with a small smile on his lips.

“If you change your mind, just let me know.”

He retreats to the conference room, leaving you to yourself. You heave a huge sigh, feeling relieved that your stomach no longer has the opportunity to embarrass you anymore.

/

The food arrives a little before they decide to call it a day. You bring the carefully packaged bag in. It smells amazing, and you think about getting some for yourself on the way home. The three of them thank you as you put the bag on the table. You excuse yourself to leave. Karen stops you before you can.

"But your food is here."

"I didn't get anything."

"Are you sure? This braised noodles with pork has your name on it."

She pulls out two clear containers and extends them to you. You accept them from her, one for the soup and the other has the noodles and toppings, seeing your name and the item's name scrawled in Sharpie on top. You glance at Matt, who's quiet, sitting by the sideline while Foggy helps Karen unload the bag. How did he know? Why would he do this for you?

"I shouldn't …"

"Why not? Matt's paying for it."

Matt chuckles softly at that. You're backed into a corner, and the only way out is to accept Matt's generosity.

"Thank you for this."

He angles his body towards you when you say that, and you can see the conscious effort he makes to address you directly.

"You're welcome."

Karen looks at you hopefully.

"Would you like to join us?"

It's 8:56 PM. You feel exhausted from the lack of food and the long day. You appreciate her offer, but you're still much too shy to feel fully comfortable eating with them. They're obviously very close to one another, and you don't want to feel like an outsider, or worse, an intruder.

"Thank you, but I think I'll head home now. Early day tomorrow, you know?"

Foggy guffaws at your sarcasm.

"Don't we know it? Well then, have a good night, and we'll see you tomorrow."

"Bright and early."

You give a finger gun while saying that and immediately regret it. However, Foggy returns the gesture and echoes your words in an endearing manner that draws a genuine smile from you.

"Thanks again for the food, Matt."

"My pleasure."

You have hesitated on using his name as he requested earlier, but to see the soft smile on his lips is enough of an indication that it's the right choice. You leave the building with a small bag of warm noodles inside, and even more conflicting thoughts, enough to unravel the progress you made on the weekend.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

“Hi. Are you …?”

When you offer your name, a look of relief and recognition passes on his face. He checks his watch.

“Ah, yes. You’re a little early.”

“Is that okay? I thought being a little early is probably best.”

“Yes, of course. It’s good. It’s fantastic, actually. Two people canceled on us last minutes.”

He steps aside, holding the door for you.

“Come on in.”

You enter, and the door clicks shut behind you. The big window on the other side of the room lets the natural light in, exposing the overfilled cabinets along either side of the wall, casing a simple desk and a chair in between. There's hardly any free surface that isn't occupied by stacks of manila folders or paperwork resting on top. The man quickly redirects your attention.

“We’re going to be in here.”

You follow him and find a woman already standing to greet you. Her face brightens, and the body language that accompanies exudes friendliness. You feel the knot in your stomach slowly unwinding itself as she offers her hand to you with a smile.

“Hi. Welcome! I’m Karen Page. We spoke before, on the phone.”

“Nice to finally meet you.”

The man extends a hand for you to shake.

“I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Franklin Nelson, but everyone calls me Foggy.”

You reciprocate the gesture as he continues.

“We didn’t talk on the phone, but I thought your cover letter was great.”

“Thank you. I was worried about my application because it’s been a while since I last worked a job like this.”

You regret mentioning the fact the moment you stop talking. But Foggy seems pleased.

“Honesty. I can appreciate that.”

You give the two of them an overt observation.

“So that explains the Nelson and Page on the sign. Where's the Murdock?”

Karen offers an explanation.

“He’s running late. But we can get started without him.”

You drape your coat over the back of the chair before taking your seat. Just like before a performance, you steel yourself and feel the nervousness slowly seep out of your bloodstream on a soft exhale.

/

The initial awkwardness quickly dissipates after the first couple of questions. You understand the role they offer and the skills they require, and you go into detail about your relevant experience in administration. When you first came to the city, being in corps de ballet barely afforded comfort or the expensive rent in a shoebox apartment with Jo. You took on odd jobs and eventually landed a library assistant position at the New York Society Library. You loved the job, and you learned a lot from it. Karen and Foggy seem pleased as you recall what you did for the library for years before committing to Lady Liberty full-time as a soloist.

Foggy makes a note on the notepad before addressing you.

“As you already know, this job is similar to your previous job. You'd be the first point of contact for clients, and also provide us with internal support. But there are also things that we will need to teach you.”

You nodded.

“I understand. I was required to learn many things on the fly at the library, so I could support other departments or guests coming in. My old manager said I was a quick study.”

Foggy's eyes widen at the mention.

"Ms. Hogarth? She had nothing but nice things to say about you on the phone."

You smile and nod. Ms. Hogarth was very sorry to see you leave, and you still keep in touch from time to time via emails and the occasional visits. She'd seen some of your performances over the years.

Karen levels you with a careful look.

“I understand that you were with Lady Liberty Ballet Theatre for a long time until about a year ago. Why did you want to switch to a job like this?”

You've expected this question. You know it's inevitable. You have drafted several responses to explain the reasoning, yet are impersonal enough not to reveal anything damning that you don't want strangers to know.

“I took a break from dancing because of an injury. After the recovery, I just wanted a change since I'd danced for most of my life. I want to be in an environment where the demand for my physicality is not extreme like in ballet, as you may know.”

They nod thoughtfully and exchange a look. It goes on for a long moment before you tentatively interrupt.

“Is everything okay?”

“Of course. Do you mind if we talk in the other room for a minute?”

Foggy asks.

“Oh. Not at all.”

“We’ll be right back.”

Both of them leave the room and close the door. You're unsure what to think of that, so you sweep your eyes over the room. Brightened with natural light just like the room over, but tidier. You take a closer look at the Braille display set up in the empty seat that would be presumably taken by the Murdock of the firm. You recognize the device because there were several models of the same and different at the library. You had to learn how to troubleshoot most of them for the blind guests that came in.

The door creaks open, and the pair come back with conspicuous smiles on their faces. They take their seats again, and Foggy wastes no time.

“We would like to offer you the job, if you’re interested.”

You can't come up with a response right then. Relief washes over you, and joy draws a bashful grin on your lips. A part of you is still skeptical.

“Are you sure?”

“I know that it’s quite a big surprise. And a huge commitment. You don't have to say yes right now. We will send you the offer letter today, you can read it, and if you're okay with everything, sign it and send it back to us and we'll send you the contract to make it official.”

“Wow, I … Thank you."

A thought comes into your mind.

"What about your other associate? Do you need to wait for him to decide?”

Karen assures you.

“He’s not here, so we’re calling in an executive order. Besides, you're our favourite candidate.”

You can’t help but laugh softly, offering your hand to shake theirs.

“Thank you so much for the offer.”

“Like Foggy said, no pressure. If you do decide to work for us, and if you have any concerns or disagreements about anything in the contract, just email us, and we can discuss.”

“Arguing with lawyers about a contract they draw up? I might as well quit while I'm ahead."

Foggy laughs wholeheartedly even though you don't think the joke was that funny, and clasps your hand tightly in his.

“You’ll fit it just fine here.”

/

It was only half an hour after you left the interview when the offer letter was sent to your inbox. You’re sitting by the fire escape, allowing the heat from the radiator to warm your feet as you read the file. Working overtime is expected and paid accordingly, with an hourly rate of $19, and a basic health care plan. You sign and send the document once you finish, and Karen emails you the contract in a cheery tone welcoming you to the team. All is done within the span of an afternoon. You have a few days between now and the start date, so you spend them rumbling through your closet to find office-appropriate clothes and reading the contract and practice’s policy. And inevitably, your mind drifts to the stranger from the bar at irregular intervals.

The way his hair felt through your fingers. The solid muscles under your palm. The way his weight pressed into your body. The vulnerable display of the need for you in his handsome features. The way his unseeing eyes seemed to darken when you pulled away. The shape of his lips on yours. The way he kissed you so deeply, so exhaustively exquisite that you could feel yourself unravelling to the bones. He did that to you without taking your clothes off, without putting his skilled lips on your bare skin. He was gentle, understanding, and attuned to how you were feeling, which makes you appreciate him even more the more you think about him.

He would stay firmly in the past, in a way that you think is symbolic. You spilled your heart out to a man you didn't know as if you were ridding yourself of the burden of the past so that you could step into the future. That future is so close you can taste it, a promise of something better. It's fitting. The secrets you haven't told anyone close to you, floating away and tethering to a stranger, and like you, they disappeared the next morning.

/

You arrive early for your first day. Foggy said the key to the office would be made and given to you today. So you wait in the hallway until Karen arrives. She lets you in and walks you through the basic setup. You finish signing in on the computer when Foggy comes in.

“Here’s your key, like promised.”

He places it in your hand.

“Did Karen show you the basics?”

“Yes, she did.”

"Most of it."

Karen adds.

“Any question so far?”

You give Foggy a reassuring smile.

“Not yet. But I will definitely need help figuring out all of this."

You gesture to the stacks of paper that have seemed to grow bigger since you were here last.

The door opens again, and your heart leaps at the sight. The hair, the glasses, the cane. And the face you can never forget. You can see the furrow of his brows behind the slouched glasses, painting confusion alongside his slightly parted lips. Foggy tsks, thumbing at the man who's still technically a stranger to you in most senses of the word.

“Always late to the party, this one. I’d like to introduce you to the Murdock of the firm, Matthew Michael Murdock."

It takes Matt all but a brief second to respond while you're still processing the reality of your situation.

"Easy on the introduction there, Foggy."

Foggy repeats your name, and for a moment you're worried that Matt would recognize you. You smile anyway and say.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Murdock.”

“Likewise. I've heard so many great things about you.”

He makes a few steps forward with his hand extended, and you get up off of the chair to meet him in the middle. The shake is clumsy upon the initial contact, but the nerves you felt that night come rushing back regardless. His hand lingers longer than a formal handshake.

"There's no need for formality. Call me Matt."

You realize then that Matt doesn't recognize you. Lying to a blind man makes you feel uneasy, but it’s hardly deception if the other party can’t perceive you in a way a person with functioning sight can. There's still the matter of your voice, but you quickly dismiss the notion. It's hardly distinctive amongst the city of millions.

“Alright. By the way, if you need any help with the Braille display, I can help.”

His head slightly tilts to one side in question while Karen and Foggy look at you for an explanation.

“The library had those machines, and every so often they went haywire. I learned how to fix them.”

“Thank you.”

Matt inclines his head. Foggy pats him on the back.

“See? I told you she’s great.”

Your cheeks grow warm. Matt doesn’t show any sign that he recognizes you, which is a good thing. But it also puts you in an impasse, considering everything that happened that night. You’re not sure how to approach the subject now that he's your boss.

For now, you quickly excuse yourself to get back to work, trying hard to tame the pounding in your chest.

/

The day is slow, which you're grateful for as it took you a while to figure out the general system Nelson, Murdock and Page keeps, but still busy enough to keep your mind off of the man who's sitting a few feet away from you, separated by a thin wall. In between the few phone calls and setting up appointments and meetings, you get to work sorting the files one cabinet at a time. You straighten them out in their folders and put them back in their according chronicle. When you alert them of a client's visit, Matt says thank you with a deep, gravelly voice, and you reciprocate formally. After lunch, Karen and Foggy go down to the police station to talk to a potential client, leaving you and Matt at the office.

You're drinking out of a paper cup, thinking about ways you could make the filing system more efficient when Matt joins you in the kitchen. You stiffen and clear your throat.

“Would you like me to get you something, Mr. Murdock?”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. The small kitchen only has so much space, and Matt's stature alone has taken up half of the doorway. Your heart rate spikes slightly at his appraisal silence.

“It’s you. From that night.”

It can only mean one thing. Your hands turn cold and clammy. Your mind fast forwards to the made-up scenario in which you lie to him, only to arrive at the same conclusion you did that night. Even though you're a good liar to those close to you, that doesn't seem to matter to Matt. He knows how you feel. And more importantly, he knows who you are.

A deep sigh escapes your lips.

“Yes, I am. How did you recognize me?”

“Your voice.”

He doesn't hesitate, which confuses you.

“It’s … hardly distinctive.”

“It is, to me. And I recognize the perfume you use.”

He makes a gesture in the air, which you guess is for the aroma of the perfume.

“Oh. Right."

You didn't know your perfume was that strong to begin with, and it sparks a new concern.

"Is it too strong? I can stop wearing it.”

“No, don’t. I lik– … It's not strong. It also doesn't bother me.”

You make a mental note of that.

“I didn’t know you were the Murdock of the firm.”

“I didn’t know you were the great candidate Foggy was talking so much about.”

You chuckle. Tension seems to wane through the lightened mood and your relaxed body language.

“Our pay is not very competitive.”

“I know. They told me as much during the interview, but I don't mind. I've had worse."

You let out a self-deprecating laugh to mask your nervousness.

"I just– I want to get away and work a normal job for a while.”

Matt nods. He exudes neither judgement nor pity, just like that night at the bar, but you can see the gears in his head turn through his knitted brows. You add nervously.

“Are you going to tell them? That we … almost hooked up?”

Your heart pounds harder. Please, not when you finally have this job. Matt seems to sense your uneasiness and shakes his head.

“No, of course not. It stays between us.”

“Thank you.”

An innate thought compels you to continue.

“We can just forget about that night. Technically, we didn’t cross any boundaries. It was just a kiss. It doesn’t have to be anything more. It’s not like we actually hooked up. We didn’t know each other then. We just kissed. Casually. And it doesn't mean anything.”

You internally curse yourself at Matt's lack of an immediate and obvious response. He takes longer than you expected to answer.

“No, of course not.”

A sliver of disappointment touches his tone, but his features stay professional. In the moment, you're unsure how to make sense of that.

“I know I’m asking a lot, but, can you keep what I told you a secret?”

When Matt was only a stranger to you, everything you told him was inconsequential. Impermanence, like your short-lived career. No matter who he was, you'd still leave the side of his bed just like how you'd vanish from his life. You never planned to stay the night. The small circle of people you're close with aren't privy to the most dirty details. Yet, he knows many intimate details about you in more ways than one. Maybe you told him about your situation because you finally wanted someone else other than you to know and maybe understand how hard it was to fall out of love with what you’d trained to do your whole life, yet simultaneously still seeking out its approval and acceptance. Jo doesn't understand. She said you could find another company, another theatre to dance for. But you're afraid that no matter where you go, your shadows will follow. You will always be that one forgettable soloist who couldn't secure a promotion because you weren't good enough.

You regret it – telling him everything. Matt must think differently of you now. You're not the self-assured stranger who approached him at the bar, bought him a drink and asked to go home with him. You're the flawed, unwanted person, who couldn’t bring herself to have a one-night stand. A hot flash curls under your skin at the thought. It feels a lot like shame.

Matt's voice sounds so far away, but the weight of its sincerity manages to pull you away from your own thoughts.

“What happened that night will stay between us for as long as you wish.”

His promise soothes your frazzled nerves.

“Are we … okay, then?”

He nods.

“We’re okay.”

“Thank you.”

The phone on the reception desk rings blessedly, and you excuse yourself to answer it. Matt steps aside for you to go through, and when you near him, the materials of your clothes brush against each other. The scent of cedarwood and leather grasps at you as you walk past him, smouldering and lurking in the back of your mind.

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Jo notices your silence and reaches over the table, laying her hand atop yours.

“Have you thought about my offer?”

Jo’s proposal. How can you not think about it? It has never left your mind ever since she mentioned it. Her newly acquired gym could be a place for you to get back to dancing in complete privacy. And you won’t have to pay a dime.

“I spruced up the place a little bit and will be adding more equipment. I can get whatever you need so it can be a proper space for you to practice.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Jo casts a sympathetic look at you, her voice careful.

“How’s your foot?”

You flex and point the right foot under the table, recalling the phantom pain that was your consistent companion for the most part of last year.

“It’s not that bad.”

“Are you still seeing Amy?”

“Of course. She’d bite my head off if I missed our appointment.”

You share a knowing chuckle, knowing Amy's personality. You know her through Jo, and they dated briefly in college. The two stayed friends afterward. After leaving Lady Liberty Ballet Theatre, your physical health was left to your own management. Your gaps of knowledge were filled in by Amy, a physical therapist who stepped in and offered her help voluntarily when Jo mentioned your situation. You still meet biweekly at her practice in Harlem, and the three of you hang out from time to time.

“Come to my gym.”

She hastily continues once she sees the decline perches on your pressed lips.

“It’s free.”

“I don’t want to be a bother. You’ll have to get a barre, and the flooring might not be suitable–“

“I don’t care about the cost. I just want to do this for you. Let someone do a nice thing for you every once in a while.”

You meet her eyes, resisting her act of kindness with silence. You know how to pick your battles, and this is the one you have lost from the start, judging by Jo's stern gaze. You sigh.

“I’ll think about it.”

A victory smile graces her lips.

“That’s all I’m asking.”

Jo leans into the table, her hand reaching for yours.

“I want to see you dance on the stage again. You’re a beautiful ballerina, and I know this is not the end for you.”

You know she means well, but her words feel like claws, sinking their sharp ends into your heart. You haven't danced since the injury, and a part of you knows that you might never dance as well as you once did. The best version of you had lived that life to its fullest potential, the life of endless classes and rehearsals, soldout shows, ending many nights and seasons to the deafening cheers from the audience. Your current self is only a shadow, living a partial existence and mourning the past as time passes and your grasp on it weakens.

You want the endless optimism Jo seems to possess. She’s always so assertive in everything she does. From her university days pursuing a bachelor's degree in sports science to her boxing competition days to buying a gym, she has a sense of self-assurance that carries her throughout the years you've known her ever since you became roommates when you first moved to New York. And you admire that about her endlessly. Her goals might vary, but her passion for them never wavers. Her faith in you seems to share the same sentiment.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, hoping your face doesn't betray your true thoughts. Jo squeezes your hand and lets go. She checks her wristwatch, and with a silent glance, you understand that she has to leave. Jo meets you as you stand up from your side of the booth, drawing you into a crushing hug.

“Will you be okay here?”

She pulls back. You smile and pat her shoulder.

“I’ll be fine. Just want to finish my drink.”

She takes a step backward as she waves.

“Good luck tomorrow!”

You raise your hand in response and watch her tall and brawny frame vanish through the door. You drop your arm, but you don't sit down. Taking a discreet glance at the bar, your heart rate spikes ever so slightly at the sight of the stranger you noticed earlier when you bought the drinks.

As you waited for your drinks, he came in and settled for a spot at the bar. The lady whose name you learned earlier, Josie, greeted him, asking where his friends were, so you assumed he was a regular. He was good-looking, you admitted before finding yourself staring at him. You averted your gaze, but couldn't help taking in other details. The folded cane rested on the bar top as Josie slid a glass of amber liquid in front of him. The scarred knuckles as he brought it to his lush lips. The suit was pristine for the most part except for the minimal wrinkles from the day's wear and the loosened tie. The red-tinted glasses perched on his pronounced nose, under the tousled sweep of dark hair. The soft smile brightened his handsome face as the other bartender told him something, which you had to tear your eyes away from when Josie placed the drinks in front of you. You thanked her and headed back to your table, feeling a touch of disappointment in your throat.

There is no denying that you want to approach him. But your nerves intervene with all the questions. What if he rejected you? What if he thought you were a creep for approaching him? What if he just wanted to be left alone? He has been sitting by the bar by himself ever since he came in, you notice. You'd ask if you could join him, and possibly buy him a drink if he was up for it. If he said no, that'd be fine. You would respect his wish and leave him alone. You have a feeling you'd regret it if you didn't at least try.

You gulp down your drink for a little liquid courage and make your way over to the bar. Your heart rate accelerates the closer you get to him, but you are determined to get over the little hurdle. You stop within a conversational distance and use your best composed voice.

“Hey, may I join you?”

He turns in his seat and gives you a friendly smile.

“Of course not. Please do.”

The high chair is a comfortable and respectful distance away from his, but still close enough for a private conversation. The stranger has angled his body toward you, and his openness eases the knot in your stomach. At this distance, you can see that he is even more handsome up close. Heat seeps into your cheeks at the full comprehension of his handsomeness up close. The neon signs around help shape the shadows and highlights that are already there in his features. The strong jawline and defined nose blend in harmony with the soft hair and luscious lips. You find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from his moving lips, and only a brief moment later you realize he has asked for your name.

You tell him and laugh nervously, blaming the lively ambience around you. He humours you with a chuckle of his own and reciprocates.

"Matt. Nice to meet you."

“Nice to meet you.”

He reaches out with a hand, and you grab it. Your heart beats a little faster at the feel of his hand, warm and a little rough. You pull away first, conscious of the coldness of your hand. You eye his almost empty glass.

“Would you like another drink?”

“If that makes you stay with me for the rest of the evening, I’d love one.”

Charming. You allow an amused and breathy chuckle to escape, and order another fill of your drinks. When Josie turns away to make them, Matt asks.

“What are we celebrating tonight?”

You think about it for a moment.

“This is not really a celebration since I haven’t gotten the job yet.”

“When is the interview?”

“It's … tomorrow.”

His brows raise above the glasses.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little bit. It’s been a while since my last normal job.”

“What were you doing before?”

Josie puts down the drinks in front of you.

“I’m a– I was a ballerina.”

“Was?”

You run a finger over the cool and smooth edge of the glass, taking a moment to tell a stranger about one of your worst shame.

“I haven’t danced professionally in over a year."

“May I ask why?"

The edge of his lips settles into a neutral line. No pity, just a willingness to listen. It is exactly what you need.

“Yes, but it's just … complicated.”

“How so?”

The old life that you once lived feels so out of your grasp now. Besides the occasional flareups, most mornings, you get up with minimal or no degree of soreness or pain, and you fear that signals the end of your life as a ballerina.

Retirement in your late twenties wasn't something you thought of when you were 18, fresh out of high school with an offer letter from Lady Liberty Ballet Theatre. Moving from a small, sylvan town to a big, lively city like New York was a dream come true. You got to live out the life your younger self used to dream about. How wonderful it was. Dancing on the big stage before the bright stage lights in front of the audience. The early classes, late stage calls, costume fittings, and demanding rehearsals leading up to the shows were all worth it. Because when you got to dance, it was just you and the music. Your body knew the techniques, learned the steps and how to master them. You bent music with your carefully crafted movements and turned the piece into your own interpretation. You worked hard on your craft and artistic abilities, and you thought that it paid off with your promotion from corps de ballet to the first soloist assembly after six years.

But for Matt's sake, you don't go into any of that.

“Well … at my old company, the group of highest rank dancers is smaller compared to other companies. It’s a great honour and a big deal to be promoted to principal. Christine was one of them, and she decided to retire. The head artistic director wanted to appoint a first soloist, which is just a step below principal, to take over in her place. I was a soloist, and I thought it was my opportunity since I've been with the company for the longest out of everyone in the group. I also understudied for Christine in many productions, on top of the roles I had to prepare and perform. I pushed myself really hard that season to prove that I could do it. I was in and out of classes, rehearsals, and performances every day for over three months. On the days we had two shows a day, oftentimes I'd have to perform in both so Christine could have a break."

Matt listens intently, following your words with an attentiveness that you find endearing.

“In the final week of Sleeping Beauty, I had this pain along my heel. But I ignored it and pushed through out of fear that they would dismiss me. At that point, they already had a favourite. One of the directors even told me that I should quit while I was ahead and that I should be happy staying as a soloist."

You swallow the lump in your throat and go on.

"I couldn't take my bow that night, because as soon as my part was done and I went behind the stage, I passed out. It turned out I got an Achilles rupture.

“I had the surgery and was in a boot for a while. I was so desperate to show them my dedication and how good I was by going back to the studio just the day after they allowed me to go without the boot. And I made the injury worse. I was admitted for a partial rupture a week later.”

You thought you could do it. Bearing and hiding the pain so you would stand out as the best selection for the new principal dancer. Yet, all of that hard work didn’t matter in the end. It never mattered the moment Claudia Mavis signed a contract with Lady Liberty.

“In the hospital, the head director told me that they would go with Claudia, even though by that point she had been with the company for only one season. One of the people that I was closed with told me that Claudia left her previous company because they wouldn’t promote her. During a physical therapy session, Claudia told me that they offered her the new contract two weeks before my accident. So I never had the chance in the first place.”

You take a long sip of your drink after the story.

"That is very unfair to you. You deserve more than what they gave you."

You shrug.

“Well, it happened. I have learned to accept it a while ago.”

The hurt is still there, albeit more dull. While you want to blame your departure on the circumstances, you know a part of it is for you to bear as well. Matt becomes thoughtful, and you can see the way he considers his question.

“Do you miss it?”

“I … do. Not the toxic culture, but the dancing itself. It’s like a kind of language that I was fluent in. A form of self-expression that I could indulge in.”

“I’m sure when you come back to it, you will still be amazing.”

You don't even try to hide the disbelieving and playful scoff that escapes.

“You're just flattering me.”

There's not a trace of that cocky confidence of a man who thinks he just scores big with a woman because of a throwaway, vague statement he thinks will please her.

“I mean it. I enjoy music and dance performances in a way most can’t. When I really pay attention, I can hear … movements. The rhythm of someone’s feet striking the ground in time with the music when done right is beautiful. The way you talk about ballet shows me how much you truly care for the art. Like you live and breathe it.”

You tug on your bottom lip with your teeth in quiet contemplation before answering him.

“I did. It was a big part of my life.”

“It still can be.”

You let out a noncommittal hum.

"We'll see."

You took sips of your respective drinks, allowing the moment to reset itself. But Matt isn't quite done with the questions. You give him the go-ahead.

"Why ballet?"

“I just love the duality of it. We're supposed to look graceful and effortless while our blisters have blisters, our toes are bleeding, our legs are cramping. We have to dance through all of that and much worse. I like the pain sometimes. It means that I’m doing it right.”

“I didn’t peg you for a masochist.”

The quip takes you by surprise, but you quickly recover.

"Huh. I usually don't reveal that information to anyone until I'm ready to sleep with them."

Matt's tongue licks at his bottom lip, amused by your response.

"Maybe we are just that compatible."

Maybe it is the alcohol that makes you a little lightheaded, but the conversation has taken on a flirty turn, and you lean into each other's space, sharing a bashful, quiet laugh.

The person who took the seat next to yours when you were in the middle of your story bumps into you from behind, pushing you further into Matt's space. They apologize, and you tell them it's fine. The bar top has grown a little more crowded with new visitors. You think about what you could do to make some space when Matt reaches out and pulls your chair closer, so close that your knees touch. The contact is minimal, yet insistent, and you can't help the heat that races to your skin and the wild rhythms of your heart. Even your internal self admits that was the hottest thing Matt has done so far.

You clear your thoughts, focusing on the man sitting so much closer to you now.

“I'm so sorry. I feel like I've been talking about myself for the past hour.”

“No, don't stop. I like it. You have a beautiful voice.”

If he kept this going, you would need to check yourself for a fever. You clear your throat.

“So, what do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer. My partners and I have our own practice here in Hell's Kitchen.”

“Wow, that's amazing. What do you specialize in?”

“A little bit of everything. We started out representing people who can’t afford the legal service. Pro bono work basically. We still do that, but we have been getting more clients who can pay for our services.”

“Hm. It makes perfect sense. I can see that about you. The good guy.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“You know the right questions to ask. You got me talking about myself for … way too long. And your face …”

You trail off. Almost two drinks have worked their magic on your unabashed honesty.

“My face?”

His plush lips lift in a curious smile.

“Yeah, your face. You made me feel … safe and welcome so I could tell my story. Your face stayed neutral when I went on and on about it. No pity or judgment. You looked like you really cared about me, or my case.”

“I do care about you. And for the record, I appreciate every detail you gave me.”

You know that he might say this just to please you, but his earnestness says otherwise.

“Thank you. I needed that. Not many people care about me, especially after my fallout with the company.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It never was.”

Matt puts a hand on yours on the bar top. You stared at his scarred knuckles, your heart beating along the seam of your body with a slight increase in rhythm. Your hand itched to weave itself into his, to lay flat against the warmth of his palm. As if your body has thrown caution to the wind and wants to do just exactly what it wants to, your pointer finger moves involuntarily. He pulls his hand back, an apology on his lips.

“I’m sorry–“

“No, don’t.”

You reach out with the other hand and keep Matt there. You run your thumb over his knuckles as if to soothe him, to tell him that this is okay. You want this. The additional contact exhilarates you, as you haven't felt another’s touch that isn't from Jo or Amy in a long time. Dating has always been the last thing on your mind, especially in the past year. But right here, right now, being with Matt is easy. There is no pressure. No hindrance. Even though you've met only for two hours, Matt has listened to you. He takes a soft and shaky breath, and your eyes follow the way his chest slightly expands.

Your pointer finger traces the raised edges of his scars, and he lets you. The air seems to thin as your pulse drums a frantic beat under your skin.

“Do you beat people up in your client’s honour?”

“Only those who deserve it.”

You chuckle, and you lean into him as if you can't help yourself. The world has gone quiet around you, and the only thing left on your mind is to have his lips on yours. Your voice is only a breath above a whisper, and you're afraid Matt might miss it entirely amongst the loud voices of others.

“Can I kiss you?’’

He releases a sharp exhale as if he has been waiting for you to utter those words all evening.

“Please.”

You lean in, carefully, slowly. His lips slightly part in an open invitation, and you meet in the middle. The touch is gentle, soft tissues overlap in slow, indulgent caresses. Simple, yet it invokes a craving in you. The need for him to be even closer, the yearning to find out the taste of him. Matt touches your jaw, and draws you in closer, deepening the kiss, and you let yourself go. Eager, perching on the territory of desperation as the pressure on your lips grows more insistently. You're entangled in an exhilarating chase, circling around each other like you simply can't resist the pull that's been there since the moment you sat down. Matt silently asks for entry at the seam of your lips, and you respond in kind. His tongue strokes yours and suddenly, there is a new kind of invisible vapour that you're breathing in. It's overwhelming, yet not enough at the same time. You can taste the bitterness of the whisky that makes you wince on normal occasions, but on Matt's tongue, it's addictive and inexplicably irresistible. His air runs wild in your lungs, warming your body from the inside, awakening your nerves.

You break away at the sound of a teasing whistle clearly directed at you, reminding you of where you are. Matt’s face is flushed red, and you want to see how far down the colour goes under the suit and tie he's wearing. His hand is still on your jaw, gently caressing the line like he doesn't want to let go. And you don't want to let him go either.

“Can we go back to your place?”

The question rolls off your tongue, and he nods immediately, a little breathlessly. You stand up from your chairs at the same time. Matt reaches for his coat that is on the back of the chair. You shrug your own on and avert your gaze when Matt subtly adjusts his slacks. You put the bills down for your drinks, shutting Matt down when he objects to the idea. His hand find yours when you offer it to him, and you walk into the brisk air together.

The walk back didn't take too long. Matt held your hand the whole time, and the small gesture made your insides flutter. He lets you go when you reach his apartment. The unit number 6A has almost faded into the dark door. He unlocks the door and tells you where the light switch is. You turn it on, and place your coat in his awaiting palm. You follow him further into the apartment and take in the space.

“Who did you kill to get this place?”

Matt chuckles, discarding his tie with one hand.

“No killing involved. The neon sign out there is enough to chase people away.”

Your gaze falls on the giant, blinking advertisement outside the window.

“Nothing a few blackout curtains won't fix.”

He drapes the black tie on the back of the couch as you turn to the other side of the apartment.

“Do those stairs lead to the rooftop?”

“Yes, they do.”

You keep your back to him.

"Do you go up there often?"

"From time to time."

"This is … wow."

You're not sure why you're stalling. You pretend to look around as you try to brush off a nagging feeling that has settled in the pit of your stomach. Just the nerves, you think. You're out of practice, that's all.

So you clear your throat and say.

“Is your bedroom behind that bigger sliding door?”

He nods. You feel a little out of place, so you gravitate towards him, a familiar presence in a strange space. Matt lets you come to him, giving you all the control. You lean in and attach your lips to his, allowing it to follow the natural progression as it did back at Josie's. Your legs tangle and stumble towards the bedroom, your lips never too far away from one another. You think you might hit the closed door, but before that can happen, Matt pulls you flush against his body with one hand and uses the other to slide the door open in one smooth, practiced move. You pull away when you need to catch your breath.

“May I …”

You touch the side of his glasses. After a quiet moment, he gives you permission to take them, and you do. Slowly, and with the utmost care you can manage, you set them on the bedside table. His eyes are closed when you straighten. You caress his cheek, feeling the way his features form together. Your touch is soothing, and you hope he can feel the patience you offer to him. There is no rush, no pressure. After a long moment, Matt opens his eyes, and you take them in. You can see how he tries to meet your eyes in his own way. The shade of hazel is shrouded by the low light and the occasional shutter of his eyelids.

“Your eyes are beautiful.”

You raise slightly on your tiptoes and kiss his eyelids, feeling his lashes fluttering softly. He waits for you to return to him, and seeks out your lips in a delicate manner.

You fall onto the bed together. Matt braces himself on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. You pull his head down to yours, kissing and nibbling on the stretch of stubble along his jaw. His soft groans of approval encourage the other hand to travel downward, pulling on the white dress shirt. Once it's free from the slacks, you weave your hand inside and run your palm along the expanse of his torso. The dips and raises of his well-defined abs are warm under your palm, and the sensation stokes the molten liquid that's nestling deep inside you. You feel the feverish need edging over that part of you that you want to ignore.

The gradual pullback doesn't feel like a rejection at first, but merely an invitation to follow. So you do, your hands work to unbutton his shirt. But Matt slows you down to a stop, holding your hands to his lips and placing kisses on your palms. You blink, still snarled in the haze.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Confronted. The only word that can describe accurately how you're feeling.

“What makes you say that?”

“Your heart …”

His hand trails from your collarbone to your chest where your heart resides within in a way that feels strangely intimate and not at all invasive. You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was beating. It's pounding. You are more nervous about this than you thought.

“… is beating quite fast. Are you nervous?”

You're safe. It's an innate feeling, and while you can't explain it, you know lying to Matt serves no purpose here. He seems to have a way to read you without using his sight.

“Yes, a little bit. I haven’t done this before. Sleeping with a stranger, I mean.”

“I see. We don’t have to do this.”

You raise yourself on your elbows.

“No, I wanted to go back here, with you. I want this.”

“But it doesn’t mean you owe me anything. If you change your mind for whatever reason, I'm okay with that as well."

Matt presses a kiss to your forehead.

"We can always try this again at another time.”

Guilt claws at you, urging you to do anything to please him.

“I’m sorry. I gave you the wrong signal.”

“Don’t. You have nothing to apologize for.”

He tries to find your hand, and you offer it to him. He gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“I had a good time with a beautiful woman, then I got to kiss her, all in one night, and that's enough.”

You guffaw, throwing your head back at the blatant flirt.

“You don’t even know how I look like.”

“No, I don’t. But I have my own way to tell. You sound beautiful.”

An idea materializes in your mind, and you give in to it. You bring his hand to your face, trailing along the side of your face. He gets the hint and begins his own exploration of your features. The way he takes his time, following the slopes of your face, his touch gentle, ghosting over your skin. He stops at your lips and soothes his thumb over the kiss-swollen flesh. You sigh softly. He gives you one last kiss, his tenderness makes your heart soar.

“Would you like something comfortable to sleep in?”

“I'm fine with anything you have.”

Matt finds his closet and pulls out a grey sweatshirt. He tells you where the bathroom is, and you take the folded shirt with you. You clean yourself up with water before stripping down to your underwear. You put the soft material over your body. It smells like him, and soft, just like him. You come out of the washroom and see his bare back for a split second before he pulls the shirt down. He has changed into a pair of grey sweatpants and a black shirt that hugs his chest and biceps beautifully.

You stand by his bed, not sure where you can come in despite the two of you ruffling the sheets not even ten minutes ago. Matt chooses for you, settling on the space facing the window, leaving you the side which is closer to the sliding door. His sheets are silky soft, and you feel yourself sinking right into them. You turn to face Matt, touching his shoulder. He faces you fully, his eyes settling on a point on the lower part of your face.

“Thank you.”

You whisper.

“Thank me by staying for breakfast.”

“Why breakfast?”

“I can't send you off to your interview on an empty stomach, can I? It's the least I can do.”

A rueful smile graces your lips.

“I can’t wait.”

You fell asleep with ease. At one point during the night, you could feel Matt detach himself from you, and out of a vague desperation that you couldn't process, you held tighter onto him involuntarily. At that, he stopped moving, and you felt a soothing pattern trailing over your head, luring you back to sleep again. His warmth carried you through the few hours that you slept.

It's a little past 4 AM when you wake, and find Matt still sleeping peacefully. Torn, but you come to accept that leaving is for the best. You get out of bed gently, thankful that the wooden floor didn't make a noise. You take his sweatshirt off and fold it, putting it on top of the pillow that you slept on. After putting on the clothes from the night before, you leave with much regret in your heart.

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Your reading ended, followed by answering questions, and signing. You got to meet wonderful people who expressed their love for your books and talked about your newest release. No one knew the idea was drawn loosely from your own experience. It was the truth that you held close to your heart. The idea of being capable of loving more than one person in literature wasn’t new. And like most, it usually tailspinned out of one's control. You knew it well, and you put it into your own words. In the end, your protagonist walked away from everything, freeing herself of the entanglement. It stemmed from your understanding of your own role in the circumstances. Loving Art and tolerating everything that was attached to him was an inescapable loop once your connections had intertwined so deeply that neither of you could unravel. You accepted that you and Art were nothing more than a missed opportunity, and maybe, in another lifetime, you would find each other again. But in this one, you chose to move on.

Avery helped you wrap up the signing, and when you were about to walk away from the table, a familiar voice caressed your ears.

“Do you have time for another autograph?”

You could recognize him from the first consonant he uttered. You turned your head and were greeted by his warm and familiar gaze. There wasn't a need to run, to hide like you did two years ago. You felt nothing but a quick skip in your heart before returning to its normal pace. From this distance, you could see the subtle fall and rise of his chest that made him look slightly out of breath. The white tee he was wearing was speckled with raindrops, making it cling to the definition of his torso better. He had let his hair grow out since you last met, the damp curls held tension at the nape of his neck. His eyes held yours, and you were taken aback by its intensity and familiarity. The colour was a muted blue under the artificial light of the bookstore, and the speckle of light brown remained.

Avery spoke up before you could.

“Sorry, but signing hour is over.“

You touched her shoulder.

“It’s okay. I can do it. I’ll be done in a minute.”

Avery gauged your face, looking for a sign of uncertainty or discomfort. You nodded and assured her you'd be alright, only then, she left you alone with Art. You lowered your voice, not wanting other people to hear.

“Sure, I can sign your book.”

Art blinked as if he didn't expect you to actually indulge him. He retrieved the books from the bag on his side and placed them on the table.

“I wasn’t sure which one I wanted to get signed, so I brought a few that I have.”

Four copies of your books, from the debut to your newest, spread out before you. You took your time flipping over each of them, your eyes tracing over the faint underlines on the sentences you wrote. You imagined Art's own hand turning the pages, carefully underlining what he liked, what resonated with him. The books looked like they were read over and over with frayed edges, worn pages, and slight curls on the corners. You quieted the voices in your head, questions echoing in the chamber of your mind and picked up a pen. You opened your new release and looked at him expectantly.

“What do you want me to write?”

“Anything you want.”

“When you say that, do you mean the literal sentence ‘anything you want’ or …”

You trailed off, watching a smile slowly make its way to his lips, mirroring yours.

“Anything your heart desires.”

“Alright. ‘Anything your heart desires’ it is then.”

You placed your pen on the page and made a move to write it, but he stopped you by touching his fingers on the splayed book.

“How about ‘yes, I would like to go out for dinner with you’?”

You considered him. The playful smile was still on his lips, but from where you were standing, he seemed pretty serious.

“Is that a real invitation?”

He nodded.

“I mean it.”

You straightened up and looked at him fully for the first time since he made his presence known.

“I came to San Francisco just to see you.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t seem to get over you.”

His unexpected honesty was so brutal that it almost took your breath away. You parted your lips in bated breath, not daring to say another word that could ruin the trance he seemed to cast over you.

“You're always on my mind. I haven’t stopped thinking about you ever since you left.”

“Art …”

You swallowed the lump of emotions that had gathered in your throat, unsure of how to respond to his admission. Art looked at you with an understanding, telling you that he didn't expect you to say anything back. The boy you fell in love with years ago, now standing in front of you, had stripped his soul bare and laid it out in front of you. The downpour of your emotions swirled together, seizing your heart in a tight grip. It made your skin bloom in heat. You saw Art's mouth move before you could process the words themselves.

“I will be here for another week. Please, I would like to see you before I leave.”

He extended a piece of paper towards you, and a sense of deja vu hit you. History had the tendency to repeat itself, and here you were, with the man who once was your everything. He looked at you like his sole purpose was to please you, to do whatever you wanted him to.

“Are you here because I’m the second best thing you can get?”

You asked in a self-deprecating tone.

“No, I’m here because I want to. And you’ve always been the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

You blinked at the sheer honesty in the way he said it. No hesitation in his voice, and no humour in his eyes. But words could only mean so much. Actions eclipsed everything else.

“What about Tashi?”

“We’re not together anymore.”

You nodded, feeling that there was more to it, but it was neither the time nor the place. You took the folded piece of paper from him, and before he let you have it, Art said.

“Anytime. Anywhere. We can meet up and just talk.”

You stayed silent. Art continued.

“And if you don’t want me, I will leave in a week and never come back or contact you again.”

You nodded, showing your understanding. You crouched slightly to sign his book, and when you gave it back to him, your hands touched, and it sent a touch of thrill down your spine. You left the table and not once looked back at Art. He didn’t know it then, but you still had his number saved on your phone. After your encounter two years ago, you couldn’t bring yourself to delete it.

/

The next two days were spent with you thinking about Art’s offer and pondering the outcome of your choices. What would your decision say about you as a person? Going back to the man who had hurt you wasn’t something you wanted for your character, that was why you ended your book the way you did. But you also knew the matter of the heart was more complicated than that. Not everything could be sorted as black or white. The definitive decision to choose one over another, because it was viewed as the right thing to do, was a conformity of normality and a complete rejection of nuances and consideration for perspectives that didn’t align with what was deemed morally right. What you ultimately decided would be the culmination of your experience alone, of the connection you had with Art, Tashi, and Patrick, and not a reflection of your morality. What applied to others might not apply to you, and vice versa. Each person in a collective could have wildly different experiences, none were the same. And you didn’t have to justify yourself to anyone.

You opened your contact and scrolled until you reached Art’s number. After a deep breath and another moment of waiting for the rational part of you to scream profanities at your decision, you clicked on his contact and pressed call. You waited patiently, listening to the calming beat of your heart. Anxiety perched at the corner of your mind, ready to jump in at the idea of Art not picking up his phone, and him showing up at your book signing event was his way to toy with you. But Art shut out all of the background noises when he picked up at the fourth ring.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

He sounded out of breath, and in your head, you imagined how he must have run to his phone and hoped it was you who called. You bit the inside of your cheek at the image and realized that he was waiting for an answer from the other side of the line.

“Where are you staying?”

“The Ritz.”

"Between Pine and California?"

Art confirmed with a quiet 'yes'. You wanted to tell yourself no, that this was a bad idea, but these thoughts wavered the more you wanted to look upon them further, to dissect them into bits and pieces. The absence of the self-loathing that you were so used to was noticeable. After a moment of contemplation, you breathed out and said.

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

"I can pick you up."

You shook your head before realizing he couldn't see you.

"There's no need."

“I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

You went through the motions, getting dressed, and getting into the car and backed out of your apartment's complex's parking lot. Your fingers drummed on the wheel restlessly as you imagined what might happen, what you would say to him, what you would ask. Should you feel shame? Guilt? In the empty vastness of space between you and Art, you tried and tried to fill it up with excuses. Anything that would make you turn around. Yet, the car still moved forward, and it didn't stop until you reached the Ritz-Carlton hotel.

/

You found Art waiting in the lobby, just like he said. You went to the bar of the hotel together and ordered yourselves drinks. You sat in the plush chair across from each other, the distance between you comfortable and not at all suffocating. You took your time, taking notes of something new about him that you hadn't noticed before. And Art seemed to have the same idea. Finally, you broke the silence first.

“Did you actually read all of my books?”

“Of course. It was the only way I could be close to you.”

You remembered what Tashi told you, and tried to tame the bashful smile that tugged at the corner of your lips. At that, an amused expression touched Ar's face.

"What?"

"About two years ago, the night before your match against Patrick, Tashi told me that you read my books, even annotating them. I didn't believe her at first. Then, I realized that she must have told the truth because even though she didn't gain anything from telling me, she did it anyway."

Art nodded, his eyes looked away as if to contemplate the thought.

"Did it make a difference for you?"

"A little bit. But it didn't matter. You were still with Tashi."

You admitted in a casual tone and took a sip of your drink. Art looked down at his, turning it in his hand.

“How did you know I was at the bookstore?”

Art looked at you through his long lashes.

“Your website. It said you'd be there for a reading and signing event.”

You inclined your head. Art, in his own way, was guileful and at times manipulative, but this time, you couldn't blame him. Your participation at those events was public information, and Art used that to his advantage.

"Why now?"

"I had things that I needed to sort out first before I could be good enough to reach out to you."

You thought about what Art said at the bookstore.

“When you said you and Tashi were no longer together …”

“We're divorced. Been that way for almost two years.”

“Was it mutually agreed upon?”

“Not at first. I … initiated it.”

You took a moment to absorb that information. Finally, you said.

“I’m surprised.”

“Why?”

“You loved her a lot. And yet, you were the one to ask for a divorce. You stood up to her.”

Art shifted in his seat and leaned on the table, touching the outside of your hand on the stem of your drink.

“You made me realize that I was always second to her. Tennis has always been her first love.”

You allowed him to take your hand fully in his. The warmth of his palm spread to yours, and it made your heart pound. Art picked up where he left off.

“I believe that at one point, she truly loved me. But it turned into something else, with all of the buildup of resentment and time she couldn't take back and mistakes she couldn't undo. And you were right. Her shortcomings weren't mine to bear."

Art told you about what happened during the match in 2019. Patrick's signal, serving like Art, was a way for Patrick to rub it in Art's face that he slept with Tashi the night before. Your heart broke for him, having to find out about it that way. You reached out with the other hand, rubbing back and forth along the length of the arm that was holding you slowly. You stayed like that for a while, until the weight of the moment had dissipated into the air, only lingering on the outside like a distant memory. Art's voice was rough when he spoke up.

“In the end, your protagonist …”

“What about her?”

“She walked away from everything. And … here you are, with me.”

“I am.”

“What does that say about us?”

You took a deep breath and mulled over his question. The answer surprised you, even though you were the one who made it real.

“That our story doesn’t end there, two years ago, when it should.”

The two of you had shifted closer to each other, and from this distance, you could see the beautiful swirl of colours in his eyes. He closed them when he pressed a kiss into the palm of your hand as if to savour the sensation. You caressed the smooth skin on his cheekbone as he whispered.

“I meant what I said at the bookstore. I have never stopped thinking about you ever since the day I met you. You're constantly on my mind.”

You felt your body go weak at his words. You murmured, afraid of the quiver in your own voice.

“It's been a very long time.”

"I know. Even though I was with Tashi, if you called, I would've dropped everything to come to you. I will always be at your disposal."

“Even now?”

“Especially now.”

/

The ride up to his suite was quiet, and it stayed like that until you were tangled in a passionate embrace like there was an invisible force that drew your bodies together. Art took his time in exploring you, reacquainting himself with your body, and you with his. You needed each other's touches and heat as if everything could end right then and there. His lips trailed all over your body, paying extra care to your sensitive spots and laving up your scent, leaving faint love marks on your skin. You glowed in the attention he bestowed upon you. Your nails scratched up his back, complimenting the loving bites you left on his pale skin. You gave into the throes of euphoria, neither of you holding back. When he slid home inside you, you felt a relief like never before.

Your blissful moans and unabashed grunts of pleasure last for hours into the night. Later on, you lay in Art's arms with your head on his chest, listening to the gentle beat of his heart and the muted sound of the world from the other side of the window. A sense of tranquillity washed over you, and in your mind, there was no doubt or regret. But you had to make sure that he felt the same.

"Are you regretting this, yet?"

You asked with a small touch of humour, trying to mask your worries. Art tilted your face up to look at him, and you could only find earnestness in his eyes.

"Never. I've never felt happier. Do you … regret this?"

You placed a kiss on his chest, your hand squeezed at his side.

"No, I don't. I can't think of a time when I felt like this with someone else."

And you didn't hate yourself for admitting that out loud. The look he gave you was pure adoration. After everything with Isaac, being here with Art felt like everything had finally clicked into place. Art sighed, trailing his hand along the side of your arm.

"Me neither. I mistook competition for love and worthiness, and accepted the constant stress and worries that I'm not enough as something that just came with it. It should've been like this."

You cradled his face in your hand, your eyes locked and intertwined in the pool of emotions.

"You've always been enough for me."

Art moved his head to kiss you deeply, and you relaxed into it. After everything, you had become different people who found their way back to each other. When you were together, there was no expectation. You didn't have to be someone else for him, and he didn't have to fulfill the role others had expected of him.

You lost yourself again and again in Art's arms. Just like your protagonist, you were free in the end, albeit in a different way. But that was the beauty of it. Your happy ending didn't have to be like hers. It was yours to mould and shape. And you chose to have it with Art, the only man you had truly loved, who had always known you in the way nobody else had.

Your future with Art was an unknown territory, but you thrust yourself into it. You knew you would be okay, with him being truly yours at last.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

Your likeness on the glossy surface of the elevator door appeared well-kempt, but it wasn't a truthful reflection of how you felt on the inside. The little makeup you used did its job, concealing the dark circles and adding colours to your face. Right there along the seam of yourself was the fatigue, worming its way into the slight slouch in your posture, weighing down your body's effort in keeping it upright. Remembering how your mom used to strike at your upper back so you would sit up straight, you straightened up out of an innate reflex.

The elevator door opened to reveal the first floor. You headed for the hallway Jennifer had led you down, barely passing the peripheral of Art as he stood there in the lobby, talking to a man you didn't recognize. You kept your face away from his direction and quickened your pace, hoping he hadn't spotted you yet. You sighed as the almost empty hallway welcomed you in, save for a couple of people ahead of you chattering about the seat placements. But the relief didn't last long. A familiar voice that you'd tried to forget for years called your name. The marble floor echoed the voice's owner's intention of catching up to you, hurried and rushed as if you were to disappear at any moment. You turned around, stopping him in his tracks – only a few steps from where you were standing.

Art was wearing casual attire, a fitted white t-shirt and black pants, yet he still managed to make them look phenomenal. He looked like he was about to head to practice. You remembered it, all those mornings after spending the night together, watching him getting ready for the day.

For a long moment, neither of you talked, only drinking each other in with your sights. Art broke the tension first, seeming to reprimand himself for staring at you.

"You look great."

"You, too."

You reciprocated, albeit a little cold. There was no reason for you to lie and no excuse for the conversation to be longer than it already was.

"It's good to see you."

You sighed and decided to cut to the chase.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm here for a challenger."

"No, I meant here, right now."

You pointed to the distance between you. His answer lingered on the tip of his tongue, undecided, but eventually rolled off and made itself audible to your ears.

"I … I want to talk to you."

"We have nothing to talk about."

You shook your head. Art took one step closer to you.

"I know that I'm not entitled to your time, but I've missed you."

The latter part ignited the anger in you. How could he say that so easily? You scoffed at his audacity; your own response came with a bite that aimed to hurt.

"I don't think your wife will appreciate what you've just said."

To your surprise, at the mention of the sore subject for the two of you, his resolve remained unchanged.

"Tashi has nothing to do with this."

"She has everything to do with us."

"Not when she resents me."

For the first time in your tense exchange, you relented. You searched for Art's eyes, looking for a hint of betrayal, of deception, but instead, you found defeat. Your resolve softened, and you felt the familiar pull of a memory from when you first met at the Stanford cafeteria thirteen years ago. Two lonely people meeting one another, and now, finding themselves in each other's paths again.

But it should end here.

"Your marriage problem isn't my responsibility to solve."

"I know, and I'm not asking you to. I just … want to talk about us."

You shrugged, keeping your tone nonchalant.

"There's no more us."

At that moment, a mix of voices from a group of people came out from the conference room area, chatting among themselves. The two of you involuntarily took a small step away from each other as if the guilt by distance association was enough to make anyone suspicious. Art's desperation was clear as day.

"Can we talk somewhere else?"

You couldn't say no, so you settled for the next best thing.

"I have to go."

"Can you at least think about it?"

Art closed the distance, reaching for your hand. You were pliant to his gentle touches, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions that lapped at your conscience. A piece of paper was placed in your palm.

"Text me. I'll figure out something for us."

You said nothing to his promise and walked away; your skin felt hot from his touch. You headed straight for the conference room, and your hand slipped the note Art gave you into the pocket of your blazer.

Art's number had not been a resident in your contact for a very long time. You stared at the ten digits later that night in your room, and your fingers itched to do something about it. Burn it or throw it away; it didn't matter. You knew you should do either of those things, but in the end, you couldn't.

At about 12:40 AM, Art sent you the address to a local restaurant that was about a ten-minute drive from the hotel.

Tomorrow night. 7:30.

As the day drew closer to night, the knot in your stomach tightened even more in anticipation. You sat in the car in the restaurant's parking lot for a while despite being there early. When it was 7:38, knowing you couldn't delay it any longer, you straightened your simple outfit and walked into the restaurant. You were greeted by a bored hostess on a slow night; the place was almost empty, save for two other occupied spots. Art's table was in a more secluded area, where privacy was afforded by the enclosed booth with fake vines cascading down to the back of the leather seats in intricate weaves and big leaves. Art stood up when he saw you. The familiarity of the scene stirred a long-forgotten memory that happened seven years ago.

2012. Columbus, Ohio.

Your first book tour. After the reading and signing event, you were free to do whatever you wished, and that meant roaming the aisle of a grocery store, browsing for juice, painkillers and some chocolate. Your eyes pored over the nutritional value, or lack thereof, of a pack of chips when you felt a pair of eyes on you. That, on top of the fact that they wandered into your peripheral and hadn't made the slightest move. You did a double-take when you saw Patrick Zweig standing within arm's reach with a self-assuring smirk on his face.

"Hey. It's you."

"It's… you."

You echoed his recognition, but on the contrary to his amusement, yours was the faintest touch of dread.

"It's been a while."

"It has been. How are you?"

You turned to face him fully. He scratched the back of his head with his free hand.

"I'm … great! You?"

"I'm good. What are you doing here?"

Patrick looked around the aisle as if the answer was obvious.

"In this grocery store? I'm getting groceries."

You looked at the basket in his other hand. It was filled with chips, soda and some bananas.

"Right. No, I mean, in the city."

"I'm here for a challenger. Well, was."

"What happened?"

"I got eliminated."

He dipped his head and averted his eyes from yours, seeming embarrassed by the admission of the fact.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"That's alright. At least I'm $300 richer now."

Patrick gestured to you.

"What about you? What are you doing here?"

"I'm on a book tour."

"Ahh. Sounds like you're doing very well for yourself."

"Thank you."

You felt sheepish at his compliment. The two of you fell into a lull of silence, your eyes intertwined in a languid game of cat and mouse. Patrick looked like he wanted to tell you something, but you had nothing to say to him. So you broke the silence first.

"Well, uh, it's very nice to see you again. I should go."

He stepped forward, trying to capture your attention in the way his body language created an invisible enclosure that temporarily held you in.

"Wait. Can we go somewhere else to talk? I think we have a lot to talk about."

"Do we?"

You levelled him with an incredulous look. But he met you with earnestness.

"Yes, we do."

"I don't think so."

"They got married last month."

It took you a brief moment to understand. Still, his decision to break the news to you in an abrupt manner took you by surprise. Your heart seemed to drop into a bottomless pit, and you could feel the frantic beat of it thrumming along every inch of your skin. You quickly fixed your frown into a forced smile.

"Well, that's great to hear. I'm happy for them."

Patrick gave you a look that said your effort was all in vain.

"You don't mean that."

"We all have to move on at some point. Unlike you."

The venomous bite of your words didn't go unnoticed by the dark-haired man before you.

"If you knew what I know, then you would be just like me."

You scoffed, crossing your arms.

"Please, we're not the same. Stop being cryptic and just say what you want to say."

He tilted his head at you, an idea dancing in his blue eyes.

"How about this? I'll tell you over dinner. We can use some catching up."

Your lack of a response made him feel like he needed to apply a little pressure.

"You'll want to know what happened. Trust me."

You rolled your eyes. You couldn't believe you were seriously considering his offer. You exhaled deeply and decided then that spending some time with your ex's wife's ex-boyfriend was better than a night alone in the hotel room.

"Where and what time?"

His smirk deepened, and you wanted to wipe that off of his face.

"There's an Applebee's nearby. How about we meet up there … around 7?"

"Fine."

That was how you ended up here, sitting across from Patrick Zweig, sipping on a Rum and Coke while waiting for your food. Whatever he wanted to say to you might pair better with the taste of alcohol. You hadn't even bothered to change out of the sundress you wore just hours before when you ran into him.

"How's it going for you career-wise?"

Patrick took a sip of his drink to delay answering your question.

"Oh, you know, it's … good. I'm making a name for myself."

You recalled his grocery haul, the pair of shorts that resembled pyjama pants, and the state of his car when you arrived around the same time as he did. The interior was messy, with rolled-up socks and clothes draping all over the back seat, trash and parking tickets in the front. Doubt swelled in your head.

"Are you? I have a feeling that you wouldn't be sleeping in your car if that was the case."

A playful smile appeared on his lips.

"Ouch. The hostel I was staying in had bed bugs, so my car was the next best option. I'll go to a motel after this, though."

You hummed, thinking back about what Art had told you about Patrick.

"Isn't your family rich?"

"They are. Not me."

His long middle finger traced the rim of his drink in a pensive mood.

"Why don't you ask them for help?"

"I don't want to. Let's just say we always fail to come to an agreement when it comes to the choices that I've made."

Your acknowledgement came in the form of slow nods of your head. You understood him for not wanting to depend on your family for anything. It would only give them one more reason to call you a disappointment for daring to seek their help.

The waiter brought out your food, and your conversation was pulled into a lull of quietude as you ate your food. You dabbed the corner of your mouth for a drop of the creamy pasta sauce, while Patrick munched on three pieces of fries. You picked up what was left off moments ago.

"You're still privileged in a way, you know? You could give up and crawl back to your family's mansion. I'm sure they'll welcome you back with open arms."

"I could. But there's no fun in that. Besides, I prefer being a disappointment anyway."

You shared a small chuckle. Under the low light of the restaurant, you allowed yourself to take him in fully. Curly dark hair, contrasted with the soft edges of his face. The light stubble along his jaw added a rugged charm to his laid-back attitude. You couldn't help but compare him to Art. Patrick's confidence was loud, veering on cocky. Art's was quiet, but full of surprises when the moment called for it.

The heady allure of Patrick and his association with Art had started to draw up dangerous ideas in your mind. You inhaled sharply, your fingers rubbed your temple in small circles in an attempt to bring yourself back to the conversation. The one you needed to have the moment you settled in the booth of Applebee's.

"So … they got married."

"Yeah. Pretty recently. Didn't even get an invite."

A sardonic huff of air escaped your lips.

"Join the club. I found out about their engagement last year, but I didn't think …"

You trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought. But the silence did it for you. Patrick nodded.

"Art moves fast. He knows what he wants and he goes for it. And no one can tell him otherwise."

"I know it all too well."

"Little fucker."

You took a sip of your second Rum and Coke. A deep sigh escaped your lungs.

"I get it, though. She's beautiful, she's passionate about tennis. She can help him in ways that I can't."

At that, Patrick stayed quiet. His eyes took you in, all of your honesty and insecurity displayed in a glass case in front of him. You felt the briefest brush of vulnerability on your spine and shivered, but you ignored it. Despite the lack of dialogue and contact during the short period Patrick visited Stanford, your shared history ran deeper than the surface-level interaction that you had.

Patrick set down his burger and wiped his mouth with the napkin. His fingers created a rhythm on the wooden table, but then, the dull melody was cut short.

"Art is devoted to Tashi, but she's not."

"What do you mean?"

You prompted him to continue.

"Tennis is not everything to Art. But to Tashi, it is."

"I figured as much. It's not new news."

An inkling that Patrick was deliberately withholding information from you came to your mind. You sat up straighter, setting your fork down.

"Spill, Patrick."

He relented after a moment.

"I was in Atlanta last year. A couple of months after they got engaged."

You looked at him, unsure where he was going.

"Both of them were there for the Atlanta Open. I … saw Tashi in the hotel they were staying that night, and we … slept together."

You searched for a hint of deception in his face, only to come up with none. His face remained unreadable, betraying nothing, leaving only sincerity despite the irony of the situation. Your mouth opened, and closed, as you were at a loss for words. Patrick shrugged as if what he had just confessed was no more than a harmless, made-up tale.

"She wants an obedient little dog to carry out her fantasy of being a great tennis player. And Art is more than eager to do that for her."

He continued, seeming oblivious to your lack of response.

"She didn't seem happy, being engaged to Art. And if I can be honest, I think Tashi only likes Art because he's loyal to her to a fault, and he'll do anything to please her. I don't think she even loves him."

That somehow took you out of your bewildered state.

"Are you even listening to yourself? He was your best friend."

"My best friend? Who sabotaged my relationship, stole my girlfriend and basically abandoned me for her?"

Your rebuttal shot forward like a bullet out of its chamber.

"So you slept with her? To revenge? Even though she was engaged to Art? You're no better than him, Patrick. Two wrongs don't make one right."

You shook your head and couldn't help the thought that rolled off of your lips.

"You tennis players are such fucking assholes."

Patrick only nodded in agreement and didn't say anything. You sighed, asking the question you'd wanted to know.

"Does Art know?"

"I don't think so."

You shook your head, feeling a wave of fatigue taking over.

"I've had enough of you people. Just leave me alone."

He held his hands up in defence.

"All I'm saying is, you still have a chance if you want it."

You gave a rueful smile.

"Am I an idiot for wanting to believe you?"

He took his time, roaming over you with a pensive gaze. You felt exposed under it, after the confession you had never dared to verbalize out loud. Perhaps it was both of your positions in this game of tennis, the back and forth that inexplicably wove the four of you together in these intricate patterns, so tightly entangled with one another, that made you feel like Patrick would recognize. There was only understanding, and no judgement. The irony was that. Tennis was a simple game when you stripped it down to its barest principles, but the interconnection between everyone was anything but simple.

"No, you're not. You must really love him."

You looked down at your empty glass, unable to meet his eyes.

"I hate that I still feel this way about him."

Even though both of you were hurt by Art, you couldn't help the question that came afterward.

"Do you miss him?"

Patrick was his best friend, and Art was his. They had a life-long history between them that you weren't privy to. Your pain and his were different in kind, but you could understand all the same.

"I do."

The rest of the meal was cast in a sombre hue, with both of you mulling over a mutual understanding and the similarities you shared. Neither of you was the winner, but that didn't matter now.

/

"You didn't have to pay for my meal as well."

He said as you walked together to his car. You came here by taxi, and Patrick had offered to give you a ride back to your hotel. You waved a dismissive hand.

"Don't mention it. Giving me a ride back is enough."

His car was only within a few strides away when Patrick stepped in front of you.

"I can do more than that, you know? To pay you back."

"How?"

"I, we, can make Art jealous."

You halted and repeated your previous question. He arched an eyebrow, his expression said nothing but trouble, and when understanding dawned on you, you levelled him with a glare.

"No. Sleeping with you is the last thing I need right now."

"Who said anything about sleeping?"

You scoffed at the obvious bait, sidestepping him to reach the passenger side of his car.

"We can make out, take a photo, and I'll send it to Art. Make him realize what he's missing."

"If you want to kiss me, just say that. No need to make up excuses."

You rolled your eyes at him and realized just how much closer Patrick was to you than moments ago. He dipped his head to look at you, his gaze traced the shape of your lips and drifted to your eyes. When he spoke, his voice softened, low and careful, and your curiosity responded, pushing back the guard your inhibition had put up.

"I really do."

He leaned in, and you rose on your tiptoes to meet his lips. The touch was gentle and slow at first as you tested the pieces you needed to fit together. Then Patrick took over, and you followed his lead. His presence was all-encompassing, sweeping over your senses. Your lips lapsed and locked together in a feverish rhythm, a playful and exhilarating chase of lust. His tongue prodded at your entrance, and you opened yourself up to him. Your tongues intertwined, determined to draw whatever you needed from the other.

You didn't know when Patrick had pushed you up against his car, but you were grateful as your strength had become dependent on him. The cold metal of his car and the solid yet soft feel of his body created delicious friction on your skin. You grasped at each other's body, groping and pulling, your lips barely parted for a much-needed gulp of air. He grunted when you bit his lower lip, and that earned you a harsh, handful squeeze of your ass under your sundress. Your body called to his, and yet, a small part of your mind beckoned you to resurface, to come to the admission of the truth that you had been running away from.

Your ardour exchange slowed as you parted to breathe. Still, you met each other in the middle for brief touches, and you eventually pulled away. Patrick's thumb rubbed at the curve of your bottom lip as if he were admiring his work of art, which was swollen and glistening with his mark. His whisper was warm on your lips.

"Did you think about him?"

You nodded and swallowed.

"Did you think about her?"

It took him a moment, but he nodded. A woeful smile graced your swollen lips.

"I don't think this is a good idea."

"Revenge is always a good idea."

You touched his jaw, forcing him to meet your eyes.

"You don't win by sleeping with me. I don't want to be a perpetual pawn in the game that all three of you play. Besides, I don't think Art cares anymore."

Patrick shook his head.

"About what happened all those years ago? Maybe not. But I think he still cares about you."

"It doesn't make a difference though, does it?"

"I guess not."

You playfully and gently pushed him back, making Patrick set you down on your own shaky legs. Your front brushed against his arousal, and you bit your bottom lip in amusement.

"Come on, you still have to drive me back."

Before getting out of his car in front of your hotel, you reached for his hand.

"It was nice to see you again, Patrick. I really mean it."

His hand came up to meet yours, giving it a soft squeeze.

"You, too. I'm glad that we got to catch up."

You left his car without saying another word. Your heart was heavy, but at ease. Moving on and forward was your only option, but it felt much easier now. Still, you wished you would never have to see any of them ever again.

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/

Jennifer was much more bubbly in person than in formal emails, which was something you didn't expect. After gushing over your books, she insisted on taking you to your room herself despite your polite refusal. With the keycard in one hand and your suitcase in another, you followed her into the elevator. A voice called out.

"Hold it, please!"

You stepped back as much as you could to make room for the strangers, drawing your suitcase and bag closer to yourself. Hurried footsteps followed by two blurry forms. Jennifer asked for their floor, and the door closed. Your breath caught at the sight of the taller silhouette.

Art.

His name was a noiseless whisper on your lips. His mouth parted slightly, and his eyes widened as they drilled into you. The shock seemed to mask the hurt and guilt behind his features, but you used to know him so intimately, just like how he knew you. Your eyes latched onto his face, tracing the familiar traits that had changed slightly over time. He looked good, even though you didn't want to admit it. His hair was shorter than when you saw him last. His face was sharper and more angular, as if time was an infatuated sculptor obsessed with their subject, barely taking away his youthfulness and leaving his beauty whole. Your eyes locked, its pull intense and undeniable. A movement drew your attention away from him to the little girl he was with. Her hand was clasped in Art's, and the other tugged on yours.

"Hi."

Her timid voice broke the spell. You forced your eyes away and looked down to address her. Her sweet, innocent face beamed as you crouched down to her level. She looked so much like her mother, but you could see traits of Art in her as well. You responded with a smile of your own.

"Hi."

"I like your cherries."

She pointed to the charm on your bag.

"Thank you. Do you want to feel how soft they are?"

She nodded eagerly. You held out your bag, and she carefully petted the synthetic fabric. She squeezed the cherries in her hand, and you took that moment to ask.

"What's your name?"

She looked up at her dad, and only after getting a nod of approval from him did she turn to you.

"Lily."

You smiled warmly at her, even though your insides were punctured with a thousand little cuts.

"What a pretty name."

Her toothy smile deepened as she shyly thanked you. You introduced yourself.

"I like your name."

"Aww, thank you. You're so sweet."

"This is my dad."

Lily let go of the cherries, using both of her hands to tug on Art's attention, which was temporarily reserved for you. She craned her neck to look up when her dad failed to respond.

"Daddy, say hi."

"I–"

You stared at him, wondering if he was going to say anything at all. But you'd never know. The elevator dinged, announcing your floor. You stood up, extending a sweet smile to Lily.

"This is my floor. It was nice to meet you, Lily."

You rushed out with your luggage, and thankfully, Jennifer was right behind you. The elevator doors closed, and you looked away, refusing to make eye contact with Art despite him seeking you out.

Jennifer left quickly after walking you to your room and reminding you of the tour. In the quiet room with only the hums of the air conditioner presented, you sat on the pristine full bed, your luggage forgotten on the side. Pressing a hand to your chest, you could feel your heart's frantic beat as the memories of what happened years ago came rushing back all at once.

2009. Stanford.

After the fight, nothing was the same. There was a passiveness in your relationship that you were forced to come to terms with. You could keep yourself suspended in denial or cut yourself free of the entanglement and the exertion to keep up the illusion. And you chose the latter. Art rarely called and texted, and even when he did, your conversations were brief and awkward. You took his lack of contact as a sign for you to step back. You ceased all communication with him, even though you still kept his number on your phone. You even went as far as avoiding places you often went to with him. Art seemed to know not to visit the coffee shop. Eventually, by the end of that summer, you fell out. There was no final explosive fight, no goodbyes. Things just ended.

But your mind always strayed back to him. How you'd been a bother, you'd been too much, and this distance was his way of telling you that. The way you completely depended on him for comfort after Christmas made you wince in embarrassment whenever you thought of it. Perhaps he felt like you were a burden. You took that as the truth, and no matter what Art might tell you then, it could never change your mind.

In the two years that followed, unexpected yet welcoming changes were made. Your story was featured in the Stanford paper as the first-place winner's prize, along with a cheque for $500. The exposure caught the eye of your current literary agent, Avery Clarke, who then showed interest in the possibility of representing you. She was from a small agency that focused on finding new writers. After reading through your collections of short stories and much anticipation, she decided to take you on her team. You spread yourself even thinner across school, work and writing. Your book took form in the dimness of late nights, many of which you were accompanied by your roommates. And the hard work paid off. Three publishers expressed their interests, and after a long conversation and lots of consideration, you decided to go with The Paper House. Now, you were waiting in a nervous yet content state while Avery worked on negotiating the finer details of your first book deal. Life and new purposes took over the place Art used to be. But, eventually, he found his way back into your life, as if there was an invisible thread that connected you, and Art was pulling on it.

/

It was early October. You remembered it so clearly. The air was brisk, and the sun was warm, making the perfect weather that you were looking forward to enjoying. Your shift at the cafe ended in the early afternoon. When you came out from the back, Art was there, standing by an empty table near the entrance. He looked good, as he always did. The soft smile that was one of your many weaknesses played with your heartstrings, making your breath catch in your throat. In a polo shirt and jeans, he looked like he came here just for you, and this wasn't a standard smoothie run. His lips parted, and his throat worked to form what he had planned to say into audible words. But you got to it before he did.

"What are you doing here?"

"I … I just wanted to talk to you."

You responded to that with a discontented hum. Art picked up on it.

"I saw that you got a book deal on the newspaper. Congratulations."

You nodded warily.

"Thank you."

"How do you feel about it?"

You shrugged.

"Just fine. It's just a book deal. It's not like it will define my career or anything."

Art laughed softly at your sarcastic response. The low vibrato reminded you of how much you'd missed it.

"Do you want to talk about it over a coffee?"

His tone was casual, yet there was a deliberate calculation as if he was laying down a chess piece and waiting for your next move. You arched an eyebrow at your surroundings.

"Here?"

"No. Somewhere else."

His smile was endearing, and you found yourself persuaded by its charm. You reluctantly agreed. On the stroll to the all-day breakfast bar nearby, the two of you walked side by side but left a distance in between. Your conversation remained formal, but after you'd sat down for some crepes and waffles, it returned to a liveliness that it hadn't been for two years.

"You'll do great. I read your story in the newspaper."

Your eyes on him were nothing if not skeptical.

"You have?"

Not that your win was kept a secret. You just didn't think Art was keeping up with you after your fallout.

"Of course I have. I read the whole thing in one sitting. You have such a brilliant way with words."

You rolled your eyes playfully, and your cheeks warmed at his compliment.

"Thank you. That's just one story, though. How are you so sure of it?"

"I just know."

His smug smirk drew a chuckle from you. Your talk, just like your food, was piquant and smooth. You missed the conversations you had, the casual flirtiness, the way being yourselves felt so easy, like how it was meant to be. You took a sip of your water, watching Art staring back at you from the other side of the table. You tilted your head, enticing him to speak his mind.

"What happened to us?"

"You know damn well what happened."

He chuckled, but when he talked, there was no trace of humour.

"I know. It was my fault. I'm sorry for acting like a dick to you. For what it's worth, I liked you a lot …"

You stayed quiet at the past tense use.

" … and I would be lying if I said my feelings for you had completely gone."

You placed your fork down and levelled him with a guarded stare.

"What are you saying?"

Art took a moment as if he was giving his words great consideration. And after what felt like an agonizing wait, his voice carried the significant weight of his confession.

"I still like you."

You let it settle in. This moment had passed through your head many times before, but you never thought it would come true.

"What about Tashi?"

"There's nothing going on between me and her."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm being honest. The last time we talked was two years ago. During the summer break, actually."

"Why me? Why now?"

"I was a fool messing up what we had."

And there it was. All that you wanted to hear. Art admitted that there was something akin to love between you, before everything that happened. Your hope was a small ember, and all it needed was the tiniest spark to burst into flame. Your eyes locked with an intensity that nestled deep in your bones. Neither of you could look away.

"Are you asking me for a second chance?"

"No. I'm asking you if I deserve one."

"We'll see."

You continued to see Art after that. It was a second chance at being casual friends, and things almost went back to how it was before. But something was different this time.

You remembered not leaving Art's single room until the morning the night you slept with him for the first time. It had to be his room because, by that point, Ashley and Grace were unaware of your involvement with Art. If they did, they would strongly oppose your reunion, as they knew all too well about the aftermath in 2007.

His skin was soft and warm, and the way he draped over your body made you arch against him for more. Art kissed his way down to your body, worshipping every inch of your skin with fervour kisses, drawing whimpers from your clenched lips. As eager as he was to taste you, the man knew how to tease you until you begged for it. And when he did, your body shuddered in response. He worked you up with his tongue, swirling it over and over on your dripping lips and sensitive clit before dipping it into your entrance. Your hips bucked into his mouth, seeking for release, but he had none of that. With one hand over your belly, holding you down, the other was two fingers deep into your cunt; he was relentless. You came quickly after that, and all you could think of was how much you wanted him. You pulled him up to meet your lips in a sloppy kiss. Your hand skimmed down the length of his torso, and when you almost reached what you wanted most at that moment, he stopped you with a hand on your wrist. His flushed face tinged with a little embarrassment, and the stickiness under your calf told you what you needed to know. You shared an awkward laugh, and you pulled his face down so you could kiss his forehead. Pushing him back onto the bed, you took over by crawling down the length of his body until you reached his leaking cock. You touched him with tenderness, and it didn't take much coaxing and sucking until his cock became hard again. Art was gentle and took his time with you, slowly working you up to your climax with his thickness pushing all the way in and out. In the final moments, your bodies worked in tandem; your hips were pressed flush against each other. The fervorous thrusts, the barely contained moans and the creaky sound of his twin bed helped create an obscene sound in the small room. You came just moments before he did. Afterwards, as you basked in the afterglow and the sweat of your bodies, you chuckled to yourself.

"If we did this two years ago, we wouldn't have broken up at all."

That drew a laugh out of him. You found yourself falling for Art again. He felt the same. Your lives were better with the other in it, and that was enough. You didn't put a label on your relationship, but you mutually agreed that you were exclusively seeing each other. The ever-evading title wasn't a cause for concern, especially now that Art hadn't talked to either Tashi or Patrick in a while. You were surprised when you found out about the latter but didn't inquire further. All you cared about was Art, and how good it felt to have him back.

2010. Mason, Ohio.

Art had been on a good streak during the Cincinnati Masters tour. He was heading to the next rounds with ease. And you were there to cheer him on for every match. You graduated with honours back in May, and now that your first book was on its way to the production stage, your life finally felt like it was under your control. The water was still and peaceful, but you should have known better than to blindly believe that nothing could disturb it. The ripple came in with shoulder-length hair and a slim body, the object of your deeply rooted self-contempt, of the haunting idea that you weren't good enough for Art despite telling yourself that you weren't the same person anymore. You had changed.

But some things were harder to forget and forgive.

You were watching Art and his coach practicing from the outside of the fence when Tashi came in. When you noticed her, she waved, her languid pace undisturbed, as if she was in control of everything and everyone around her. Helplessness surged as you thought about how Tashi was too close to Art for your own comfort. You put on a smile, hoping that it didn't look strained.

"Hey Tashi."

"Hey. It's nice to see you again."

"You, too. How have you been?"

"Oh, uh, I've taken some time off tennis to recover."

You thought it was strange how Tashi seemed to think of herself as a tennis player first and a normal person second. But since she mentioned that, you asked.

"When can I see you back in court?"

Tashi went quiet at that. She briefly looked down at her shoes before answering.

"I'm not sure yet."

There was a kind of pensive sadness in her eyes, and you found the Tashi in front of you now were miles away from the Tashi you often watched on the tennis court a few years ago. Your heart broke for her. Tennis seemed to be her whole life, and from the sound of her answer, it was now something that would always be out of reach.

"I'm sorry. I thought you were here to compete as well."

"No, I'm not. I'm just Katerina's hitting partner. She's the one who's competing."

Tashi looked over to Art and waved at him. You craned your neck to see that Art had seen her as well, his hand lowered from reciprocating her. She then turned to you.

"Anyway, I'm here because they told me that Art was here. And I wanted to talk to him."

You nodded and looked at your watch.

"I think he'll be done soon."

His practice ended five minutes later. You walked to him, and your innate need to stake your claim compelled you to put on a show. You pulled Art into a hug despite the playful protest he put on because of his sweaty shirt, and when you pulled away, you kissed his cheek and whispered.

"Looks like you guys need to catch up. I'll leave for the restaurant and get us a table. I'll see you there?"

"See you there."

You left the court, but not before looking back to see them talking. You turned away as old insecurities threatened to resurface.

/

After that day, Tashi sat in the audience for Art's matches. You knew because she often opted for the bottom row while you went for the higher view. During Art's semi-final, you couldn't be there as you had a meeting with Avery and The Paper House in Norwood. You made it to the court as the match had ended; some people were waiting around for Art's signature and photos. You weaved your way into the court and stopped dead at the entrance. Even though they were only talking, your jealousy and insecurities coloured it into something else. They looked good together. Her height almost matched his. The way Art listened to Tashi, his attention was fully wrapped in every syllable she uttered and hand gestures she made. You stayed quiet for most of the ride back to the hotel, even though you should've put on a smile, a show, anything because Art made it to the final. Later that night, during dinner, the weight of your thoughts had become so unbearable that you surrendered yourself to its whim. You didn't even look away from your plate when you spoke.

"It's nice to see Tashi doing so well."

"Yeah, it is. She had a tough time after her injury."

"Oh yeah? How do you know?"

"She told me."

"Oh, right."

You fell into silence again. What Art had to say next drew your attention away from the dinner that you had no appetite for.

"I'm thinking of asking her to be my assistant coach."

You angled your head to look at him fully. Apprehension filled your tone.

"Why?"

"I think … she can make me a better player."

"But you're already great. You're in the final. You've beaten so many guys to get here."

"I want to be better than great."

You leaned back on your chair.

"And you think Tashi can help you with that?"

"Yes, she gave me some helpful tips after the match. She really watched the way I play and gave me corrections and they were things I didn't even notice."

You looked away from Art, your voice verged on bitterness with sarcasm as its coat.

"Right. To me it sounds like you want to spend more time with her."

"We were friends."

"Just like how you and I are friends?"

"That's unfair. It's different with us. We're seeing each other."

"But we're not exactly dating, are we? You're not my boyfriend, and I'm not your girlfriend."

"Isn't that what we both agreed on? That we would take it slow?"

You didn't like it, but he was right. Your answer was only a whisper.

"Yes."

"I guess we can both agree on that, then."

Dinner ended in an uncomfortable silence. It stretched on as you ignored Art on your walk back to the room. Tension brewed and bubbled, and it was only a matter of time before it exploded. You dropped your bag on the desk with a heavy thud, and Art couldn't stand your deliberate shun anymore.

"Could you please tell me what I did wrong?"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong."

You shrugged, pretending to be busy with unloading your bag.

"Can we not do this, please? Can we just celebrate my win tonight?"

"You can celebrate with Tashi."

Art was taken aback by your words if his brief silence was an indication.

"Why would you say that?"

"Go ahead, and call her. You have my permission."

He touched your arm, which was still moving as if you suddenly needed to empty everything.

"Please, stop. Can you please look at me?"

You jerked your arm away from his touch and whirled around to face him.

"Be honest with yourself. Don't you want to spend more time with Tashi? Don't you wish that she was here right now, in my place?"

"Is this because I talked to her? You can't possibly condemn me for that."

"Yes, I can! You basically ignored me when she came around three years ago after her break up with Patrick, who was your best friend, by the way. Sorry if I'm still sensitive about it."

Art stepped back as you leaned onto the table. It felt nice and awful at the same time, being able to say what you'd thought about.

"Tashi's just looking out for me. She sees who I can become, and I can become so much better."

"What about me? What about what I think? I think you're great already."

Art's face was flushed with a simmering anger.

"If I'm so great, why have I never won a game against a nobody?"

It took you a moment for it to click in. He was talking about Patrick. It renewed the anger inside of you.

"For fuck's sake! Is that all you guys talk about? Fucking tennis?"

"It's what I do."

"You know she's just using you to get back to tennis, right? It's all she's ever talked about."

"It's what we're both passionate about."

Art's willful ignorance irked you, and you exploded.

"Can't you see it? She wants to get back out there as a player and she can't and it's making her miserable. One day, you'll realize she has never seen you more than a mean to live through."

He pointed an accusing finger at you, and you felt like you were pinned down under his gaze.

"That's cruel, and you know it."

"It's the truth."

Despite the nonchalance in your tone, your voice said otherwise. You didn't even realize the tears that had run down your cheeks. Art's red-rimmed eyes stared back at you. His jaw ticked, working to put the thoughts in his head into words. And they cut deeper than a knife.

"This relationship will never work if you can't trust me."

"I'm sorry that I have trust issues. It's not like you've never given me any reasons to doubt you, right?"

"Are you talking about Tashi again?"

"Of course I am. She's always been a problem to us."

"No, she's not."

"Yes, she is."

Your name formed on his lips, a beautiful sound in the gravel of his voice.

"I love you."

The argument that poised on your lips held itself in place. You felt like the air in your lungs was sucked out of you in the three syllables that Art uttered. The world slowed, and you could hear the thunderous beat of your heart. If this was a perfect world, you would be over the moon. You would kiss him until neither of you could breathe and whisper those words back to him, and everything would be fine. But this was the real world, and you were a creature of pragmatism and self-destruction. Your voice shook, knowing that this would be the end of you and Art.

"Do you really love me for me, or do you love me because Tashi wasn't there?"

"How could you say that?"

"Let's be honest with ourselves. You know it, and I know it. You've always loved Tashi more. For as long as she is around, I will always be second. And I really, really, don't want to feel that way again."

Art shook his head. You closed the distance in between and held Art's face in your hand. You caressed his jaw, smudging the wetness on his cheek and whispered.

"You can love more than one person, Art. I just don't want to be put second to someone else. I don't want to wait around for love and, approval and affection. I'm tired of having to beg for it, like I did with my parents."

Art held onto your wrist, squeezing it softly.

"Please don't leave me."

With an equally shaky voice, you forced yourself to say it.

"I need you to make up your mind. Or else, I will do it for you."

"I can't."

"I know."

The finality of your situation settled in, and deep down, you knew that it was for the best. You wouldn't be able to support Art like Tashi would. Tennis was everything to Tashi, and you, on the contrary, were only an outsider looking in. She would be able to help Art achieve his professional goals. What would a writer like you have anything to offer to an athlete like him?

"Can you hold me until I fall asleep, please?"

You nodded, kissing his forehead. You settled in the softness of the bed, with his head on your chest. He slept soundly next to you while you were wide awake. Morning came, and you quietly packed your stuff and left. No note, no goodbye. There was nothing else you could say that could change the situation. Even though you blocked his number, you still looked out for news of him. You convinced yourself that you were okay with your decision. You were selfish; you couldn't share. You'd rather have none than half of him. In the end, you were unable to come to a compromise. You left Art, knowing that he loved you, too, and that somewhat soothed the ache that seemed to be a permanent attachment to your heart.

The news of his engagement to Tashi was everywhere in 2011. Your heart shattered all over again. Even though it caused you so much pain, you still tried to be happy for him. You truly loved him with every fibre of your being. But from then on, you avoided news from Art, hoping the physical and virtual distance could heal you.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

The very possibility of it occupied so much of your mind that you were consumed by the thought. Ravenous was its nature; it feasted on the fact that Art hadn't tried to stay in touch with you as much as you had. It revelled in the insecurities that had resurfaced in such a short time. The neverending cycle ran you haggard, and despite your conscious effort to take yourself out of it, it went on.

You barely left your room these days. When your roommates asked you to hang out with them, you would come up with excuses not to. Without Art, you felt like you didn't have anything to do or anywhere to be besides classes and work. And when you weren't at either place, you would be at the library, obsessively watching Art and Patrick's old tennis matches. There was undeniable chemistry between them, and they complimented each other, highlighting the best part about their respective skill set. Patrick was an extension of Art, and vice versa. A bond like that was hard to break, and from the exchanges you'd seen, one on the polar opposite of the other, you wondered if there was anything else underneath all of this.

/

On an unexpected night, while you perused the reading material for the following week's class, your phone vibrated with Art's name lit up the screen. A rush of excitement, tinged with a touch of nervousness, ran under your skin. You put the book down and let the phone ring three more times before picking up.

"Hey."

"Hey stranger."

You cheekily added. At that, Art chuckled softly. The low vibrato of his voice reminded you of just how much you'd missed him.

"Uhm– so, how are you?"

At your eager question, Art sighed. A muffled sound came from his end, the sound of him running a hand through his hair.

"I'm … alright. I'm sorry I haven't called much. Midterm was awful, and practices have been a lot, and, uh …"

He trailed off. You completed the sentence for him.

"… Tashi."

"Yeah."

His answer settled low in the air between you. It stalled the usual effortless flow of your conversations, rendered you speechless, and he, too. You prodded the fragile silence, and it gave away under the push of your careful voice like a shaky sigh.

"It's okay. I haven't had much free time either. Are you doing okay though?"

"I'm fine … for the most part."

The hesitation in his wording piqued your curiosity. Art wouldn't have said that if nothing was wrong.

"What's with the other part?"

A moment of silence stretched over the thinning air. You added.

"Art. You can tell me anything. I'm here to listen."

Another sigh slithered from the other end to the speaker.

"I don't know how to say it, but at the same time, I feel like it's so obvious. I … miss Patrick. But I'm also mad at him for what he's … done."

His incertitude on the latter part made you feel like he wanted to withhold the information itself.

"Hm, I see. From the sound of your shouting it must be something serious."

Art had gone so quiet that you couldn't even hear his breathing. Your voice was barely a whisper when you called out to him.

"Art?"

"Did you catch all of that?"

"Yes, I did."

You toyed with the hem of your shirt between your fingers before continuing with uncertainty. Unsure if you should pursue this.

"I've never heard you shout like that. You must've been really mad."

"Yeah, I was."

"What happened? Did they get into a fight?"

"Yeah, right before the match."

"What did they fight about?"

The nervous twists of your fingers had left fleeting creases on the fabric as you released it from your grasp.

"Tashi didn't say much, … except for the fact that Patrick might be seeing other girls while on tour."

"You're his friend, did he tell you anything about seeing other girls?"

From suspicion born uneasiness in the pit of your stomach as Art prolonged the silence. You tried again, your voice laced with resolution, unwavering.

"Art. How did Tashi come to that conclusion?

"… I don't know."

"Did you say something to her? To both of them?"

"I might have mentioned Patrick's… tendency to have multiple options at the same time."

"Well, it doesn't mean he's not serious about Tashi."

"But he's my friend. I know him. He's always been a player. And he's… you never know with him. Whether he's genuine or not."

"He's your friend. Don't you think he deserves more grace than what you give him? What if it was different with Tashi?"

"I was just trying to look out for her!"

"That's not looking out for your friends. That's meddling and you know it."

"If my meddling could make them fight so easily then they'd never been good for each other in the first place!"

"That's not up to you to decide!"

You couldn't believe that you yelled at him. You exhaled sharply, trying to regain some control and wishing you hadn't said anything at all. But it was too late. It was like putting back a broken vase, but it was splintered in so many tiny fragments that the more you tried, the worse you hurt yourself.

"Look, it's late, and I'm tired. Can we pick this up another time?"

There was an edge to his voice, and somehow, you knew that this conversation would never be brought up again.

"Sure."

You swallowed your fighting words, knowing if you persisted, it wouldn't end well, even though it was too little too late. After saying goodbye, you hung up with a heavy heart. The heavy fog of your argument closed in on you, turning the air you breathed into suffocation.

For days after, your contact was reduced to none. You abandoned the ongoing draft in the notebook Art gifted you and directed your attention to something else. The inspiration you'd drawn had become a withering reflection of the past, of everything good in your relationship. Nothing could revive it; the only thing left was the dwindling hope that things would be alright between the two of you again. You buried yourself in all the other aspects of your life, hoping you could, at the very least, not think about Art so often. But it was impossible. His imprints on you were branded marks, a thing of permanence on your mind and skin.

/

In the quiet hour of the afternoon, the rhythmic sound of a pen hitting paper sounded louder than the whispered small talk from the only two customers in the cafe. The sentence was left like an unfinished thought, and you were searching for the words to wrap it up. The literary competition at Stanford was announced two days ago, and you immediately got to work. For the prized money and a feature in the school's newspaper, you weren't going to pass it up.

The bell above the door rang. You pulled your eyes away from the half-written page to settle on the new customer with a smile on your face.

"Welcome …"

Art stood there, holding the door open for Tashi. She walked in with a pair of crutches, thanking him. His eyes trained on you for a moment before tearing away. His brief gaze was enough to draw heat to your skin. Tashi slowly and carefully made her way to the counter with Art's arms hovered around her. She smiled at you.

"So, this is the place. My friends have been raving about the drinks here. Him, too."

She inclined her head at Art. He only smiled and said nothing in return. You realized then he wasn't going to introduce the two of you. You maintained a polite smile and what you hoped to be a friendly manner.

"Do you want any recommendations?"

"Yes, please. I love anything with berries in it."

"Then I have the drink for you."

You explained what went in it, and Tashi approved with a nod. Only then did you turn to Art.

"Do you want your usual, Art?"

You looked at him pointedly. His face warmed as he pretended to consider the options, even though, up until two weeks ago, he knew the menu inside and out. Tashi's gaze travelled back and forth between you and Art.

"Do you guys know each other?"

You fixed him with a look, daring him to own up to it. He finally conceded and introduced the two of you.

"I think Art mentioned you once or twice."

"Did he?"

"Yeah, you're his friend. Were you the one who came to check on me after …"

She trailed off.

"I did."

Tashi gave you a rueful smile.

"Thank you for that."

"Don't mention it. How are you doing now?"

She looked down at her knee brace briefly.

"Slowly but surely recovering."

"Take care of yourself. You'll be back to playing again in no time."

"I hope so."

Tashi gave a sad smile, and you mirrored with more assurance. You wanted to dislike her, but you felt nothing but sympathy for her. Art watched the whole exchange wordlessly. You broke eye contact with Tashi to address Art.

"Do you want your usual, Art?"

He nodded, and you told them the total. You watched as Art paid for Tashi despite her refusal. Jealousy flared hot and heavy in your chest, yearning to take back Tashi's place that used to belong to you. But who were you to him to feel this way?

You dropped the change into his hand and pulled away quickly as if you were burned by the thought of your skin touching. You didn't make eye contact and walked away quickly, and though you knew it was rude, you couldn't help it. Your bottled-up feeling was barely contained now; it bubbled and wanted to break free of its confinement. The sound of their soft-spoken exchange churned your inside, making you sick with envy. You made the drinks, and like a habit, you grabbed a marker to put a heart on Art's. But you caught yourself and set the marker down.

You pushed the drinks towards them. The smile on your face felt strained now, and you weren't sure how much longer you could keep this up. You settled for a small wave as opposed to a verbal goodbye, but Tashi interrupted your thought.

"It's very nice to meet you."

You reciprocated her smile.

"You, too."

You looked at Art briefly before wordlessly turning away, making yourself busy with an inane task. With their backs to you, you discreetly stared at their closeness. Despite knowing your problem wasn't with Tashi, you couldn't help but feel envious. You wished you could be her. Beautiful, talented, and doused in Art's attention. With a conscious effort, you tore your teary eyes away from them and set your sight on the open notebook on the counter. If you lingered for a moment longer, you would have caught Art's eyes looking back at you with a longing that you were all too familiar with. Only this time, unbeknownst to you, you were on the receiving end.

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The connection you shared was something different. It passed the point of infatuation but not quite there at love. Unknown yet so unanimous in its nature that you didn't have to say it out loud. A beautiful thing that was nameless, yet its existence was tangible and real. It lived in the vigorous beats of your heart every time he was close. It ran wild in your bloodstream every time he smiled at you. Its cadence rose and fell with the touches of laughter you shared. 

In a way, Art had become your muse. You started to write about the way Art made you feel, about the way your perception of love had changed, and what it was like to be on the receiving end of it. You would often feel the itch to write, to grasp onto one of the many loose threads that swirled around your mind and follow it to wherever it'd take you. The wandering then materialized on the pages of the notebook he gave you, glistened in the fine ink. Pages after pages, and he knew of none of them. You felt like it was fitting to immortalize him with your words, within the scope of your ability in the only way you knew how. The more you filled the notebook, the closer you came to realizing that you were falling for him, with each walk to the tennis court, with each minute he spent with you at the coffee shop, and outside of that, too. It was scary to be so smitten with him, but you didn't care. He was your only friend, your most trustworthy companion, and no one could compare to that. You declined invitations to go out with Grace and Ashley so you could spend more time with Art. Your world revolved around him like he was the most important person in the world. What else did you need?

You accompanied Art to practice whenever you could, and during late hours, when the soft white lights lit up the court, he taught you how to play. He fixed your stance, adjusted your grip, and showed you the basics. After a few weeks, you could rally with him. You came to every match and cheered him on. You came to Tashi's matches, too, just to spend more time with Art. You never failed to notice that distant look in his eyes as he watched Tashi play, almost like a longing, a hopeless yearning for something he couldn't quite reach. Was it wrong that you wanted Art to look at you that way? Was it selfish of you that you wanted his longing gaze to be on you and only you? Even though when he looked back at you, he would flash you a smile that made you temporarily forget about the pestering question. 

/

The sun was warm on your skin, staving off the brisk wind, but you didn't want to move from your spot in the corner of the court. With the notebook on your lap, you were writing while waiting for Art to finish practice. He was with Robbie, and you could hear his grunts from where you were sitting. In your bag were two admissions to the movie Art told you he had been wanting to see but didn't have the time to check it out. Your excitement and anticipation were barely contained; you had looked forward to surprising him all week.

The gate rattled, and then, a voice called out.

"Let's go!"

That made you look up from your notebook. You watched as the stranger sauntered over in Art's direction.

"Come on, Donaldson, big serve. Big serve!"

Art went to serve but gave up halfway as the newcomer called out again in a teasing tone. Art angled his body to face the new guy, finally acknowledging him. 

"Finish it up, Donaldson. Come on."

Art went for a serve so quick that Robbie couldn't catch on. He turned towards the guy, and the racquet fell limp in his grasp. The stranger opened his arms and walked toward Art, who then walked away and playfully dismissed the gesture. You could see a genuine smile on his face, highlighting the boyish charm in his features. You watched as they started to chase each other through the courts, jumping over the net and other boys on the bench. 

You waited until their chase came to a stop, when they were standing face to face, talking to one another in an effervescent manner. You noted to yourself that this was a new side of Art that you hadn't seen yet. 

Art waved at you as you approached, drawing the newcomer's attention to you. He looked at you up and down as Art introduced the two of you. His big hand enveloped yours in its warmth and callouses. Patrick's eyes had a spark of recognition the moment you told him your name. He smirked, still holding your hand.

"It's nice to finally meet the girl Art's been 'hanging out' with."

He glanced cheekily at Art. 

"What do you mean?"

"Art wasn't being very clear on that, so …"

You looked to Art to see him glaring at Patrick. Your brows furrowed as understanding dawned on you. Your heart thumped harshly in your chest. 

"Oh, right."

Patrick didn't seem to catch onto your confusion. He drew you closer by tugging on your hand, which was still wrapped in his.

"I don't get it. If I was him, I'd waste no time."

Art elbowed Patrick lightly.

"Dude, what about Tashi?"

"Dude, I said if I was you."

You interrupted before Art could say anything.

"You're not wrong. We're just casual friends."

Art looked at you, his gaze inquisitive, but you pretended that nothing was wrong. You put on a cheery voice, hoping Art would overlook what you'd just said.

"Anyway, it looks like you'll be busy. I'll… see you later."

Without waiting for an answer from Art, you turned to Patrick.

"It's nice to meet you, Patrick."

Patrick's reciprocation fell on your ears as you turned around and walked away. You didn't make it too far before Art got a hold of your wrist. 

"Wait, didn't you say you wanted to ask me something?"

You thought about the tickets in your bag, but you shook your head.

"No, it's nothing."

"Are you sure? I'm sorry, but I didn't know Patrick were stopping by today. I haven't seen him in a few weeks as well ..."

You understood his implication perfectly. You patted his forearm. 

"I'm sure. Don't worry about it. Go hang out with your friend."

You made a move to leave, but Art didn't budge, holding you in place.

"Will I see you tomorrow? Tashi's match?"

You nodded without hesitation.

"Of course."

This time, you were able to leave without Art's intervention. Almost immediately, your mind started to whirl, hurtling headfirst into overanalyzing what you had witnessed. You knew that Patrick was Art's friend from the academy. From what Art had told you, they were very close. But you couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it. 

Each step was heavier than the last as you felt the increasing disappointment weighing on your mind. Instead of going home or to the theatre, you pivoted in the direction of the library. Choosing the most private spot in the computer area, you looked up Art and Patrick's names. A list of articles unfolded themselves before your eyes, inviting you to click on them, with most of them reporting on their victory at the US Junior Open last year. You read through the articles, and your eyes studied every single photo attached. Art and Patrick posing for pictures, kissing their cups, and celebrating their victory. 

But pictures could only tell so much. Opening a new web browser, you went on YouTube and searched for their names. You clicked on the first one you saw, which highlighted their best performances throughout the tournament. They played so well together. They fit like two pieces of a puzzle. What one person lacked, the other would make up for it. They were unstoppable, and it was hard to look away from their exquisite dynamic. 

You watched as the camera zoomed in on the two of them celebrating in the final, clinging to one another as they went down to the ground. You replayed the moment over and over until you could recount it as if you were there. You clicked on another video, then another, going from the beginning of their US Junior Doubles tournament to the very end. You were fixated and only left the library late into the night when fatigue took over. The night went by as you sat by your phone, assignments on your desk, waiting for a call or a text from Art. You went to bed that night disappointed, with a spark of indignation simmering in your mind.  

/

Even though your class ended at 12, and you could've gone home to study, you went to Tashi's match anyway. You hadn't met the girl yet, but you had been to her matches as if you were a Duncanator yourself. But you went because Art would be there, and you wanted to spend time with him. Even though he'd spend most of that time looking at another girl. Despite going to the match of your own volition, your anger still felt justified somehow. 

You came in, and the bleacher was already half filled with people. You looked around to find Art. He saw you first, his long arm reaching up and waving at you. You didn't wave back; instead, you looked down, pretending to watch your steps as you made your way to him. He beamed at you as you inched closer to his seat.

"Hey."

"Hey."

You took the seat next to him without making eye contact with him. Art seemed to catch onto your mood. 

"Look, about yesterday–"

"Where's Patrick?"

He took a brief moment before answering. 

"I ... don't know. I texted him, but he hasn't answered."

"Oh. I was looking forward to seeing more of him today."

Still refusing to look at Art, you trained your gaze toward the court. At that, he sat up straight. 

"What do you mean by that?"

"I like him. He seems like a fun guy."

You turned your head to look at him. You could almost see the thoughts written on his face, and your tense moment was interrupted by an onslaught of cheer as Tashi made her appearance. You used that moment to look away, to direct your attention to Tashi and clap for her. But it didn't stop the heat from spreading through your skin and burning your cheeks. You knew what you were doing was petty, but at that moment, all you cared about was getting back at Art. 

The match commenced with bated breath and tension so heavy you could feel it in the air. Tashi's usual assertiveness was replaced by a nervous energy. She usually met each volley with precision and confidence, but right now, it was because she had to. You had watched her play enough to tell the difference. And in a blink of an eye, you almost missed it. The air shifted with Tashi as she went down to the ground with a sharp cry. The sight and sound were so visceral that you sprang from your seat, your mouth parted in shock as you watched Tashi writhe on the ground, hugging her knee. Her cries were piercing in the dead quiet of the court, and before you could say anything to Art, he took off. 

You followed his blurred movements and watched as he jumped over the net to get to Tashi. Your eyes glued on them as Art put Tashi's head on his lap; his mouth moved, whispering things you couldn't hear over the rising whispers around you.

The audience dispersed after a while. You stood outside of the rec centre where Tashi was taken, debating whether you should go in or not. After another long moment of consideration, you sucked in a breath and entered the building. After asking for directions, you went down the corridor and looked at each room before you found Tashi on a bed with her arm on her forehead. Art sat on a chair next to the bed she was resting on and was partially shielded by her, but he saw you. He squeezed her arm, telling her he would be right back. You instinctively stepped back from the opening of the door, not wanting Tashi to spot you. Even with what she was going through right now, you doubted that she cared. It was purely from the fact that you weren't ready to be confronted by what you'd been suspecting.

"How is she doing?"

You whispered. Art shook his head, his lips flattened into a grim line. 

"Not good."

"What can they do for her?"

"Not much. They can't tell until they can get the x-rays from the hospital. We're waiting for the ambulance right now." 

You nodded. Behind the outline of Art's body, you could see Tashi. Crestfallen, scared, if the impatient shakes of her uninjured leg were any indication.

"Is there ... anything I can do?"

You didn't even know why you offered. Still, you felt like you needed to do something, to be useful even though nothing in this situation pertained to you. 

"No, nothing. I'll stay with her to make sure that she's okay." 

You resigned with a nod. 

"Alright. Call me later, okay? Let me know how she's doing."

He inclined his head in agreement and went back to Tashi without sparing a second glance at you. Your heart chipped a little at that, but you brushed it off. Art cared about her, and there was nothing wrong with that. They were friends. You'd do the same for Grace and Ashley. To feel jealous was to be irrational, and you didn't want that. But was your inkling of doubt really unreasonable?

You were about to round the corner when Patrick almost ran into you. He murmured an apology before taking off. He stopped in front of the door you were at just moments ago. You were frozen in place, hearing Patrick's desperate pleas, Tashi's angry cry, and, at last, Art's thunderous shout echoed down the hallway.

"Patrick, get the fuck out!!"

You had never heard him like that. Angry, with a territorial edge to it. You forced yourself to walk away; the need to withdraw into yourself once again overwhelmed your mind despite your conscious effort not to think about what'd just happened. But you couldn't help it. 

Later that night, there was no phone call, not even a text. Art's silence was a knife that dug deep into your heart, but like always, you ignored it, even though you knew it had never been a good idea.

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What could you say? You dwelled on each hypothetical response; you typed them out just to delete them. Your eyes followed the characters as they slowly disappeared, watching each word withdraw itself behind the blinking cursor until you were left with an empty field again. It felt wrong, not reassuring Art, but a part of you believed it was for the best. What would happen if he found out about the real you? What if you hurt him just like how you hurt your family? He should be protected from someone like you.

You sent a short message to Sophie, letting her know that you were okay. Fighting the urge to text Art again, you put the phone face down on the coffee table, ignoring the part of your mind that craved his attention and soothing words. You knew he would know what to say; he would tell you what you wanted to hear. But it was not his responsibility to give you that.

You were still in yesterday's clothes, and the faint smell of sweat was embedded in the soft fabric. Too paralyzed and tired to change, you fell asleep on the couch and woke up a few hours later. The sun had gone down, and the streetlights had gone up, casting its yellowish glow into the darkened apartment. You sat up, your movement slow and sluggish as a splitting headache started to pound in your head. There was an imprint of the cushion on one side of your heated cheek as you wiped the drool off. You reached for your phone, your eyes squinted at the artificial glow and noticed that there was another text from Art.

I'm worried about you. Can you call me?

Ignoring his text again, you returned the phone to the table and diverted your attention to the DVD collection that Ashley owned. After putting on a random movie, you sourced for some snacks, and ended up stuffing your face with chips until your throat parched. The barely processed chips left your body not too long after the movie was over. You hunched over the toilet, dry-heaving into it as your insides twisted and worked itself into a complicated knot. Your body ran hot, yet you couldn't help but shiver. Your body was leaden with fatigue, and all you wanted to do was to indulge in the comfort of your bed. After rinsing your mouth, you dragged your feet to your room and fell into your bed, your body exhausted from the effort.

/

The morning came, and you didn't feel much better. Repulsed by your own smell, you took a quick shower. Droplets of water drenched the back of your cotton shirt as you cleaned the mess from last night. The table was wiped down, the crumbs were swept up, and the dirty dishes were placed in the sink for later. You layered a sweatshirt over what you had on and headed out with the trash bag. After discarding it in the dumpster behind the building, you made your way to the park nearby. Walking along the lake's edge, you shuddered as a cold breeze whispered on your exposed skin. You crossed your arms, snuggling deeper into yourself. The winter here was nothing compared to the one in your hometown. Back home, the cold was biting and cruel, always hungry for any vulnerability. Had it always been that way? Or was it morphed and changed into something you could easily recognize? Your relationship with your parents was bleak and apathetic. It had modified your perception of home with a certain cynicism that was hard to let go of. You were grateful for the warmer weather here. It was a welcoming start.

You found a bench, brushed the fallen leaves off of the cold iron and sat down. The park's vacancy made you feel small and insignificant, yet, at the same time, safe and at peace. Right here, right now, you were no one, and your actions didn't have consequences. You could dwell on the simple act of existing, doing nothing, and that would be fine. You could pretend that in this little pocket of space and time, the outside world ceased to exist. In this undisturbed chasm, you were not suspended in your own mental struggle. You were not the source of your parents' distress. You didn't have to worry about how you were perceived by others, and whatever label they might want to imprint on you didn't matter. You felt a familiar prick in your nose again, and you sniffed hard, hopefully, to stave off the feeling.

Hunger curled in your stomach, reminding you that you hadn't eaten. It was 2:30 PM. You left the park shortly after and stopped by a convenience store. You walked home with a cold-cut sandwich and a soft drink, figuring groceries could wait until tomorrow.

From the gate, you could see a silhouette at the door to your building. The familiar blue scarf hung loosely around the arched neck that you had silently admired on multiple occasions. The dishevelled blond head was bowed, shielding their face from your eyes, but you didn't need a closer look to know. The gate rattled softly, and he perked up. You locked eyes, and your heart seized in your chest. Your name sounded like the sweetest note in his voice. Art stood up and crossed the distance between the gate and the door in a few strikes. You felt the pull as well, but there was a hesitation that slowed your steps. But that didn't stop Art from reaching you. He wrapped you in a tight hug, pressing his body to yours. Your arms hung limply to the sides. His mouth was right next to your ear when he spoke, and you felt his worries deep in the marrow of your bones.

"I've been calling and you haven't answered. I was so worried about you. Are you okay?"

You inhaled deeply, and your senses were filled with Art. The softness of his coat, the solid frame of his body, the warm scent of his skin. You closed your eyes, revelled in his presence, relieved in the comfort you had so desperately needed. There was so much you wanted to say, but they failed to rise above your bewilderment.

"Aren't you supposed to be in Vermont?"

Art pressed you further into himself.

"Yes, but I don't care about that right now. Are you okay?"

"Yes, I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

At that, he pulled away but still kept you within reach. An incredulous, almost accusatory look was evident as he explained.

"You didn't answer my texts, or calls, or voicemails. Made me think something bad happened to you."

You shook your head vehemently.

"No, nothing happened. I'm sorry that I made you come all this way, but I'm fine."

You tried to step out of his embrace, but his hold on you was unwavering. You braved a smile, your hand patted reassuringly on his forearm.

"You shouldn't be here. You should go back to Vermont and enjoy your vacation with your family."

Art stared at you, and you felt exposed under his gaze. For a long moment, he said nothing. The need to fill in the silence was too much, but you fought against it.

"Did you know that you're not good at lying?"

His voice was low yet piercing. His words mirrored your sister's from a few days before. Your brows furrowed, your eyes strained to keep the tears at bay.

"That's so weird. My sister said the same thing."

Your voice wavered, and your attempt at a smile faltered. Before you could give in, you forced yourself out of Art's hold and beckoned him to follow you.

"Let's go inside."

/

You locked the door behind you while Art looked around the apartment from the entryway, shrugging off his coat and scarf and leaving them on top of his carry-on. You felt relieved that you cleaned the place a little before you left. Art's eyes followed you, and you pretended that you didn't notice that as you put the bag of food on the counter.

"Do you want anything? Water? Food?"

Art followed you to the kitchen.

"No, I don't want anything. I want to know what happened, and why you're here."

You busied yourself with unpacking the small bag. Art came and stood by you so close that you could feel his warmth.

"Come on. Talk to me."

"It's … complicated."

"Then start slowly. From the beginning. Or give me a summary. Anything."

Only then did you turn to look at him.

"Why do you want to know so badly? This doesn't have anything to do with you."

"It has everything to do with me because I care about you. I like you."

His admission was like honey to your tea, making your unjust indignation resolve rapidly. You softened your tone.

"I … I like you, too. That's more of a reason why I shouldn't tell you."

"That's bullshit. If you really liked me, you wouldn't shut me out like this. It's unfair."

"It's not up to you to decide–"

He cut you off, making you swallow the rest of everything that you wanted to say.

"After all this time we've spent together, I feel like you're still hiding yourself from me. Every time I ask about your family, you always turn the question back to me."

Art held both of your hands in his, caressing your skin with his thumb.

"You listened to me when I wanted to vent about my parents. You even came to my match even though you had class. Let me take care of you like you've done with me."

"I had no idea that you felt that way. But … I can't."

You looked away from him, your head dipped to look at the floor, but his gentle grip on your chin made you confront him.

"Why not?"

"I don't deserve it."

"Why not?"

"Because … because …"

The more Art pushed, the less certain you became of your self-perception. Everything your parents had said about you came rushing back, and your mind obeyed their command as if you were still under their authority.

"I'm an ungrateful, awful person who's selfish. I will hurt you."

A faithful verbatim of what you were told. Art's face was a mix of everything, but what stood out the most was a contained anger. For your sake, you supposed.

"Did your parents say that to you?"

You nodded.

"They're wrong."

"And what do you know about me? I think my parents know me much, much better than you do."

"I might not know you the way your parents do, but they don't know you the way I do either."

You exhaled hard, unable to come up with a rebuttal. Deep down, you wanted to believe Art, wanted to believe that there was still at least one good thing about you. Here he was, imploring you to confide in him. And you stopped holding back. The tears came quickly, and steadily. They were hot on your cheeks, but they couldn't compare to the warmth that he enveloped you with. He pulled you into himself, his back bent to be closer to you. You rose on your tiptoes to nuzzle into the crook of his neck. Art ran a hand along your spine and woven it into your hair, holding your head where it lay, while the other wound around your waist, anchoring you to him. Even when the sobs reverberated through your frame, he absorbed them, his hold steadfast and strong.

/

After you had calmed down, Art led you to the couch. You told him about what happened. Art listened, not once interrupted you. It was one more person who knew about what you went through, but it was Art. Despite the exposure and sheer vulnerability that you had subjected yourself to, you had never felt safer.

Your eyes drooped, and it started to get harder to disguise your yawn. ARt beckoned you to put your head on his lap, and you didn't fight against it. His hand caressed your hair, drawing all the tension and easing you into a state of repose. You tried to keep your eyes open, so you asked him a question.

"Have you ever felt like … you were an inconvenience to your family?"

His hand slowed on your hair, but it didn't stop. It took him a moment to answer.

"All the time."

Your hand on his knee squeezed, expressing your sympathy.

"Sometimes, I think my parents put me into Mark Rebellato just to get rid of me."

You nuzzled your face against his thigh; the denim felt rough in the right way on your skin.

"I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I don't think you are."

You ended up falling asleep to the feeling of his gentle caress on your hair. Later on, when you were in a different state of consciousness, Art's lap was replaced by a pillow. You faintly heard the sound of dishes running in the kitchen. It was the last thing your head processed before you were pulled back into darkness.

You woke up a while later to the dead silence of the apartment. There was no sound of him. Almost immediately, you were filled with regret and anger for oversharing, for being so carelessly vulnerable to Art, who didn't deserve this burden. You dragged yourself into the kitchen for some water and found that the dishes were cleaned and put away. You felt powerless to a wave of emotions that started to build, and you bit on the insides of your mouth in an attempt to control it. The door to the apartment unlocked, startling you, and Art came through with a bag in hand.

"You're awake."

"You're … back."

You regarded him, your eyes widened in disbelief. He walked around to get to the kitchen, placing the bag on the counter.

"You seem surprised."

Art spared you a look of amusement.

"I thought I sent you running already."

He closed the distance between you and pulled you to him. Art kissed your temple, then placed his chin on your head.

"It'll take much more than that for me to run away."

He let you go, and returned to the bag he brought in with him.

"I bought us some food. I figured you needed something other than that sandwich."

He pointed to the sad plastic box that was still on the counter.

"To be fair, I was planning on doing groceries tomorrow. So, if you could hit the pause on the judgement …"

Every day after that, until school started, you were never apart for too long. Art essentially lived with you and kept you company throughout what would be a lonely week. He showed you his dorm room, which was a neat and clean single. Each day seemed to be better than the last, and it didn't slow down. Life felt like it was yours again. There was a sweet naivety that you possessed, that things could last like this forever as long as you cared for it with all of your heart. But your innocence was the hard-earned lesson that would come back to wreck you.

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"I've been busy with the foundation. It's a lot of work, but I find it very fulfilling. I might be retired, but tennis is still an important part of my life, you know? And, of course, spending time with my family–"

The screen turned to black, leaving you to confront yourself. You stared at the empty screen, where Art was seconds ago, at your guilty conscience. After all that time, you were still stupefied at the mere sight of him. Your heart ached in your chest, and you felt a new kind of exhaustion taking over your body. Your loneliness crept along the edge of that guilt as you looked away from your own reflection. This empty apartment used to harbour the presence of another, but that was long gone. It took a while for this place to feel like it belonged to only you again.

A muffled sound of an incoming text came from the bedroom. You rose from the couch and went to retrieve it. The text was from your sister.

Call me when you can.

You opened her contact info and called. Two rings later, she picked up.

"Hey Soph. Is everything okay?"

"Everything is fine. Isn't it early for you?"

"It is, but I wasn't sleeping anyway. What's up?"

There was a brief silence on her end. You had a feeling what her call was about before she said it.

"Dad called me. He asked about you, and if you were planning on coming home this Thanksgiving this year."

"And?"

You could hear your sister's soft sigh on the other end.

"He wants to follow up with you on his cut from your second book."

The Dollhouse was partly autobiographical. It took inspiration from your childhood, grew a solid root and allowed the fictional elements to take shape and become the story it was. It spent ten consecutive weeks as number one on the New York Times best sellers list, but the aftermath dulled the achievement. Your parents picked it up, and so did some people they knew, and for a while after that, they sent you texts doused in anger and emails with thinly veiled threats. Most of them came from your dad, all of them explicitly expressed indignation and wrath, and none of them received a response from you.

"He's not getting a penny. The Dollhouse was fictional."

"I told him that, but he wouldn't listen."

"He can take it up to my lawyer."

After a moment, you asked.

"Did mom say anything?"

Your sister fell silent again. Before the release of The Dollhouse, things were already strained between you and your mom, and after, the contact slowed until it ceased to exist. You hadn't talked in a few years, and to you, it was for the best.

2006. Your hometown.

Despite school ending on the 16th, you booked the train ticket home for the 22nd. The early train was quiet as most people in this cabin retreated to their own bubbles. Some read, some slept, and some listened to music with their earbuds. The nerves in your lower abdomen seized, and all of a sudden, the cookie Grace made two days ago became so sickeningly sweet that you had to put it back in the wrapper. You sighed as you looked out into the passing scenery. Home had always been a tough subject for you, and it involved complicated feelings that you couldn't put into words. How could you confide in someone that the idea of going home filled you with a sense of dread?

Standing in front of the door to your childhood home, you took a deep breath and straightened your posture. You rang the doorbell and listened for its muffled echo from the inside. You could see that the TV was on from the bay window with the curtain swept to the side. Your dad was in his usual seat, watching a game. After a moment, you rang again. You watched as your father took a sip of his beer and placed the bottle back on the small table before reclining further into the chair. You heard hurried footsteps making their way to you, and the door opened to reveal Sophie. She excitedly called out your name and pulled you into a tight hug.

"I'm so happy you're here! How was your trip?"

"It was fine. How are you doing?"

"Hanging in there."

Your sister looked relieved now that you were here.

"How are … Mom and Dad?"

You asked, and Sophie caught onto the underlying message.

"Mom is grumpy because Dad's not helping. She's stressed out about the Christmas dinner. She hasn't decided on what to make for dessert."

"Oh, no."

Usually, by this time of Christmas, she already had a detailed plan for the big family dinner on the 25th, from appetizers to desserts to finger food before the dinner started. She prided herself on the Christmas feast, which was hosted by your family every year.

"Yep. Also, the tree hasn't been decorated."

"It's… the 22nd."

"I know. That's why Mom has been in rare form the whole week."

You grimaced. Your sister ran her hands up and down your arms reassuringly.

"You've got this. I'll be here with you."

You nodded, and the two of you headed inside. You dragged your suitcase with you as Sophie announced your arrival, but you were only met with silence. You stopped at the door to the kitchen and took in the chaos. Not a lot of free counter space was spared from the various pots and pans and unfinished dishes. Your mom was standing with her back to you, chopping vegetables and dropping them into the big pot.

"Hi, Mom."

She didn't turn around to acknowledge you, but she addressed you as she took a break from the vegetables to stir a smaller pot.

"I thought your exams were done on the 13th?"

"They were, Mom."

"Then why didn't you come home earlier?"

"I had work."

"I highly doubt that they were so busy that they needed you there."

"But … they were. It's Christmas."

"Almost Christmas. I don't see why you couldn't come home earlier and help me with the housework."

The enunciation in her words was hard to miss. She went back to the cutting board, her movement more precise now, and riddled with more force.

"I booked the train as soon as I was able to."

"My life would have been so much easier if you were a little more thoughtful than that."

"I'm sorry, Mom. I–"

She finally turned to look at you.

"Why are you still standing there? Put your suitcase away before someone trips on it and help me."

Sophie gave you a look of sympathy. You obeyed your mother's dismissal and took your suitcase upstairs to your old bedroom. Your parents made you repaint and fill in the screw marks before you left, and now it had turned into a workspace of some sort. On one side, there was a computer setup with a wooden cabinet filled with files, paper and books. The other side was your bed, with a blue sheet covering the whole bed. You pulled it off and found your old bed sheet, just like how you left it a few months ago. You wheeled the suitcase over to the old dresser, your eyes roaming over the fine layer of dust on its surface. You lowered yourself to the bed, allowing yourself a moment of seclusion away from your parents. You wanted to lay down, to close your eyes, and to escape for a while. Being here for less than ten minutes had left you with a taste of dejection. It'd started to gather in your throat, but you didn't want it to win. You were stronger than this. So you swallowed it down and buried it deep, putting on a smile before heading downstairs to join Sophie and your mother.

Your effort and helping hand in the kitchen didn't improve your mom's mood. She complained about your hair, telling you how much it irritated her eyes and making you put it up with a hair tie. She was there to criticize the ratio of the marinade and the meat, the way you prepared the rolls of grilled beef, and the piping on the cupcakes. It was exhausting, but you kept the smile on your face and did as she said. About two hours later, the fridge was filled with food and prepared ingredients for Christmas day. You went to the washroom to catch a quick break from your mother's nagging and checked your phone. There was a missed call, along with a text from Art.

I hope your trip home was good :). I wanted to call to see how you were doing.

– I'm home now. Sorry I couldn't talk. Maybe later?

He responded within the minute.

Promise?

– Promise.

A short while after that, dinner was served. The preparation was paused for the day. During dinner, you told your parents about Stanford. Your dad was silent for the most part, only responding with a grumble here and there. Your mom, on the other hand, was very inquisitive in a way that made dread grow in the pit of your stomach.

"Did you know you could also take English here? At Lawrence?"

"Yes, I know, but the program is so much better in Stanford."

"So you're telling me Lawrence is not good enough for you? I went to Lawrence."

"I'm not saying that, Mom. At Stanford, the program is really detailed, and they have so much more to offer."

Your dad decided to chime in.

"It's a useless degree anyway. You were born and raised here with English as your first language."

"There's so much more than that, Dad."

He snorted.

"So much more of my money. It's a waste."

"I promised you I'll pay you back. Besides, your money is for the rent for my first year, not tuition."

If it wasn't for the scholarship, you would have never left this place.

"If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have a place to live."

Your father's friend from college owned the building, so you got the shared apartment at a much cheaper price. Your rent was covered by your dad since you didn't have a lot of money when you started college.

"No, I wouldn't have. I'm really grateful for your help."

"Thank you. Wasn't that so hard?"

Your sister tried to dissolve the tension in the air, and your parents went with it. The attention was taken off of your shoulders, and you were grateful for it.

/

You went to your sister's bedroom that night to catch up. You sat next to her on the bed while she lay down with her feet propped up against the wall. Grade 11 was proven to be dull and unexciting in the small town. The conversation eventually reared its head back to your parents.

"How do they treat you here?"

You asked, and Sophie sighed.

"They're not too awful most days."

She looked at you, and you could see the empathy in her eyes.

"I don't understand why they're so hard on you."

You shrugged, looking down at your socks.

"I do. Mom has said it so many times. I'm stubborn; I don't listen to them; I wasn't a good kid growing up …"

"So what? It doesn't mean they get to treat you like this."

"Maybe they do. They just want what's best for me."

"The way they show it is not okay. It shouldn't be like that."

A part of you wanted to agree. You wanted, so badly, to believe that you were a good person. Because a good person deserved good things. And if you were the person your parents had made you think you were, then you deserved nothing at all. You gave your sister a reassuring smile despite the doubt in your head.

"I know."

"I'm sorry. It's unfair."

You brushed it off.

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault that they prefer you to me. One of us has to be the favourite."

Sophie gave you an incredulous look, and you shared a laugh. You missed this, talking to your sister about anything. She turned to the side, facing you, and braced herself on her elbow.

"So, tell me about Stanford."

By the arch of her eyebrow, you could tell the conversation was going in the direction you weren't exactly thrilled about.

"It's … good. The campus looks nice, but the course work is a lot."

She rolled her eyes.

"That's not what I'm talking about. Has anyone caught your eye yet?"

Your mind went to Art, and you felt a gentle warmth that felt like a ray of sunshine enveloped your heart. You looked away from your sister briefly before uttering one single word.

"No."

Sophie sat up, pushing into your space.

"I can see right through you. You're such a terrible liar."

You kept your lips sealed.

"Come on, tell me."

There truly was no way of denying Sophie's pleading eyes, so you ended up telling her about Art after a few moments of resistance. You watched her expression change as you wrapped up the story.

"Is he your boyfriend now?"

You realized you had never had that talk.

"We … haven't talked about that yet."

"You obviously like him. Why haven't you asked?"

You shrugged noncomittally.

"I don't know. I think a label is unnecessary."

"What if someone swoops in and takes him from you?"

Sophie snapped her fingers, demonstrating the snatching of Art. You held out a hand.

"Okay, first of all, he's not an object that anyone can take. He doesn't belong to me and vice versa. Second of all, if he is so easily … taken away like that, then he never really likes me to begin with, and I'll be better off without him."

It was an upsetting thought, allowing a tendril of doubt to slither in. Sophie shook her head.

"I don't understand you."

"I just feel like we're not there yet, you know? Whenever I'm with him, I feel … seen. There's no expectation that I have to meet. That's enough for me."

"He'd better appreciate you. You're amazing."

You hugged your sister. She had always seen the best in you despite the doubts you had. You weren't entirely sure you were this amazing person your sister seemed to think you were. Breaking away from the hug, you said.

"Speaking of Art, I promised that I would call him earlier."

"Call him here."

"No."

You shook your head vehemently.

"I want to hear his voice at the very least. You don't even have a picture of him."

"No."

You jumped down from her bed, your finger pressed call on his number. Sophie blocked the door while the phone rang. To your luck, Art picked up after the third ring.

"Hey. I thought you wouldn't call."

Your sister squealed, and you had to put a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

"Who was that?"

You harshly whispered, asking Sophie to shut up. She enjoyed teasing you so much that she left an opening to the door. You slipped past her, but not before she sneaked the last words in.

"He sounds hot."

"Shush."

You held your phone against your chest as you went back to your room.

"Hey, sorry. That was my sister."

"Ahh. How many siblings do you have?"

"Just the one."

Art sounded sleepy on the other end.

"You sound tired."

"It's– uh … 2 AM here."

You remembered the time difference.

"Oh shit, I'm so sorry. It's only 11 PM where I am right now."

"That's okay. I like hearing your voice."

The honest confession sounded like a dream in the slow drawl of his words. Warmth dusted your cheeks, and at that moment, you wanted to ask Art to be exclusive with you. But it was a question better asked in person, you thought. So you held your tongue.

"I like hearing yours too."

His soft, drowsy sighs caressed your ear, and you couldn't contain your smile.

"But seriously, though, you should go to bed."

Art exhaled again, slow and languid, as if he didn't want the call to end. At last, he said with resignation.

"Alright, I'll talk to you later."

"Later. Good night, Art."

/

The next two days went by so quickly, with even more preparations and decorations for the 25th. Christmas Day finally came, burdened with anticipation. Uncle Eddie arrived with his wife, and Aunt Donna came by herself. The day was long, but it went by smoothly, and you hoped that it would stay like this for the rest of your time here.

Dinner came, everyone settled down, and the twenty questions game began with your uncle leading it.

"How's Stanford?"

"It's good. I'm really enjoying it."

"What is it that you're studying again?"

"English."

Aunt Donna chimed in.

"Oh. Aren't we all speaking English? Why are you taking it?"

"It's so much more than that. I'm learning the history of American literature, how it'll be shaped, and the cultural intersectionality in liberal arts. Uhm, to name a few."

Your dad decided to weigh in with his opinion.

"In other words, fancy school for useless things."

Uncle Eddie picked up from where he left off.

"What do you want to do after school?"

"I want to be a published author."

Your dad sneered.

"Great, another jobless career."

You were taken aback by your dad's downright brash statement, but you maintained the pleasant attitude you'd practiced.

"It'll be hard, but I want to do it. Or give it a try, at least."

"Writing books is not going to pay your bills. When you fail, you're going to run back here and ask me for more money."

"I'm not there yet, so we shall see, huh?"

Your father fixed his angry gaze on you. His nostrils flared, and you knew you had really pissed him off.

"You went to Stanford for one semester, and you already think you can talk back to your own father? You've forgotten your place. You can be ignorant now, but you'll see that I'm right. You'll regret not studying something that's actually useful."

"I'm not talking back to you. I just want to say that it's my life, and I should be able to live it the way I want to. And I'm very grateful that you even gave me the money for rent."

Your mom cut in.

"Grateful? You sure don't show it. And who do you think gave you that life? I did. I gave birth to you. You wouldn't be here arguing with the very people who care about you if it wasn't for me."

You had heard this argument before. Your mother continued.

"The least you can do is listen to me and take my goddamn advice so you won't end up a useless brat."

Sophie's timid voice pulled at the tension.

"Can we just get back–"

But your mother didn't allow her to finish.

"Do you know how much you cost? How much did we spend on your tutors? Private dance and piano lessons so you would have at least some skills for your future self, just for you to skip classes?"

You tried to defend yourself.

"I was 11. I didn't ask for any of it."

Your mom pressed on.

"Everything we've done is for you. But you never showed us gratitude, not even a thank you. And now, you're off to California on the way to a useless job. You will fail, and when you do, don't come to me or your father, for support."

"I will not ask you."

Your quick remark came with the bitterness that could burst at any moment, and you weren't sure if you could contain it.

"I will not take responsibilities for your failure."

At that, you lost it. Your composure, your calmness, your pleasant attitude. All were sucked out of your body, and the only thing left inside was the aggravated animosity. Its rot was spreading through you like wildfire, and you unleashed your anger. Your voice was booming, reverberating through the dining room.

"I'm not asking you to. I've never asked for any of this!"

"Shut up!"

Your dad roared. You barely dodged the gravy boat he threw at you. The ceramic bowl hit your shoulder, splashing what was left of the gravy onto your arm. The sauce wasn't as hot as it was ten minutes ago, only left a dull burn on your skin, soaking through the holes in your sweater. You sat still, not daring to move, as your body became paralyzed by what had just happened. Your sister immediately got up, only to be shut down by your dad.

"Sit down, Sophie! It's what she gets for being disrespectful."

Your mom added.

"Eat your food, Sophie. Let her think about what she's done. She's ruined dinner. She just had to make everything about her."

Aunt Donna patted your hand where the gravy didn't reach, a patronizing tone dripped in her voice.

"We're just very concerned about your future, dear. No need to yell."

Your mom and dad's voices started to blend together as they continued.

"When you crawl back from California because your dream doesn't work out, don't expect a penny from us."

"How is it that you find our life so beneath you?"

You stared at your plate, willing your tears not to fall. The conversation around you continued in apprehension, with everyone ignoring you. Your sister grabbed your hand under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. But you didn't have the strength to squeeze back.

You half listened to your surroundings as everything your parents said kept regurgitating like a fire alarm that wouldn't stop screeching long after the fire was gone. Your body went numb, and exhaustion draped over you like a weighted blanket. You only stood up after the adults had left the dining room with their dishes on the table, understandably for you to clean up. Sophie helped you with the task.

"Are you okay? Does it burn?"

You shook your head.

"I'll be fine. It's not that bad."

"It doesn't look fine."

You stopped dead in your movement, and without looking at your sister, you said.

"Sophie. I just want to do the dishes, and then head upstairs. Okay?"

"Okay. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault."

"You don't deserve it."

But what if you did? You received exactly what you needed, a punishment that reminded you of the facts: you were worthless, and your future was bleak and aimless. You avoided answering Sophie, instead directing all of your attention to the dirty dishes.

/

Later on that evening, after your aunt and uncle had left, you headed to the living room, where your parents were, with an envelope in hand. You held it out to them.

"Here's my actual gift for you."

Your dad reached for it without a word. He opened and counted the bills. Your mom got up and retrieved a familiar notebook before settling down next to your dad.

"$1,227."

Your mom wrote the number into the accounting book. After setting it aside, she stared at you for a long time before finally breaking the silence.

"You embarrassed us today."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For … talking back, and disrespecting you in front of aunt Donna and uncle Eddie."

Your mom thought about it for a moment. You hated this feeling. You knew she knew that she had the advantage, and she was making this as painful as possible.

"Hm. Have you learned nothing?"

"No, I have–"

"Do you know remember what I told you in high school? About our method of discipline?"

"Yes, I do."

"Remind me again?"

You swallowed thickly.

"You said– you said you stopped hitting me because … I was old enough to know better."

"Right. But it seems like you haven't learned anything. You still don't know better. You've always done whatever you want, you don't care about anyone, not even your own parents. Who took care of you whenever you were sick, huh? Who worked tirelessly so that you could have a roof over your head, clothes on your body, food in your stomach? And this is how you repay us?"

Your head dipped in shame.

"I'm sorry. I will do better. What can I do to show you that?"

Your dad hadn't said a word, but the disapproving glare he gave you said everything you already knew.

"You always say that you're sorry but nothing has ever changed. Get out of my sight. You're making my eyes itch."

You retreated to your room, and a moment later, Sophie knocked on your door. Her comforting presence was much needed as you drew into yourself on the bed and tried your hardest not to cry.

"I can't stay here."

"I can ask Shelly–"

You shook your head.

"No, they'll know. I can't stay here. I don't want to. I want to leave."

Sophie slid in next to you and pulled you into her arms.

"Okay, okay. I'll take you to the train station tomorrow."

After putting your clothes back into the suitcase, you sat there in your childhood bedroom, not knowing what else to do. You felt hollow, as if your insides were carved and gutted empty, and you were left with only this shell of a body. The skin where the gravy touched didn't throb as much anymore, leaving only a dull pain. Your heart was aching as if someone had taken hold and crushed it in between their palm. You wanted this feeling to go away, to disappear, so you could forget about it, so it would stop hurting. Overcame with the thought of needing some comfort, you didn't stop to think twice as you reached for your phone and dialled Art's number. You needed to hear his voice, to be reminded of what would be waiting for you when the next semester started. The ring went on and on, and when you thought he wouldn't pick up, he did. You sat up straighter.

"Art. Hi. Merry … Christmas."

The background on his end was noisy. You could hear his name being called.

"Merry Christmas."

It seemed like you had called him at the wrong time.

"Are you … are you at a party?"

"It's not really a party, just a get-together at my house. Patrick is here, and we're drinking this thing that we stole from my dad's liquor cabinet …"

He trailed off as a hiccup filled in the gap.

"It's making my head spin a little, I'm not gonna lie."

"Oh. I'm glad you're having fun."

Your voice dropped, and Art caught onto it even in his inebriated state.

"Are you okay? You sound … sad."

You didn't even realize how obvious it was, so you cleared your throat and responded in a more cheerful tone.

"I'm okay."

Art called your name softly.

"You don't sound okay. What's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry for bothering you. Bye."

You hung up the phone. Seconds later, Art's call came by, and you watched as it rang and ended. Then, a text message came through.

I'm sorry, I'm a little tipsy to talk right now. I'll call you tomorrow.

You tucked your phone under the pillow, not wanting to look at it anymore. You tried to clear your head and think about something else. Still, your mind insisted on reliving the mistakes after mistakes you had made today. Exhaustion eventually took over, easing you into a fitful sleep.

/

You left without saying goodbye to your parents the next day. Sophie gave you a ride to the station, and by 5 PM, you were on the train back to Palo Alto. You received a call from Art. Just the sight of his name raised a storm of conflicting emotions in you, but the side that craved his affection overturned the other. You picked up after several rings.

"Hey. Sorry about last night. I didn't know my limit."

"That's okay. I shouldn't have called anyway."

"No, no, I'm glad you called. How was your Christmas?"

"It was fine. Are you preparing to go to the ski resort?"

You kept your voice level, hoping that you didn't give away anything like you did last night.

"Yep. We're heading there tomorrow."

The crackle of the announcement system broke out over your head, notifying you of your final stop. You were about to wish him a good trip, but Art spoke before you could get it out.

"Wait, where are you right now?"

You couldn't bring yourself to answer, but Art was determined to get it from you.

"Are you going back to Stanford?"

"Sorry, I have to go."

You ended the call. Almost immediately, Art's name appeared on the screen. You declined. Seconds later, he sent you a text.

Pick up. Please.

After shutting down his third call, you turned off your device. You went back to your apartment. It was empty. Your roommates wouldn't be here until school started, so you'd have the whole place to yourself. You felt an immense relief as you finally got to be alone, and you would be for at least another week. You didn't bother unpacking; instead, you headed for your room. After changing into something more comfortable, you crawled under the cover and pulled it to cover your head. Only then you allowed yourself to cry until you couldn't anymore, until the sobs that came out of you were reduced to soundless whimpers. Sleep came easier this time.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

"I–"

"Yes, you did. I remember him. Tall, blond guy. Real cute."

"Uh, yeah. He is blond. And tall, I guess."

And, of course, he was cute, but you didn't agree out loud. 

"Did you guys hook up last night?"

"Ashley!"

"Come on, it's a valid question."

"Doesn't make it appropriate."

She squinted at you. You relented.

"Okay, okay. We didn't… hook up. He just walked me home."

"And ... ?"

"I kissed him good night. Just his cheek, not on his lips."

Your face burned at the confession. Ashley seemed thrilled as she grabbed your shoulder.

"That's great! You're putting yourself out there. I'm so proud of you!"

"I wouldn't say that I'm putting myself out there."

"Baby steps. Besides, I just want you to enjoy yourself, you know? I basically ditched you last night after talking to Marissa, and also, you're always either cooped up in here or at the library."

You opened your mouth to deny it, but Ashley didn't let you.

"Yes, you are. I live with you. You don't go out with anyone, even with me or Grace. I know that we have our fun here, at home, but it's not the same. You should get out there and enjoy your youth while you can. Grace and I are here for you."

"I know, and I appreciate you two." 

Ashely gave you another squeeze on your shoulder, and you gave her a reassuring mind. You stood up and took the empty bowl with you.

"By the way, I didn't expect a lecture on a Saturday."

Ashley shrugged.

"Well, you needed it."

You waved her off as you made your way to your room. You checked your phone on the dresser and opened the new message that came in about eight minutes ago.

Hey, I know there's a rule of not texting a girl the 3 days after getting her number, but I can't wait that long.

So, good afternoon. I hope you slept well.

You smiled, thinking of a response when another message came through.

This is Art btw.

You chuckled to yourself, typing out a reply.

– Interesting. I didn't know that was a rule. That must mean you're a very impatient man :)

When it comes to you, I can be ;)

You shook your head at another relentless flirt. 

– I did sleep well. I hope you did as well.

It was one of the best sleep I've had this semester.

– Oh yeah? Did you dream about me?

You bit your lip, feeling your boldness surge and wane in a few seconds as you waited for his text. You were afraid that you were being too forward and regretted the text when your phone vibrated.

How did you know?

– Just a feeling :P

Weird question, but are you working today?

– Yes, my shift starts at 5. Why?

I'll see you then :)

Art showed up at the coffee shop, as promised. You made him a drink with a heart drawn on his cup. He kept you company throughout the idle night, and the four hours went by much quicker than it would have been if he wasn't there. You talked between customers, your conversation flowed easily. He helped you close the shop at the end of the night. You cleaned up behind the counter and kitchen while Art wiped down tables and set the chairs on top of them. After you were done inside, you headed out to bring the few patio seatings in. Art playfully pushed you aside as you reached for a table, shaking his head at you. He picked it up so effortlessly, making his biceps bulge in the form-fitting shirt. You held the door for him as he walked by.

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to."

"Why? You're not getting paid for this."

"I don't care about that. I just want to hang out with you."

"You're relentless."

After locking up the cafe, the two of you headed downtown and grabbed dinner from a food truck. You walked to the park nearby, found a bench and table, and sat down across from each other. The cool evening air caressed your heated skin like a soft kiss. Afterward, Art walked you home, and you departed with a peck on his cheek. You couldn't have asked for a more perfect day to follow the night before. And the idyll mood unfurled its reach into the following days. From time to time, you would walk to classes, to Art's practices, to the library. You'd trail the miles on campus ground, spending it in comfortable silence or indulgent conversations. You looked forward to his texts throughout the day, a call here and there from time to time. It felt like a dream; an unreal sequence kept unfolding into more of its splendour. 

One day, Art called you during your movie night with Grace and Ashley. You went to your room and closed the door.

"Hey, Art. What's up?"

"Hey. Remember the match I told you? They announced it this afternoon, and it's next Thursday at 2. Would you like to come?"

"Hold on, let me check my schedule."

Your heart dropped when you saw the schedule in your notebook. 

"I'd love to, but ... I have my modern poetry class at 2."

There was a brief silence on his end, but it came to an abrupt end. 

"That's okay. I understand."

"I'll make it up to you."

"Promise?"

"Promise. I'll buy you an ice cream."

The day of the match finally came. Besides a good luck text, which Art responded with a smiley face and not much else, you felt apprehensive. Even though you couldn't see his face, you could tell by the tone of his voice that he was disappointed. You remembered Art telling you that his parents rarely saw him play, and your heart wavered. Standing in front of the lecture hall, you stared at the time on your phone. Only seven minutes until two. 

You put your phone in your bag and ran. Your mind mapped out the quickest route to get to the court, your feet followed closely. You weaved through people, apologizing as they dodged you. Your bag bumped against your side, and at a particularly hard turn, it flew to the ground. You kneeled and hastily shoved the few things that fell out inside when you noticed that the strap was ripped from the spot where it was sewn onto the bag. You cursed, knowing that the patch-up job you did last time wasn't enough. But it'd have to wait. With one hand holding your broken bag to the side of your body, you picked up the pace. Your lungs burned in your chest, and the muscles in your legs begged you to slow down, but you pushed through. You ran for the gate to the audience seatings, and when you finally arrived, the pounding of your steps disturbed the silence of the court.

It looked like the match was about to start. The umpire looked at you from his seat, as did some others in the audience. One of them even shushed you. You said sorry in their direction and felt the embarrassment quickly seep in, but it quickly faded into the background when you saw Art with his gaze fixed on you. You were too far away to tell, but the smile on his lips told you that your presence here was welcomed. 

You nodded at him before breaking eye contact. You scurried to the first empty row, even though it was a little further back. 

The game began.

The way Art played was something. People's heads turned as the neon green ball bounced back and forth, but your focus was mainly on Art and the way he moved. There was a quiet confidence about him. His strokes were composed but never lacked precision and force, as if he anticipated the shots with great accuracy and calculation. The arch of his wingspan was beautiful as he followed through with the racquet, gracefully caught the ball, and bounced it back to the other side. His movement was fluid; his run to meet the ball was agile. Whenever he hit the ball, he let out a sound that was a cross between a grunt and a moan, and you wondered if he would verbalize the same noises if you kissed him. Art was graceful on the court, his demeanour calm, while his opponent seemed to run short on patience as he struggled to secure the lead.

The second set ended with Art temporarily holding the advantage. He went to his seat after the break was announced. As he took a sip of water, his gaze roamed around in the audience. You waved at him from your seat. His eyes found you, the corners softened as he looked at you. He winked before returning his attention to his coach. Your inside warmed, more so than the sun on your skin. 

Art won the match to the cheers from the audience. You stood up and joined them, pride blooming in your chest as he beamed. He found you in the audience, holding eye contact for a long moment. You hoped he could see just how happy you were for him. Eventually, he was the first to break. 

You met up near the recreation center a while after the match. Art had changed into a blue-green blouse with white stripes and blue jeans. He sauntered to you.

"Congratulations. I knew you would win."

He scratched the back of his neck.

"Maybe I only won because you're my lucky charm."

"Oh, please. It was all you."

"I'm serious. Did you skip class?"

"Yes, I did. It's fine, though. I liked seeing you play. You were great."

Art fell into silence. His eyes could barely contain the beginning of a deluge of emotion, and before you could dissect it, he drew you in for a hug. You went still for a moment before wrapping your arms around his torso. An artificial scent of apple invaded your senses, and you couldn't help but bring your nose closer to his neck. He eased his lips towards the shell of your ear and whispered.

"Thank you for being here."

The timbre of his voice was low, travelled through your ear and resonated deep in your stomach. You wanted to shiver so the effect that he had on you would have an outlet to express itself. Instead, you took a shaky breath, allowing more of his smell to occupy your mind.

"You're welcome."

After a long moment, Art pulled back. You found the absence of his warmth inflicted an unpleasant feeling.  

"Hey, uh, so … I was wondering if you would like to– you can say no, obviously, it's up to you ..."

He trailed off, leaving you with a question.

"What is it?"

"Do you want to stay and check out a match with me?"

You shrugged.

"Sure. I already skipped my class; I have nothing else to do anyway."

"Great. Let's go. We can get good seats if we go now."

/

Tashi Duncan walked onto the court after the announcement. There were more people here compared to Art's match, and most, if not all of them, were excited to see Tashi if the deafening cheer was any indication. Her confidence exuded from the way she walked to her chair to the way she did her stretch routine. You recognized her as the girl Art talked to at the party. The white dress she had on complimented her slim form, and she looked just as beautiful as you remembered. You turned to Art. 

"People seem to really like Tashi."

Art tore his gaze away from Tashi, giving you a split of attention.

"She's an excellent player. There's no one quite like her on court."

You nodded, taking in the high praise. 

"You'll see what I mean when you see her play."

"Great. I'm excited."

You debated with yourself for a brief second, but then, you decided to go for it.

"Do you guys know each other?"

Art looked at you through his lashes. There was hesitation in the way he came up with a response.

"Yeah, I'd say so. She's… seeing Patrick."

"Oh, right. Your friend from boarding school."

It took you a moment, but you recalled Patrick. He nodded. The match commenced shortly after that. 

You understood what Art meant. Tashi was mesmerizing to watch. She was relentless, making her opponent work for it. Her passion was palpable, and the tenacious grip she had over the game was impressive. 

"She's amazing."

You whispered to Art after the other player failed to return the ball. Without turning to look at you, he replied. 

"I know."

You observed Art as his eyes stuck on Tashi. Neither of them was the wiser to being perceived, but you witnessed it all. There was a look in his eyes like he was so far away; he had gone to a place you couldn't reach. An inkling of an idea slowly trickled into your mind, but you prevented yourself from exploring. You steered your thoughts away. You were well aware of your tendency to think of the worst possible thing in every situation. You ruined the good thing before it even had the chance to run its course or destroy itself.

As much as you had tried, the thought still bothered you as you fixed your bag later that night. Twin Peaks played on the TV as you absentmindedly listened to what was happening. Grace sat on the other end of the couch, knitting a sweater. After a while, she held it up and called your name.

"I'm almost done with my mom's gift. What do you think?"

You looked up from your own project. On the green sweater, there was a pixelated picture of a Golden Retriever with the name 'Cheese' at the bottom.

"Holy shit. It's amazing!"

"Thank you! I hope she'll like it."

"Is her birthday coming soon?"

"No, this is her Christmas gift."

"Halloween was only five days ago."

"I know. I just want to get it done so I won't be stressed out during finals."

"That's fair."

It was the beginning of November, and even though Christmas was over. a month away, Grace had already started on her family's gifts since September. You thought about your own list, wondering if you should get more despite knowing what your parents really wanted. You just need one more paycheck to complete it. 

An idea struck, and you turned to Grace.

"Can you teach me how to knit?"

/

Winter came along with finals. Between study sessions with your roommates, you couldn't hang out with Art much. He had his own grades to worry about. You would hang out whenever the two of you could find the time, and even then, it was far and few between. During a walk to the library, Art asked.

"Are you going home this Christmas?"

The question made dread crawl down your spine. Despite being together often, you avoided talking about your family.

"Yes, I am. What about you?"

"Me too. My family's going to Vermont to ski on the 26th."

"Have fun. Show me pictures when you get back."

Art told you that he wouldn't be back at Stanford until the 4th, and you solemnly nodded. That meant less time spent with him before the semester started, but he promised that the two of you would make up for it.

On the 18th, the day he left Stanford, Art asked to meet up at a bookstore near campus. The doorbell rang out in the quiet store, with Christmas music playing softly in the background. You sent Art a message. 

– I'm here. Where are you?

Come find me.

It took you about two minutes to find him standing in a random fiction aisle with a hand behind his back. The aisle was empty except for him, making you feel like you were the only people in this bookstore. You took your time as you ambled to him and only stopped when there was a small distance in between.

"Hi."

"Hi."

You looked around and asked.

"Why this aisle?"

"Because …"

Art pointed to the spot next to his shoulder.

"… one day, your name will be here."

You read the names beside the small empty spot and realized what he meant. Your last name would go there between these authors. You frowned, feeling your emotions surge in a way that you weren't sure you could control. Art took the hand out from behind, revealing a gift bag.

"For you."

You looked at him. 

"You didn't have to get me anything."

"I wanted to. Open it, please."

You pushed the tissue paper aside and gasped. Inside was a leather bag; its rich brown colour shone under the overhead light. There was a golden tennis racquet charm attached to the end of the strap. You held it in your hand, marvelling at its golden sheen.

"Now you'll have a piece of me anywhere you go."

"Not anywhere. Just classes."

He chuckled at your quick-witted joke. Overwhelmed, you managed to mutter.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

You dug into your old bag with one hand, pulling out a brown bag decorated with Christmas trees. 

"This is for you. Open it."

Art's eyes sparked an intrigue. You could barely contain the pounding of your heart as he reached into the bag and pulled out your gift. He pulled the entirety of it out, caressing the soft material with his hand. The Oxford blue scarf was theresult of your hard work and after many mistakes. Art ran his finger over the small heart you added at the end of the scarf. His lack of reaction worried you.

"I know it's not a fancy gift, and the stitching is off in some parts, and after I had already done half of it, I realized that this is California, so you probably won't get much use out of it anyway, so maybe I should get you a different gift ..."

Art stopped your rambling by taking hold of your trembling hand.

"I love it. It's perfect. Thank you."

A spark of happiness gleamed in his eyes. For a long moment, you basked in the silence together, the air weighed down with the things you didn't speak out loud. You didn't want to leave this place. That meant leaving this moment behind, even though all you wanted to do was bottle it up and bring it with you to the outside world, because the essence of the memory could never compare to this feeling. 

"I miss you already."

Art whispered, and an overwhelming urge took over. You stepped into his space, pressing your bodies together. You raised on your tiptoes and tilted your head up. His lips met yours halfway. You were careful with one another, and the touch was gentle. His lips were soft on yours, moving at a slow pace, discovering your shared rhythm. You needed more, so your hand winded around to rest at the nape of his neck, urging him closer. Your tongue darted out, tasting him. The way he eagerly responded to your call made your head spin. Your tongues found each other, licking and tasting at a fervent pace. His hand on your jaw drew you in, and the other rested on the small on your back, pulling you flush with his body. You gasped, allowing his tongue to dive deeper. You kissed until you were too breathless and had to pull back. You rested your forehead on his as you breathed hard, taking in each other's air into your lungs. His eyes were glossy and dazed, and there was so much want in them that you felt like you were the prized possession. You gravitated towards each other once more as if pulled by opposing magnetic forces, as if you couldn't help yourselves.

/

Back in your room, you admired the gift Art got you. You opened the bag, and in one of the compartments, there was a notebook. The cover was a mossy green colour, and you wondered if Art left it in there by accident. You opened the first page to find Art's neat handwriting. 

For you and your brilliant ideas. I can't wait to read your first book.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

More people poured into the kitchen, so you took that opportunity to fill your cup with a ladle of the same fruit punch, and slipped outside through the back door. The yard was big, with high wooden fence wrapped around the property. There was a pool to your left, and an open grass field with a bonfire blazing. Most people hung around the pool, so you made a beeline for the fire. You shivered as a cold breeze brushed over the skin on your exposed arms. You chose the small wooden bench after asking the few people who were already there if you could take a seat. The flame, alongside the alcohol, warmed you up from the inside out. You grimaced at a small sip, the taste of the punch somehow became more foul than the last. Bracing yourself, you took another, hoping the pleasant buzz would amp up, and wishing the time would past even quicker.

“If this isn’t the girl I’ve been looking for.”

You thought your hearing was mistaken, but it was him. You turned your head, and there Art was, standing two feet away, looking at you with a bottle of Sprite in his hand. He was wearing a Stanford hoodie and shorts, the golden waves of his hair were tousled softly in the gentle wind. You couldn’t help the complacency in your voice.

“You’ve been looking for me?”

“All the time. Ever since when I last saw you.”

You rolled your eyes.

“You’re such a stalker.”

“No. Just an admirer.”

You took another moment to appreciate the sight of him in front of you, before scooting to the other side of the bench as much as you could. You patted the empty space you’d just left, and Art immediately accepted your invitation. His knee knocking against yours as he sat down. Your thighs grazed when he settled, and you felt your cheeks warm at the contact.

“How are you?”

“So what brought you–?”

You talked at the same time, and then broke into a nervous chuckle together. Art jerked his chin at you.

“You go first.”

“Okay. Well, my roommate brought me here.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s with her crush. I’m here because she didn’t want to go alone. You?”

“Robbie invited me. He’s my hitting partner this semester. He knows some guy who lives here.”

You hummed noncommittally. You cleared your throat after a mouthful of your drink when Art asked.

“How did your midterm go?”

“It went … very well. You?”

“Uhh, maybe less well than you.”

“If you study as much as you train then I have no doubt that you did great.”

You said it without much thought. Art looked at you with a new interest.

“How did you know that?”

Your brows knitted in confusion.

“Know what?”

“That I train. Quite often.”

You stumbled over your words as you thought of an answer.

“Well, it was … I just … I’ve seen you on campus a few times, and you always have a racquet bag with you. In the few times that I saw you. In case that wasn’t clear.”

Art leaned back as if to take you in fully. The way he cocked an eyebrow coupled with the playful smile on his lips screamed mischief.

“So you’ve been stalking me.”

“Absolutely not.”

Your denial was immediate. You diverted your gaze to the fire and took a long sip from your cup to hide the embarrassment tinged in your features.

“You know, if you want to hang out more with me …”

Art leaned in, and you couldn’t resist the pull from his gaze. A light citrus scent stirred at your sense of smell, and it was soothing.

“ … all you have to do is to give me your phone number. You know, to make it easier for both of us.”

You pretended to think about his proposition, sucking air through your teeth.

“I don’t know. You haven’t proved yourself to be anything but a distraction.”

“Me? A distraction?”

“Yup. As a straight A student like myself, I can’t afford distraction.”

Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the fact that it was your clumsy attempt at flirting wth Art, but you felt bolder, your lips more loose. He moved in even closer, invading your space, and you could see the flutter of his long lashes that framed his widened eyes. Everything about him made you feel like you were in a big trouble.

“Oh my god. You’re obsessed with me.”

“No, I’m so not.”

“Yes, you are. You must think about me all the time.”

Your cheeks burned and you were certain it wasn’t due to the alcohol. You felt like you were caught with a crime you were guilty of committing. Art had been more than just a passing thought. He was a frequent recurrence in your mind. You stammered for a defensive stance.

“What about you? If anything, you’re the one who’s obsessed. You’ve been asking me for my number every time we see each other.”

“Right. You can deny it all you want, but I can see it clear as day.”

“I’m not denying anything. I’m just … telling you that I don’t … think about you.”

His brows raised as if he didn’t believe you.

“Not that … often, anyway.”

He grinned, satisfied with your answer. You put a hand over your eyes.

“Can we … move past this, please?”

Art chuckled and leaned away with his hands held up, satisfied like a purring cat after a big meal. He watched as you took a swig of your empty drink.

“Do you want a refill?”

“Yeah. Not the same thing though. I’ve had enough of gasoline juice.”

His chuckle was light, rising above everything else around you even though you weren’t alone.

“I can find something decent for you.”

You moved to go with him, but Art held out a hand.

“You stay here. I’ll get it for you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

You watched as he disappeared into the crowded house. You caught the smile that crept onto your face, and for once, you allowed yourself to enjoy the moment. The waning crescent was an imposing presence amongst the stars in the clear sky. The fire was warm, and so was the feeling you harboured inside. You were glad that you stuck around and saw Art again, the one person who had occupied your mind more often than you’d like to admit. The easy banter and flirtatious remarks were only bonuses to what he was to you. A person who seemed to like you for who you were, and not for what you could do for him. He had been nothing but nice to you, reducing your well-constructed wall to a feeble fence that parted in half whenever he came around.

Goosebumps spread all over your skin as a gust of wind swooped by. You rubbed your arms to alleviate the cold and drew into yourself. And then you heard it, his name in a cheerful voice. Your head turned to the source as if the call was for you. Art had already walked to her with a drink and a paper bag in hands. You watched as they conversed. She was gorgeous, her light golden brown skin glowed even in the low light. She was slim and tall, almost matched Art’s height. From this distance, you couldn’t hear them, but you could see the way they laughed at something she said, their heads bowed towards each other in the movement. You felt like you were an intruder in their conversation, even though you were only watching. She touched his arm and left, leaving Art looking after her as she disappeared into the house. Something stirred in the back of your mind, but you quickly dismissed it before it even took form. You whipped your head back to the fire, pretending that you’d been looking at it as Art turned around and made his way over to you. Art held out the cup and you accepted it with a word of appreciation. He settled in next to you for the second time that night, and your heart couldn’t help but skip a beat.

“Did you miss me while I was gone?”

“You wish.”

He chuckled, and looked at the way you held yourself.

“Are you cold?”

“A little bit. But it’s fine. The fire is keeping me warm.”

An involuntary shiver broke through your body.

“You’re not a very good liar, you know that?”

Art stood up and took off his hoodie. The movement tugged the white t shirt he wore underneath upward, and you could catch a glimpse of his leaned lower torso, the faint V line leading into the band of his underwear. You quickly averted your eyes to meet his own under the messy blond locks, your cheeks burned at the quick glance.

“No, Art, it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

He held out the hoodie.

“Just take it.”

It looked like he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so you took it and put it on. The sleeves covered your hands and more, the body fabric pooled around your midsection. His warmth settled over you like an embrace, igniting the excitement that brewed underneath your skin. You relaxed into the scent and the comfort of him, and sighed softly.

“All better?”

He put his arms around you, making rapid up and down motions to create friction and warming you up. Your heart jumped at the contact even though there was a layer between his hands and your skin.

“This is really nice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He let you go and held up the brown paper bag he left at his feet.

“Do you want some s’mores?”

/

“Wow. I’ve never seen someone who’s this bad at making s’mores.”

Art commented after your third burned marshmallow while you frantically blew on it to put out the fire. The charred remain sagged sadly on the stick. You frowned.

“It’s still … edible.”

“Edible? It looks like a lump of coal.”

You bowed your head, defeated.

“Here.”

Art put a perfectly toasted marshmallow on a graham cracker for you.

“Take it. And please, it’s just a s’more.”

You accepted the treat, and bit into it. The gooey sweetness enveloped your tongue, and you hummed in approval. You watched as Art discarded your burned sweet into the fire.

“How are you so bad at this?”

“Well, my parents aren’t exactly the outdoor type.”

“Lucky for you, you have a master at work here.”

He taught you to put the marshmallow near the ember, not directly in the flame. Eventually, you made one without burning it to crisp. Art cheered as you showed in your stellar achievement in between the graham crackers. Your heart hammered as he leaned in and took a bite from out of your hand. He closed his eyes, a moan sounded deep in his throat.

“The sweet victory of my teaching.”

A marshmallow string dripped over his bottom lip. Your eyes glued to his movement as he swiped it off, brought the thumb to his mouth and licked it. But there was still some left on the curve of his lip. Out of instinct, your hand reached for the spot he missed and wiped it off with careful tenderness. Art held still, and his breathing seemed to follow. He gazed at you with an impossible softness in his eyes, and you felt a new fervour of heat warming your face. Neither of you said anything, nor dared to breathe too loudly. Your hand lingered on his face, and you felt an urge to run it over his jawline, to pull him close, eager to taste the sweetness of the treat from his lips.

A loud whoop shrilled in your ears, followed by the sound of water being splashed. Pulled away from the moment, you drew your hand back and cleared your throat.

“I think I’ve mastered it now.”

/

The night ended with Art walking you home. Before you left party, you found Ashley and made sure she was okay. She beamed ear to ear and told you she’d spend some more time here. You asked her to be careful and to text you if she needed anything. You parted ways, finding Art waiting for you outside on the green lawn. The walk to your apartment building was long, but the two of you filled the distance with things like classes and what you’d been up to since you last saw each other. Art told you about his upcoming match and what he’d done to prepare for it. You expressed interest in seeing him play, and Art perked up at that like a little puppy.

“I’ll let you know when the date is announced.”

Before you knew it, you were standing in front of the gate to your building.

“This is me.”

“Are you sure it’s not for another block?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. You observed him for moment, tracing the soft edge of his eyes, the way his lips flattened against themselves, shaping into a faint, endearing smile. You held out your hand.

“Give me your phone.”

“For what?”

You arched an eye brow. It took him three seconds to arrive at the same thought you had. He scrambled to take his phone out, almost dropping it to the ground. You put your number in along with your name and saved it.

“Here you go. You can move on to something else now.”

“Never.”

Art returned his phone to his pants’ pocket. A need struck you, something you’d wanted to do since he sat down next to you earlier in the night. The urge was overwhelming, your heart hammered in your chest, your skin itched to make it happen. But you didn’t want to overthink anymore. Brushing asides all cautions, you stepped closer so that you could grasp his shoulder and rose on your tiptoes. Your lips softly brushed his cheek, lingering there for a moment before pulling away. You watched as a blush quickly spread all over his neck and ears, tinting his cheeks a faint pink.

“Good night, Art.”

You entered through the waist high iron gate, and walked the distance before hearing Art saying good night. You turned around and waved at him. He held up a hand and reciprocated. Once you made it to your room, you fell onto your bed and sighed. You felt light and happy, already recounting everything that happened tonight in your head. You put a hand on your hammering heart, and only then, you realized that you were still in his hoodie. You pulled the collar up to your nose and inhaled the comforting scent of him. You smiled. It would be yours for now.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

It was a Saturday, and the weather outside was warm and balmy. The bell on the door sounded off more often as everyone tried to stay out of the heat. That also meant you were slammed during the lunch rush. Two people called in, so it was just you and Holly behind the counter. You took orders and worked on the drinks while Holly made and packed food items. Despite the smooth routine and steady pace you were on, the line seemed to never end.

You went through the motions almost mechanically. Half of your mind focused on what was happening right in front of you, while the other kept pulling away to nurse the pain signal. You put the finishing touches on two lemonades and a smoothie, called out the names, and placed the receipts on the spike full of previous orders.

You returned to the espresso machine, pulled the shots, and prepared the milk for the steamer. Placing the tip of the wand just under the creamy surface, you pulled the lever, hearing it screech to life. The cramp curled its fist, distorting your insides, and you inhaled sharply. Your eyes squeezed shut, and your chest rose with a deep breath as you tried to stamp the pain down to no avail. When you opened your eyes, your vision blurred. It took a few harsh blinks for you to get rid of the fog and recognize that there was someone at the counter. You called out without looking.

“I’ll be right with you!”

“Don’t worry. Take your time.”

That voice made your head turn. A little too quick and probably too eager compared to the scenario you had in your head, imagining how calm and collected you’d be when you saw him again. But that didn’t matter anymore. You found Art grinning at you. You couldn’t help the timid smile that graced your lips.

“Art. What are you doing here?”

“It’s hot out, so I wanted to get a smoothie before practice.”

You moved the pitcher, softening the screech to a low hum. You turned to look at the blenders. They were both dirty.

“You might have to wait a little bit. I still have to wash the blender.”

You turned the steamer off, and in a practiced move, poured the shot into the awaiting cup, then the milk, a waft of steam caressed your hand.

“Oat milk latte with extra vanilla for Henry?”

You pushed the drink towards Henry before rushing to the till where Art was standing. Your eyes found his gaze following you under the red Stanford cap, and all of a sudden you felt conscious about the short-sleeved cream blouse you had on. It was painfully plain, and speckled with stains from the busy morning and lunch rush. You pulled on the hem while Art roamed his eyes over the chalkboard menu before settling them on you.

“Actually, never mind. I’ll take the easiest thing for you to make.”

“The easiest thing? It’d be a black coffee.”

“Is it … cold?”

“No. We’ve just ran out of cold brew, and the next batch won’t be ready for another hour.”

He looked unsure.

“… I’ll take it.”

You frowned.

“Come on. You’re getting a smoothie.”

“No, I can’t ask you to do that when you’re so busy.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer. So, what’s it going to be?”

His eyes softened as if he still couldn’t bring himself to ask even with your permission. You raised your eyebrow expectantly.

“Alright, fine. Can I have a blueberry breeze?”

Satisfaction seeped into your smile.

“Of course. Coming right up.”

You sneaked a glance at Art while waiting for the ingredients to blend. He was looking around, oblivious to your staring. The athleisure he wore was form-fitting, showing off his broad shoulders and chest. Before you could indulge more, you cut your gaze away.

You slid the cup towards him, your fingers covering the heart you drew on with a marker in a moment of impulse.

“Here you go. Have fun with practice.”

He leaned forward and put his hand on the cup before you could pull away, his fingers touched yours.

“I’ll have more fun if you were there cheering me on.”

Unfazed and familiar with the game you had played before, you leaned into it.

“Don’t you have your own cheerleaders already?”

“None of them could compare to you.”

“Right.”

You rolled your eyes as his grin widened.

“I should get back to work. See you around, Art.”

You were about to move away, only to be pulled back by Art’s hand completely covered yours on the counter.

“Wait, when are you done?”

You looked at the clock hung by one of the big windows.

“In an hour. Why?”

“I would love to take you out for lunch.”

Art saw your hesitation and intervened.

“Before you say no, can you at least think about it?”

You sighed.

“I don’t know, Art. I really should get back to work.”

“Please, just think about it. I’ll come back here as soon as I’m done.”

His hand was warm, his tone was pleading, and the way he looked at you made you realize you were quickly succumbing to him, even though the upper hand was yours.

“Okay. I’ll think about it.”

With that, Art let your hand go, his smile curled into his flushed cheeks, and the sight made your heart flutter slightly. The cool air that was your shelter from the heat outside suddenly became intrusive and unwanted. You watched Art leave over the shoulder of the woman after him for a brief moment, before returning to reality. When you dropped the change she told you to keep into the tip jar, you noticed the $10 bill that wasn’t there before Art came.

/

“Have fun on your date!”

You looked up from your notebook to see the cheeky smile Holly gave you. You rolled your eyes. She had teased you about it nonstop the moment the rush was over, fanning the heat that was already simmering under your cheeks.

“It’s not a date!”

You called out as Holly exited through the door. Sitting in the now soothing space, your cramp fading with the ibuprofen you took, you combed over what Holly said earlier. She thought you were in so much denial about how into you Art was. But she didn’t know the context. You and Art only met over two weeks ago and shared a long conversation. Today was only the second time you saw each other. The connection was there, you had to admit, but it didn’t have to mean anything.

You ended the thought there and returned to your notebook. You picked up your pen, and after a few rearrangements of words and sentences in your head, you put it on the paper and continued where you left off. Your stream of thought formed word after word, sentences appeared neatly on the lines of the off-white page, and from them your idea took shape. It was one of a few short stories you’d come up with for a competition hosted by an independent publishing house, and the prize was $200, on top of being featured in their November issue.

You didn’t notice the time, or Art when he yanked the door open. The bell chimed sharply, notifying you of a man on a mission. He was dishevelled and out of breath when he reached your table. His curls were ruffled and unkempt. His hat was nowhere in sight.

“You waited.”

“You didn’t think I would?”

“Kind of. You didn’t seem to like the idea of having lunch with me very much.”

Art didn’t move when you left the seat and rose to meet his height.

“You basically begged me just to think about it.”

“And I’d do it again if it meant you’d wait for me.”

Surprised by his candour, your eyes widened, your lips parted in response to the easy banter that you shared, but no words came out. By the way he looked at you with his cocky smirk, Art knew that what he said took whatever you were about to respond away. The heat under your cheeks returned as you realized that you were standing too close, so close that you could see the speckle of brown in his blue eyes. You lowered your own and took a small step back, hoping you could hide the fact that you were flustered by his brazen flirtation and the proximity, even though both of those things didn’t make you feel this nervous before. You tried not to think about it too much as you fell into steps beside him.

/

The restaurant Art took you to was in a nice neighbourhood. The waist-high lattice fence was lined with vines, and the slender tendrils climbed all the way up to the roof. They wound themselves around the wooden slabs, creating a soft, hazy shade to the dining area below it. You chose a table out on the patio, where the cool breezes of the air conditioner made occasional passes. You watched other people in the shared space and noticed how out of place you were with your soiled shirt. Even with a different outfit, you wouldn’t go to this place. There was something about the people, the way they dressed, the way their drinks were served in the pristine, expensive-looking glassware that made you feel like anyone who dined here would notice your disparate. Your stomach started twisting itself into a knot as you read the menu and its price tag. You closed the menu, asking the waiter for a garden salad. Art frowned.

“It’s on me. Get whatever you want.”

You lowered your voice.

“You know, you don’t have to treat me to a fancy meal to get my phone number. An ice cream or tea would be suffice.”

“But I want to.”

You held his eyes and saw the unyielding intention in them. After a moment, you admitted defeat and ordered a mushroom risotto. After the waiter left, it still bothered you.

“I’ll get you back.”

“There’s no need.”

“But I want to.”

“Why does this bother you so much?”

His words touched a nerve. You felt your defensive line starting to gear up.

“I just don’t feel comfortable owing anybody anything.”

“Well, you don’t owe me anything. I just want to treat you to lunch, and spend some time with you. That’s it, I swear.”

You considered the earnestness in his voice, and nodded. Silence stretched between you, strained with the dissipating weight of your own defensiveness. You cleared the air first.

“Do you come here often?”

“No, actually. My parents brought me here when they dropped me off. I haven’t come here since. Until now.”

“Hm. Expensive restaurant and private school. Something tells me that you’re rich.”

“Well, my parents are.”

“And you, too, by association.”

Art scratched the back of his head, seemingly embarrassed.

“Yeah, they like to go all out on things like this. Is that … bad?”

You thought about the move from your hometown to California. All of your things were packed in two suitcases, and not much else besides a big bag for your bedding stuff. All fitted in the trunk of your parent’s car. You sat in the back with your sister, and throughout the trip, your dad complained about having to drive too far, and how the old car probably wouldn’t fare well after they got home. Your mom made her concern known as well, drilling into you about how you would need to find a way home on your own for holidays because they didn’t want to waste the time it’d take to drive back and forth.

You shook your head.

“No, not at all. It seems like they want the best for you.”

He looked away from you and into the distance. You watched as he considered his words, and listened to the slightest touch of sadness in his voice.

“I feel like they do all of these things to make up for the fact that they’re not there for me most of the time.”

You recalled Art mentioning that his parents didn’t come or even ask about his games. Your heart clenched at the thought of how his parent hadn’t been there for him. You had your own baggage, and even though your situations were different, you could understand what he was going through. You reached out to hold his hand on the table. Art looked at you, a touch of understanding and appreciation swirled in his blue eyes. He cleared his throat.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to go into that on a first date.”

You pulled back slightly. A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

“Is this a first date?”

“It can be.”

The cheekiness returned to his eyes. You drew your hand to yourself.

“Nice try, but no. I prefer knowing that I was going on a date before the actual date.”

“Noted.”

The waiter returned with your food. You took the first bite, and savoured the creaminess of it. The conversation steered into something else with Art in the lead.

“So, you said you wanted to be a writer.”

“Uh huh.”

“Are you working on something right now?”

“… Yes, I am.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

You touched the napkin to the corner of your mouth, contemplating whether you should tell him or not. Art waited patiently, and you felt like there was no harm in a little more indulgence today.

“Okay. Besides the piece I’m working on for a competition, I have an idea for a novel.”

“Tell me about it.”

He dropped his fork, giving you his full attention.

“Alright. So, uh, it’s about Eileen, who’s a live-in hospice nurse who has to move back home to look after her dying mother. But their relationship is complicated. Eileen has to grapple with the fact that her mom was abusive towards her, while also take care of her.”

Art nodded slowly, letting the idea process.

“Where did you get the idea?”

“Write what you’re familiar with, right?”

Art gave you a worried look, and you rushed to explain.

“I thought it was an interesting idea. Eileen’s job is to take care of people who are dying, but this is her mother and she’s forced to look after her. Should she forgive her mother because at the end, she is her mother, who gave birth to her, who raised her and gave her a roof over her head? Or is she allowed to feel some kind of resentment towards her mother? I don’t know, I thought it was something worth exploring. Also, my roommate’s sister is a hospice nurse, so I can come to her if I have any question regarding the job.”

He fell quiet, and for a moment, you worried that you shared too much, and now the lunch was ruined.

“When can I expect the book to come out?”

You chuckled nervously.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s really hard to get a book published. I don’t even know if what I have for the idea is enough.”

“But it’s not impossible.”

“It’s not, but it’s hard.”

Art leaned forward, his elbows placed on the table.

“You have a great idea. I know that it will get published."

You huffed wryly.

"I'm serious. When your books are on the shelves of every bookstore everywhere, I'll be there to remind you of this day."

Amused by his willful confidence, you held up your hands in defeat.

“Alright. Give me a few years.”

/

After the meal, the two of you headed in the direction of Stanford, your shoulders almost touching as you walked side by side. When you arrived at the intersection between his dorm and your apartment, you turned to face him.

“Thank you. I had a good time with you today.”

Art sighed, his lips curled into a heart-melting smile.

“You’re welcome. And I did, too.”

For a short time, you were both quiet. Nothing was said, but your gaze on each other was unwavering as if you couldn't take your eyes off of each other. You were the first to break the connection, but Art drew you back to him by your name. He had one hand in his pants pocket, the other rested on the strap of his tennis racket bag.

“Do you draw a heart on every customers’ cup?”

“What if I said yes?”

His gaze burned into you, and you felt like you were rooted to the ground by its intensity.

“It would break my heart.”

The sincerity in his voice swayed you, but you didn't show it.

“No, I don’t do that for anyone. Just for … special people.”

“Special enough to get your number?”

You chewed the inside of your cheek for a fleeting moment, your tone dripped with mischief when you responded.

“Third time's the charm?”

This time, Art didn’t argue.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

2006

The angry and ruthless storm swept over the campus’ ground, painting a murky varnish over the courtyard. You didn’t bring an umbrella. The cafeteria was almost empty with the exception of some other unfortunate souls like yours. Your messenger bag wouldn’t survive in this rain with its metal clasps broken and glued together, its nylon strap peeling off along the edge, and its canvas surface thinning.

You chose a seat by the big bay window overlooking the courtyard. The rain railed on the glass panels, loud and blurred together in a clashing harmony. The perfect background for your wandering thoughts while you stared out the window. You had a shift at the coffee shop on Friday, then the weekend to yourself. The library’s copy of Mrs. Dalloway was due the following Friday, but you didn’t need that much time. You could finish it this weekend. You should return your mom’s missed call and your dad’s message. Probably more of what you didn’t want to hear, but you should respond nonetheless.

Out of the peripheral of your vision, a moving silhouette headed in your direction. You ignored it until they stopped at your table, far enough that you couldn’t touch them if you reached out, but close enough to make your head turn. Your eyes caught onto the white shirt before skipping along the length of the torso before reaching the face. You were taken aback by his appearance, and most of all, his piercing eyes on you.

“Hi. May I sit here?”

He had a half smile that softened the outer corners of his eyes. Blond locks swept all over, framing his face in tousled waves. A sharp jaw that your eyes couldn’t help but trace along. He was cute. There was an easy air about him that almost disarmed the guard you placed when it came to strangers. Almost.

Your eyes quickly flitted around the nearly empty cafeteria involuntarily as if to signal that there were other seats he could take. But you nodded regardless with a thinly veiled hesitance and watched as he took his seat across the table. You wondered what he wanted from you.

“Looks like we’re stuck here for a while.”

You bobbed your head in agreement.

“Yeah. I should’ve brought an umbrella.”

“Me too. It doesn’t rain very often so I thought today would be one of those days, you know? Should’ve listened to the forecast.”

You hummed noncommittally and turned your head towards the window again. He moved a little in his seat as if he was trying to pull at your attention physically.

“I saw you sitting alone from over there, and uh … I thought you might want some company.”

Your eyes squinted at that and watched as he reached over the table.

“My name’s Art. Art Donaldson.”

You shook his hand and told him your name. His name stirred at a memory in the back of your mind.

“I know you. I mean, I’ve heard of you.”

His face lit up ever so slightly at that.

“Yeah?”

You nodded.

“Your name is mentioned pretty often, especially whenever tennis comes up. Some people in my class seem to be fans of yours.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and light.

“What about you? Are you a fan of me?”

You pretended to think about it and shook your head.

“Ouch.”

You held up a hand in defence.

“Hey. I’m just not a sports person.”

“That’s fair. We’re pretty annoying anyway.”

You blurted out before you could stop yourself.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. You could see the way his smile dropped, the way his body went still, and guilt trickled in rapidly until it was a big, sweeping wave.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

“So you were thinking it?”

“Yes, I mean, no, but kinda?"

Art only stared at you. You straightened in your seat.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? It just came out, I honestly don’t mean anything by it. My roommates said that I’m very sarcastic and if you don’t know me you might think I’m very mean but honestly I really don’t mean it I’m so so sorry …”

You trailed off as Art’s smile grew until his body shook with the sound of his chuckle. It was you that stared now. Your heart was pounding, nerves pulled tight across all directions, unsure of where they were heading.

"Uh …"

Your voice wavered, and you cleared your throat. Art waved a hand dismissively.

“Don’t worry about it. No offence taken.”

The joy he seemed to get from your momentary despair cast his face in an endearing light. You found yourself staring at the way his eyes crinkled, the way his lips quirked up, one side higher than the other.

“Still. It was rude of me.”

Art looked at your rueful expression, and you could almost tell the moment his light bulb went on.

“You’ll have to make it up to me.”

“What?”

He leaned forward. He was now halfway over the small table.

“To fix my broken ego. You’ve just destroyed it, after all.”

You fixed your eyes on his and met him in the middle, turning the distance into proximity.

“You know what they say about having a fragile ego?”

"What do they say?"

"Hm, I thought you knew already."

Art held your gaze for a long moment, searching for your tell. You couldn't hold the grin back, and he mirrored you, understanding your sarcastic nature a little more now. You broke away first and stood up, eyes roaming around the cafeteria and eventually landed on the food counter. You turned to look at Art, jerking your chin towards the other side of the room.

“Alright, let’s go. Whatever you want, on me.”

Art chose funnel cake fries with vanilla ice cream. You could feel his eyes on you as you smoothed out the slightly crumbled bills, counted the change and gave it to the woman behind the counter. His gaze made you feel a little insecure. You kept your eyes on the woman as you thanked her.

“Anything on it?”

She held up the paper box. Art turned to you and asked if you wanted anything. You said caramel sauce absent-mindedly as you put your wallet back in your pocket. After a generous drizzle, she passed the box to Art, along with two spoons.

“Wait, it’s your treat. Why did you ask me what I wanted on it?”

He shrugged as if the answer was obvious.

“I thought we could share.”

You returned to the table. The rain had calmed down, reduced to a light shower. It took some convincing from Art as you refused to have some as it was your treat for him, but eventually, you shared the first few bites in silence. You tried not to pay too much attention to his lips every time he licked the spoon when Art broke the voiceless air and asked about your major. English, you said, as your parents dismissed and scorned. Despite their disapproval and incessant attempts to convince you otherwise, you still wanted to be a published author, dreaming of seeing your name on the shelves one day.

“The scholarship helped a lot. If it wasn’t for it, my parents would have forced me to stay home and attend the community college there.”

“I'm guessing you didn't want that?”

“Not at all. And don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with the college back home, but …"

You considered our next words properly. A cold feeling crept up your spine, but you found the words that you'd never had the courage to say out loud before tumbling out.

"I just don’t want to be stuck there, you know? In the same place that I grew up in for years and years on end with my parents, and it's …”

You met Art's eyes to find that he was staring at you. All of a sudden, the cold became unbearable, and you felt so uneasy that you felt an instinctual urge to physically press your lips together to prevent anything else from slipping out. The baggage was too much for someone you met not even an hour ago. You cleared your throat.

“Anyway, what about you? Are you going to be a pro tennis player?”

Art's brows slightly furrowed, and he took a moment before responding. He seemed to sense your discomfort, but he let it go. You felt the weight eased off your stomach, feeling grateful that Art chose not to pursue the topic further.

"Yeah, I hope so."

"Is it something you've always wanted to do?"

He thought about it for a brief moment.

"I … think so. It's something I've known for a long time, and very well."

You nodded, taking another spoonful of ice cream.

"Okay, maybe not as well as my friend Patrick."

"Tell me about him."

The funnel fry stopped just before it reached Art's mouth.

"Why? Are you interested in him?"

“Sure am. I’m the kind of girl that needs more information on a guy before expressing my interest. So tell me."

A small frown formed on his lips. His hand made a slow descent to the table, the fry forgotten. He looked like a kicked puppy, and you felt bad for your harmless joke. You reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze.

"Art. I'm joking."

He took your words in, and an amused smile slowly spread across his lips. With the other unoccupied hand, he rubbed on his ear, which drew your attention to it as it turned into a faint shade of pink. He cleared his throat, and you pulled your hand away.

"Uh– okay! So … Patrick."

You nodded, encouraging him to continue. He told you about the Mark Rebellato Academy, how Patrick was his roommate and became his best friend, how they played tennis together and made …

"Fire and Ice?"

Art nodded.

"Who's who?"

"He's Fire, and I'm Ice."

"So when you're together, what do you make? Warm water?"

"Okay, when you put it like that, it doesn't sound very exciting. But we're good, I promise."

You put the spoon down, decided that you were done with the dessert and let Art finish the rest.

"When can I see you guys play together?"

Art thought about it for a moment.

"I don't think it'll happen soon. He's trying to pro, and he's busy with a tour right now."

"I see."

The rain had ceased to light mist, which made Art's silence became palpable.

"Do you miss him?"

"I– I'm happy for him, I am. He's doing exactly what he has always wanted to do, which is becoming a pro and not having to concern himself with a degree, but …"

"You wish he was here, playing tennis with you. Like how you used to."

Art nodded. You felt the air become heavier, so you switched it up.

"What about your family? They must come to your game to support you?"

Art smiled, but his voice was tinged with a sadness that made you regret even asking.

"My grandma asks me about every game I've ever played. And, uh … my parents enrolled me in Mark Rebellato, but they don't really come to my games. They don't … ask me about them, either."

The silence thickened like honey, but it wasn't confining. A tangible thread of mutual understanding wrapped around you, binding you together across the small table. You couldn't bring yourself to say something, anything, but when your eyes locked, the kindness in his eyes assured you that you didn't have to.

You blinked and allowed the quiet moment to slip through your fingers.

"I have a question for you."

He gestured for you to go ahead.

“Why me?”

“What do you mean?”

You arched a brow.

“You know what I'm talking about. There are other girls in there. Why did you choose me?”

“Just wanted to introduce myself to the prettiest girl here.”

You rolled your eyes at his smirk. He picked up the last funnel fry and popped it into his mouth.

“Do you really use that line on every girl you've met? Has it ever worked?”

“No, not every girl. And, you tell me.”

You shook your head, trying to fend off the inevitable smile that tugged on a corner of your lips.

“It’s not working.”

You said before standing up. Outside, the rain had cleared for the sun to poke through. Taking the empty box and cutlery, you put everything in the trash bin nearby while Art was still sitting.

“I guess I’ll have to get your phone number.”

You returned to the table, where Art looked up at you with that playful look.

"Why?"

"So I can prove myself to you."

“There’s no need. I’m sure I’ll see you again around the campus anyway.”

You picked up your bag, signifying the end of your talk. Art sprung off the seat as if it was on fire.

"But–"

You placed a hand on his shoulder and applied the tiniest bit of pressure.

“This has been enjoyable, really. I’ll see you around, Art.”

You offered him a smile before letting your hand drop. You didn’t look back once when you walked away despite the urge to have a final good look of him. Art gathered his bag, his hand reached inside and grasped the umbrella lying amongst the notebooks, his eyes followed you until you disappeared.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!