#baxter olba

Baxter Alexander Ward believes he's a stable man. He has a stable job, a few acquaintances and colleagues he can count on, a nice, well-furnished apartment in the heart of South California–what more could he ask for?

Well–that’s what he tells himself on most days. But on others, it lingers, gnawing at the edge of his mind, haunting him like an ever-lingering shadow.

In recent days, he’s been waking up to the same dream. Some might call it premonition, however, his pride would never allow him to entertain such a preposterous idea–his parents certainly wouldn’t.

Not like it mattered, he scoffed,  his lips curving into a small smirk at the thought of a younger version of him running to his parents about a nightmare he’d had. They’d bluntly told him to grow up and get over it, outrightly dismissing it. No more no less. Perhaps he should thank his parents for instilling that mindset in him since his younger days, but when the relentless dream continues to claw its way into his normally dream-less dreamscape, he’s willing to bite the bullet and admit–it might be more than just a ‘dream’.

Should it even be called a dream? 

He’d woken up in cold sweat on the first day. The faint hum of the fans in the air-conditioner had alerted him that he was indeed in reality, yet everything from the dream felt all too real. He’d bitten his tongue at the time while pondering over it, before glancing over at the clock once again to ensure he was actually awake. 

5:30 A.M.

Baxter Ward has never been wrenched from his sleep by something so trivial like a mere dream at such an ungodly timing.

This ‘dream’ had brought him back to a moment 5 years ago–one he swore he’d forget. One he tried everything in his power to erase.

Spoiler alert: he didn’t. 

He hadn’t forgotten. Not a single bit of it. 

It was as if he was stuck in a loop, his mind constantly replaying the scene over and over and over again in his head, like a broken recorder.

5 years had passed, and not a single detail of the memory had deteriorated. Clear as day, he could still see it in his eyes. 

The haunting look of pain, the trembling lip as the person’s teeth bit down on it so hard he had once felt the urge to ask if it hurt–until he realised he had caused it.

The endless pools of light in their eyes everytime they talked to him, whether it be about their day, or someone close to them, or that attentive glimmer as they rapt on every word he talked about, clinging to every detail as if it had mattered. He had unwittingly opened himself up too much, before he knew it, they were tearing down his walls. Those iron-clad walls that seemed impenetrable from miles away, but once knocked on, came crumbling down like a wooden-straw house. 

They had that effect on him. 

Baxter wasn’t sure what it was–still isn’t– but something about them had been so mesmerizing. It enraptured him, and ensnared him in their web without them even knowing. From their little mannerisms, to their body language, to their micro-expressions, he’d gotten to know them so well in such a short amount of time.

That was his first mistake. Getting too close and letting them in.

And he’d never blame them for it. It was his own weakness that allowed him to be ensnared. A buried longing that he thought he’d locked away in the recesses of his heart for a long while, and until that person showed up in his life, he thought he was doing a good job at it–fantastic, even.

Until they unraveled him.

Before he knew it, he was falling. Hard. Fast. faster than any hurricane could have swept him off his feet.

And before he knew it again, he had lost them. Like every other relationship in his life, he had failed to securely grasp onto them.

It was too late now.

The dream had been a startling reminder of that. That he’d never get them back now. 

But a part of him hopes.

And hopes.

That somewhere on earth, he’d get to see them one last time.

And he’d get that one last chance.

But he knows he won’t.

And he’s not okay with that.

===

Baxter Ward strolls into the building, a paper cup of black coffee in hand. He keeps his posture straight and his smile polite as he walks up to the receptionist. Upon hearing his footsteps, the receptionist glances up, her glasses tilting askew at the speed she had glanced up. She passes him a small smile and greets him with a twinkle in her eye.

“Good morning, Mr. Ward!” She greets him sweetly, clicking her pen off to pause whatever she had been furiously scribbling.

“Ah, what a fine morning to you, too, Ms. Chloe,” he returns her greeting, his smile nothing less than the very picture of a composed gentleman. He catches the faintest red tint on her cheeks for a few seconds, before she yelps quietly to herself, jumping in her seat.

“Everything alright?” He inquires, leaning over the desk just in time to see her vanish beneath it. A muffled sound from under the desk and the ruffling of papers tell him she’s only busy being attacked by the endless stack of documents threatening to consume her workspace. She resurfaces shortly after, a stack of papers in her hand–miraculously uncrumpled and still in pristine condition. Chloe places the stack of papers down on the table, gently gesturing to it.

“We have a list of important clients!” She explains, removing the paper clip binding the small stacks together as she swiftly shuffles through them. “I know you’ve just finished a pretty big wedding for your client, but these–” she cuts herself off, hesitating as she tugs on the collar of her blouse. 

“They’re paying a little more than the usual package considering their tighter deadlines…” She glances to the side sheepishly, almost embarrassed to admit the last part of her sentence aloud.

Baxter tilts his head to the side inquisitively, and before he has any chance to speak, she interjects hurriedly. “W-well, you don’t have to if you don’t want to! I can speak to other consultants, or refer these clients to one of our neighbouring firms, s-”

“It’s perfectly alright, I’ll take a look at it and get back to you with one that I’ve selected,” Baxter cuts in gently, plucking the papers from her hands. With the polite smile still on his face, he reassures her it’s no trouble, and he sees her shoulders sag with what looked like relief. She sends him off with a weak smile as he bids her goodbye and heads towards the elevator leading up to his office.

As soon as he enters his office, he takes a seat at his desk, internally groaning at his silly, on-the-spur of the moment decisions. Most wedding deadlines were tight enough already, and the way that Chloe had brought up the list meant that these clients were somehow expecting a full-blown wedding to be prepared in an even shorter time? He scoffs at himself, or rather, the absurdity of the requests. As much as possible, he’d always tried to pre-prepare everything in advance, he despised rushed, last-minute planning.

He heaves another sigh to himself, feeling a migraine already forming in his temples. He glances at the papers, skimming through the time he had to prepare before the wedding. Majority of the clients’ requests were still.. Somewhat reasonable, considering how they ranged from 2 weeks to a month. However, a specific request catches his eyes, and his eyeballs almost pop out of his head comically.

4 days??

He slaps a palm to his forehead. Now that was an interesting and almost idiotic way to ask a wedding planner for help. Most wedding planners wouldn’t even begin to consider such a tight request. 

But fortunately for this couple, (and unfortunately for him) he wasn’t ‘most wedding planners’. 

Even he normally wouldn’t take up a request of this caliber in such a short amount of time, but something was nagging at him to do it.

He makes up his mind, internally deciding to help the couple. Plus, the sum of money they were giving wasn’t small either, however monetary gains were on the lower end of his priorities.

With a resigned sigh, he picks up the phone off his desk, ringing into the lobby. If he was going to decide on this now, he’d rather confirm it before his mind had the chance to even question him. In less than three rings, the line was picked up.

“Hello, Chloe, you can book me in with one of the couples.” A relieved sigh crackles on the other end of the speaker.

“Great! Which one have you chosen?” 

“Client fifty-fi…” he trails off, his words getting caught in his throat as he sees the black inked words printed on the paper under the row of client 55.

“...Hello? Mr Ward? Is the line on?” Chloe asks, confusion evident in her voice as Baxter trailed off. Silence filled the space and seemed to drag on for eternity for Baxter. He barely registers her voice as he’s absorbed into the letters on the paper. His mind turns.

And turns.

And spins.

And–

“...Mr Ward?”

He snaps out of the trance. Realising where he is and he’s still on the phone with Chloe, he pointedly clears his throat, forcing the last of his words to spill out before he loses his voice once more.

“Yes, Chloe, I’ll take client 55. Please let them know I’ll meet them for dinner at the usual spot.” With that, he barely registers her confirmation before abruptly ending the phone call.

Panic. 

He sucks in a sharp breath.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Too fast. Too shallow.

And– he’s gasping for air before he realises he is. 

Underneath him, the paper crumples with a crunching sound under the weight of his hand. He scrunches the paper, feeling the edges of the crisp sheet cutting into his palm, attempting to ground himself in the sharp sensation. Yet, he doesn’t focus on the uncomfortable, sharp texture of the paper in his hand.

He can’t.

He’s aware that his jaw clenched and his tongue feels like sandpaper. He wants to scream, but there’s something stuck in his throat. Something holding him back. He’s trying to swallow, but it hurts.

It hurts so much.

Or was that his heart? Pounding. Slamming. Hammering. Relentless against his ribcage.

He makes an attempt to get up from his chair–but fails miserably as his knees abruptly gave way and hits his carpeted floor with a loud thud. There’s a sting in his palm, a sore throb in his knees, but the ringing in his ears drown everything out.

He hears everything and nothing all at the same time. He’s made hyper aware of each shaky and unsteady breath he tries to take, trying to gulp in every bit of oxygen there is, while he’s struggling to breathe out. He’s aware of the running air-conditioner in his office. He’s aware how the rest of the papers in the pile have been strewn across his usually organised desk and how half of them should be scattered across the floor around him.

Through his haze, he fumbles for something–anything, to cling on. If they were here, they would be–

No, stop thinking about them. His hand goes to his chest and he subconsciously grips the front of his clothes, uncaring if he rumples his usually prim-and-proper attire.

They’re gone. 

There would be no one to comfort him of that fact. 

A cold-hard fact, that’s what it is. It’s like a bucket of ice-cold water has been doused on him, somewhat snapping him back to reality. The stark realisation that everything has changed, and will never go back, slowly starts to seep into his psyche.

Into his veins, into his blood vessels, into his arteries, into his heart, into his mind.

And he doesn’t know why he feels this–no, he does. 

And he regrets it. 

He hates it.

He regrets. Every bit of his past self, the self he hates, the self he still continues to despise even after all these years of him telling himself it was all ‘just a phase’. His old shadow had never left him, it had only lurked, taking a backseat in his mind. It never did. It was only waiting for the opportune moment to show itself again.

He hates himself.

Every staggering breath he manages feels like he’s swallowing up fire and smoke. Bile rises up the back of his throat and he feels like retching, but he knows if he does, nothing will come up. 

The ringing starts to fade ever-so-slightly. But the nagging thought in the back of his mind doesn’t shut up. 

He wants to die. He wants to die. He wants to die. 

Oxygen is depleting. 

Fast. 

He can't breathe.

He can't scream.

The chill makes its way down to his arms and legs. It encases his motor neurons from moving his arms and limbs. Trapped in a thick layer of unbreakable ice, his blood runs cold and he loses all feeling in his body.

He can't move.

He doesn't. 

He won’t.

~

When Baxter comes to, his vision is still blurred. He’s sprawled on the ground, papers scattered around him in a heap all over the floor. Disoriented, he blindly reaches for his phone, trying to blink away the grogginess out of his eyes.

He feels like shit. He feels like he’s been run over by a truck, was sent flying through the air into a garbage landfill, and had been fished out of it by a garbage tow truck.

He ignores the metallic taste in his mouth as he crawls on the floor towards his phone–somehow on the other side of the room, he doesn’t know how–and he’s faintly aware of the stiffness of the dried tear tracks on his face as he moves, a stark reminder of what just happened.

He looks like shit. 

He knew if anyone saw him like that, he’d die of embarrassment and would rather crawl into the seventh layer of hell than let anyone ever catch him in such a pathetic and humiliating state.

Except for them. 

A laugh escapes him–dry, broken, lifeless, hollow. Lacking substance and all vital signs of life. 

He feels like a shell of what he once was.

But life has to move on, right? 

That’s what he’s been telling himself for five years.

So he shoves it all down, every last splinter of himself. Picks up his phone. Gathers the broken pieces of himself off the floor, not caring if they bled into his hands, not bothering to stop to repair them.

And heads out of the door.

~

[Your POV] 

“Cove! I’m so sorry I’m late!” You huff, skidding to a stop after a full blown sprint from one end of the parking lot to the other. You placed your weight on your knees, gasping for air as your eyes locked onto the pavement, trying to regain your bearings. 

A sigh from above you. Soft and amused. This causes you to look up, only for you to be met with a set of familiar, bright, aquamarine eyes. The sigh was nothing short of affection, even if you had kept him waiting out here for a few extra minutes compared to your agreed meet-up time.

He grins at you, ruffling your hair gently as he patiently waits for you to collect your breath.

“Have you been waiting long?” You wince as you check the phone. “Sorry for being 10 minutes late… I kept you and the wedding planner waiting.”

“Oh, it’s fine!” Cove reassures, though his expression changes to one of sheepishness as he scratches the back of his head, “But I’m not sure how our wedding planner would feel about that…”

You cringe. “Hopefully, he’s fine with it.” You weren’t one to be late, but the trip to the restaurant had been slightly delayed due to you sleeping in for a bit longer than you should have been–jetlag was the enemy of many, afterall. 

Then it hits you–“Hey! You left the wedding planner there all by themselves?” You teasingly punched Cove in the arm.

“Ow,” he yelps, pretending to be hurt as he rubs the ‘sore’ spot.

“W-well, he won’t mind!” Cove mumbles under his breath as the two of you walk into the restaurant after your mini banter. 

Inside, Cove signals to the host who nods in recognition before leading you to the seating area. The spot that Cove and the wedding planner had chosen was one towards the back of the restaurant–one with a glorious view of the sun setting over the ocean and a fair amount of privacy.

At the table, a young man is already seated; his legs crossed primly, with his chin resting ever so delicately against a hand.

Swept hair and a tailored suit–every detail immaculately refined. In the reddish light of evening, his brown eyes shone like rich pools of dark honey. A living portrait of class. You were almost intimidated by him.

That was the wedding planner.

As you neared the table, the planner seemed to sense your presence and glanced up at you. You swear his chestnut eyes seem to falter as he gazes at you for a split second too long–but the moment was gone so fast you weren’t sure if you had hallucinated it. He moves to shake your hand, his chair dragging silently against the floor as every movement he made exuded one of grace.

You stuck your hand out, a jovial smile on your face as you introduced yourself.

He shook your hand, his grip was firm, yet… tender? At the same time. You weren’t sure if you were imagining it again, but you swore his touch felt so familiar. The quick shock between your hands as they met sent a thrill through your body, almost as if it was reacting on instinct.

Had you… met this man somewhere before?

All thoughts of that were thrown for a loop as he introduced himself.

“Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m Alexander.” He gives off a polite smile, however, when you meet his eyes during your handshake, it feels like you’re staring into an abyss.

And the abyss gazed back.

An abyss… filled with memories. The look was so warm, so comforting, so familiar.

Yet, you didn’t know of anyone with the first name ‘Alexander’.

Before you could open your mouth to vocalise your inquiry, the man answered it for you.

“I believe this is the first time we’re all meeting–” He paused abruptly, surveying you and Cove, who were still standing up. “Ah, my apologies, please take a seat,” he gestures to the two chairs in front of him.

The two of you sat down, fingers still laced together. There’s a sparkle that doesn’t exactly meet Mr Alexander’s eyes, and if you looked away for a second, you would see his smile falter out of the corner of your eyes, but you didn’t think much of it.

“Congratulations on your wedding.” Resigning yourself to ignoring why this man felt so familiar, you decided to shift your thoughts to other things.

What you never caught on was–

The way his eyes had flicked over to your joint hands.

The way his jaw had tightened with each lie he spewed about congratulating the two of you.

The way his other hand had been clenched in his pocket, nails digging into his palm, hard enough to draw blood.

The longing gaze in his eyes as he stared for too long at how you conversed with Cove.

You never caught onto any of it.

Nor the faint birthmark on his neck, covered by a few layers of foundation, yet still visible if you paid enough attention.

You didn’t, though.

And he was fine with it.

He would be fine with it.

He had to be fine with it.

After all, it was too late.

You weren’t the person he had chosen–and yet none of it could be attributed to your fault. It never was. It never has been. It had always been him and his self-loathing.

5 years ago, he wanted something, yet he let go of it.

And now, he’s lost it forever.

“Really, congratulations on your wedding.” His brain moves on autopilot in his most professional mannerism possible.

“Thank you!” And your smile was so wide, he couldn’t dare to even attempt to blame you or Cove for it.

It was his mistake.

His loss.

And as he moves out of his chair, with the meeting all wrapped up, he casts one last glance back at you–to see you sharing a short, yet loving kiss with the other man that could have been him…

And his heart shatters.

He doesn’t look back.