#helloitsai

Heard through an open window, a bell chimes along with the sound of waves hitting the shore. Faint notes echo throughout the small space of the music room, filling my once bland expression with euphoria in its singularity. With a small smile plastered on my face, I take a look around the corners of the music-filled room that had only you and I.

Despite the sea outside of this rented vacation home, my only focus is on the scenery of you sitting against the white piano bench with your long hands hitting the monochromatic keys. Striking a crescendo, my ears perk up to its sound. Blissful, yet melancholic chords surround me.

I listen intently to you.

I focus my vision only on you.

The way your eyes hold a certain sadness and the way your shoulders hunch while playing the piano keys has me contemplating. I still wonder – wonder what your story is.

Then your voice, husky and deep, interrupts my train of thoughts. You sing, an evident vibrato in your tone, and then you hum after every line – lyric after lyric, you paint my mind a scenery of what your story is. A story of a sea that fills out the desert; a story in which you completely fill me in with serendipity and feed me with the beautiful idea that is you. Taking out my Polaroid camera, I capture this moment with you as you sing your last lyric.

Accompanied with the last set of chords fading into a crescendo, you sing my epiphany.

How can I, a bland desert, stand against the roaring sea that is you?

“I want to make you mine” the words I have in mind leave your sweet lips - only, you aren’t talking about me.

🐻🐻🐻🐻🐻🐻🐻

This was highly inspire by Taehyung's Scenery. I didn’t want to mention his name though since this was a homework for our Creative Writing class and I’m a new student at my current school so I didn't want to show much of my interests in school lol. Go listen to Tae's song!! 💜

twitter: @helloitsai

Merry Christmas, love.

Or at least it was when I started writing this letter.

Days have passed — in fact months, and hopefully you're reading this by the end of the following year; and I'm writing this letter for you, myself, like how I usually do every year. I feel that may sentence may run too long. But you're probably aware of my writing habits.

Anyway, I've been physically writing letters in my journals with my crappy handwriting, the first being in 2017, but frankly, I don't have the mental and physical capacity to do so (aka I'm too lazy). This being our first ever blog again after 7 years of blogging (yes, I made a blog back then when I was in fifth grade), I think it's appropriate to post this here.

The stick of tabacco wrapped in papers rests in between your sweet lips, lightly brushing against the metal ring on your lower lip. You inhale deeply and puff out a smoke of shades of white and grey, looking at me.

How goddamn destructive must you be?

You exhale a hot breath of smoke and ashes — in response, I take it in. It's bad for my health but what can I do?

Living in the same room with you means having to constantly buy you packs of cigarettes. It means having to share the same horrid smoky-stenched air with you.

But you know what else it means?

It means having your fingers wrap around the rolled up paper, forcing the tip of it against a metal tray — putting out the small fire and filling the said-metal with its remains. It means having you throw it away and have your large hands wrap around my face. It means having your lips in between mine, faintly tasting a mix of tobacco and metal. It means having to taste ashes instead of strawberry lip balm that I know isn't mine.

You're bad for my health but what can I do when you're healthy for my doubts?

🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓

based the title off of troye sivan's strawberries and cigarettes! please go listen to the song, it's gr8

Anyways! This was a challenge from a friend and was based off of this writing prompt from @daily-prompts:

Hope this was good enough (?) I'd love to make more short stories like this so if you have any prompts you'd like me to do, feel free to send!

twitter: @helloitsai

Maybe you're too desperate. This is the SECOND time you're going to prove yourself to me how low you think of yourself is. A little too desperate you are and that's disappointing me. This isn't even what you really want yet you'd go and chase it because you feel like you won't find any better choices. Really? Goddammit, you're amazing and you don't even know how much you're blinding yourself to that truth by relying your worth to other people. Knowing you, that's what you're doing right now. You're scared and I assure you that you shouldn't be.

I know I'm pretty.

I know I'm smart.

I know I'm worth something.

But I can't feel it, so what are thoughts if it can't resonate just enough to know it'll leave a lasting mark?

My knowledge is empty.

They're just words — just a hypothesis until further studied.

Just fucking words.

They don't mean shit.

I've never been the type to like the same person twice. For you, however, I'd consider it. . . and again, another name, I would. I didn't know how it happened. It was quick, as if a runner snapping off the ribbons when the buzzer had just rang. It started off with a banter — not even a name. My shoes untied? Haha, classic. Calling out my name when a funny-looking person walks by? Okay, rude. I have to admit, a part of me liked it — loved it. It was as if deliberately you were giving a space just for us two.

However, it was like a bus coming onto oncoming traffic. I had to wait. Slow. . . at a stop. . . then a sudden go — a few days, you were gone and then suddenly you showed up again. This time, though, you came with a name. It was a sudden mark that had just showed up the moment I saw your irritating face.

"There" — that's what I called you.

Because sure as hell. . . you were. . . there.

A part of me hated I liked it. Hell, even loved it. Were you deliberately passing me by? Were you really so hell bent on playing shadow that you wouldn't even leave my side? Was it really necessary you'd repeat the same joke twice? THRICE, even?

I know for a fact it doesn't mean shit. . . at least to you, it didn't. To me, however, it was the thing that would stuck out with the two 4-hours that had passed by; and when that had been my sense of normalcy for the past goddamn two weeks of second-guessing the wholeness of myself. . . hell, no wonder it meant something to me when no one could change my mind. I didn't even know your last name, nor your past. But it only reminded me of things that didn't matter and what was at hand.

I'd felt alone, if I were to be honest — and that sure as hell wasn't changing. I was left with loud thoughts for silent hours, screaming for a sense of peace. But your laugh? Your goddamn laugh! You snapped me right back to the present and gave me just an inch of normalcy I had not felt in the past goddamn two weeks thinking I was no person that deserved to be known.

But you asked me for my name, and how I was, and what my plans for the future were . . . all to hell, they were shallow conversations as fuck; but for me, it was a first in a while that someone wanted to know me more than a name.

A name. . .

"Wait" — I decided to call you.

Because sure as hell, I wasn't ready for what was to come.

It started off with a banter. . . now, why the hell is your hand on mine? "What is it?" you asked. I replied that it was warm. Again you asked, a hand pressed firmly on mine as I replied with a heat more intense than the other. "Lead me" you said, with a trust reciprocal we didn't even need to know what the others' name was.

"Wait there" — I'd call, over and over again.

I wasn't ready. Dear God, I was not ready. In the near two 4-hours that'll pass by, I was already anticipating you and what was about to. I could only laugh.

For the goddamn past two weeks I've been so stuck in the past, that how the hell did a nameless face just reminded me there was more beyond that?

But I'm not ready. I'm sorry. I know a cliche. . . classic, haha. Rude, even. You should know, I've never been the type to like the same person twice. But. . .

Wait there, I might still change my mind.

Love is butterflies, a fluttering feeling in the stomach I can’t get rid of, consuming me 24/7 with it’s late-night texts and good morning’s. The kind leaving me in cloud nine with “attention” stuck on mind as I walk the not-so lonely pavements of this godforsaken highway. Love is dressed in black – sleek and clean, a little bit of chest peeking through, the kind I’d fantasize laying my achened head on. 

Love would talk on the other end of the phone, asking me about my day and when we could meet again. And when we did, Love would meet me in the platforms of the trains on the wrong station, and despite it not ever going the way I want it to be — it was right. Even in the late hours of anxiety and doubt, Love reassured me in the now than the past. Despite it not ever going the way I want it to be — it was right.

Though, love wasn’t mine. It never was even when it wanted to be. 

In my eternal rest,

You have all the permission to let it be about yourselves.

Just as it has always been.