"A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it."
Roald Dahl.
Streaks of apricot-orange cascade upon our little town and the silhouettes, which creep into the corners of the vast street, seem to blur as my eyes are fixated on you. Every flicker of hope or flinch of pain, becomes evident to me and I have no choice but to watch as my anxiety proceeds to arise. I witness as you sigh, filling your lungs with oxygen before gradually exhaling, your chest amplifying and decreasing in size whilst you do so.
Emerald-green eyes, almost like pathways of illumination. Pathways of light that emit and expose me to the newest of predicaments, the most complicated of situations. And yet, I remain by his side, wanting to gather knowledge about the anger behind his past or the meaning behind his name or the explanation regarding his persona. His truth, his lies, his bad days or good days.
I want to ask about the tunes you whistle on the way home as the royal-blue sky stretches above you, the songs you hum to as you make an attempt to recollect the scattered thoughts. The thoughts you contemplate over as rose-pink petals drift with the wind and the lime-green mockingbird glides with such ease. I want to know what goes on within the hallways of your mind, I want to know if the colours you see are bleak or vibrant. If you associate certain colours with memories.
For instance, I wonder if midnight-purple possibly represents what you make an effort to hide, or if the muted-red connotes your past frustration.
"I don't love you," I think as the breeze ruffles your hair. "That is the reality; I don't love you and frankly, maybe I don't even like you."
Fumbling with my hands, I search for the correct way to start the conversation, which was so frequently avoided. 'Sorry' would be too cliche, although it was needed, considering this immense misunderstanding. Giving it to him and bolting would seem so...so idiotic. I'm not some type of submissive, flustered girl, despite the circumstances where I do tend to act quite immature.
"When my.....my.....infatuation for you ends, I will stop loving you. Not that I ever have, of course. Because that's what love is; a chemical, the human-made concept that conjures physical reactions. I don't love you, and you don't love me because....because none of this is real. You're fake, I'm fake, therefore none of this is genuine, is it? None of this is actually authentic, right?"
The way you look at me, do you look at her that way?
When you see her, do you feel like your skin has been blessed with the sun's golden rays? Do you feel like you're swimming in an aqua-blue ocean or maybe it's like an ultra-pink explosion? Do you feel like running across a mint-green field with her? Do you feel like your fate is sealed with her?
Is she the song and you the phrase? Are you the weeks and she the days? Is she the unattainable and you're just praying she stays? Or is she complicated, like me, similar to a maze?
Does you heart skip beats for her? Does your soul feel complete with her? Do you want to hold her hand and walk down the street with her?
Do you feel at peace like a pearl-white feather?
Do you ever think you'll be able to forget the name Heather?
"Oh my f*cking goodness!" My inner voice screams. "Stop being so f*cking dramatic! Hand the gift over, what's the worst Wyatt could possibly say? Come on!"
"But.."
"Just do it !"
"Alright!"
Clearing my throat, I begin.
"Wyatt, as you already know, I have something I intend to give you," I state.
Taking off my bag, I rummage through it, pulse accelerating when I feel his attentive gaze on me. Keeping my composure, I pull out the chocolates and the card, presenting it to him with as much self-assurance as I can muster.
"Look, I... I haven't really been that confident lately. Truth is, I was just nervous about wanting to give you this. I know it's not much, however, I just want you to know..."
Gulping back the bile lingering at the back of my throat, I practically shout with such rapidness, the words are almost unclear:
"I just want to say that if it isn't to audacious of me, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me and I'd really appreciate it if you'd accept this gift because I worked really hard on it!"
Staring at me blankly, Wyatt gently takes the gift, inspecting it with awe and amusement plastered across his face. Rubbing the back of my neck with my hand, I can't help but feel uncomfortable.
"Well it took you long enough," is all he says with an eye roll.
"What?!" I stammer.
"I said 'well, it took you long enough.' Seriously Val, I was starting to really consider whether or not I should beg for my gift," He laughs, shaking his head.
"What??!!" I repeat even louder. "You knew I was planning on giving you something?"
"Yeah," the perfect boy admits with a smug grin on his face. "The tension was killing me! That's why I was so angry! I thought you already knew."
"No..." I mumble.
"Oh."
There's a pause as the sun finally rests and darkness seeps in.
"You know," he says, "there's another reason as to why I was mad."
"There is?" I quiz.
Nodding, he looks away.
"Then what's the other reason?" I question, curiosity getting the best of me.
"Umm... the other r-reason is quite s-simple," he stutters.
"Uh huh," I sarcastically remark, folding my arms across my chest.
Hastily, Wyatt makes eye contact with me, annoyance clearly present within his facial features.
"You have no right to judge me after you took a decade giving me my Valentines' gift!" He accuses.
"Fair point," I sigh.
"As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted," Wyatt continues, "the other reason why I was angry at you for not giving me a gift is..."
He glances at me, a slight blush on his cheeks and a sheepish smile.
"Okay, so I know this is going to sound quite petty but the reason why I was mad was because the whole day whilst I was receiving gifts from other girls, I was secretly hoping I would receive one from you," he babbles, a tiny, agitated giggle at the end.
"You what?" I ask in disbelief.
"I don't why, I don't what caused that desire but I wanted a gift from you and then I saw your encounter with Red and I thought: 'Sh!t, she must really like him. Sh!t, she must've forgotten about me; I'm not that important."
I offer him a weak smile before cupping his face with my hands.
"I...I will never forget about you," I declare. "You know that."
"No I don't," he says.
"What do you mean?" I chuckle.
"I need you to say it again," he pleads.
Sighing, I reiterate what I said and quickly kiss him on the cheek.
"See yo tomorrow," I smile, walking away.
And then I think:
"Smiling... that's something I never did before I met you."
Hmmm...
Maybe I do like him.
Just a bit...