I.
She looked up at him from where she knelt, clutching his black t-shirt where it draped over her knees. She asked him again. As he turned away from her, she asked him again. She knew the answer, but asked anyway. “Please,” she pushed through clenched teeth, “stay.” He left with no words. No spare glances. No caresses. Nothing. The door closes. His footsteps echo down the hall. Steady. Then nothing. He chose the words, the words she could not give him. With every step he took from her, her heart took another knife, till not a drop of blood was left. She was cold. Bare. He was gone. Bringing her fists to her nose, she buried her face into that black t-shirt. She lost herself in the only piece of him she had left, the only thing holding together the tiny semblance of sanity she had in her. His scent assaulted her, and just like that she was back at the beginning…
II.
She sat on the hood of her car, reaching for a breath, as she witnessed the sun sink into oblivion beyond the sea. Barefoot, she walked along the road, tracing the coast line with the tips of her fingers, when she saw him. He sat perched on his car hood, hunched over a notebook. His strokes were tense…angry. Pause. One slash. Two slash. Three. He let out a growl of frustration, before launching his notebook in her direction, never lifting his eyes from the pen in his hands. His face was hidden by a mop of hair, hair that had seen better days, but even then, she had never seen a creature more beautiful. She picked up his book. Her eyes followed the slanted strokes, his words squeezing her heart in a way that was foreign in the most wonderful of ways. Before she knew it, she was walking to him. His hunched over form still not budging. “You know, usually the work inspired by pure emotion is the best. Don’t reject what you feel. It’s the first step in killing yourself.” She didn't know where the words came from, but she meant them all the same. She held out the notebook. He turned, and she locked into his eyes. In that moment, she was convinced that he was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen.
III.
He took the notebook without speaking, their eyes never un-linking. They had found themselves in a moment with each other that was earth shattering, and as their worlds turned on their axis and crossed together, they shared a breath. He broke contact first, looking down at his book, at the same words he had thrown away. His eyes widened in awe. It was as if he was seeing the words for the first time, and she smiled. “Don’t **** yourself.” She turned to go, when he finally spoke. “I have so much to say, but I can’t find any words worthy. I've been searching for the words. I don’t know when or where I’ll find them, but I’m getting closer. I can feel it.” After that, the words flowed between them like water. He told her about the two suitcases he kept in his trunk, and how they were his only companions on his journey. He told her how she made him question that very rule. He told her of all the countries he had scoured, all the people he had met and almost forgotten, all the women. She told him how at late at night she spirals into blur of a color that takes shape on her canvas, how she found piece after piece of herself every time she washed the paint from her skin, and how she is still searching for the last piece. They were both lost and waiting to be found.
IV.
“What is your name?” he breathed. They lay on his hood, on their sides, their faces mere breathes away. Hours had passed. The sun was making its escape from oblivion. It was almost funny. They had shared every secret, insecurity, and every inch of their past lives before they found themselves in this moment, but knew nothing of each other’s names. She didn't want to bring who they really were into this yet. She didn't answer. Instead, she molded her mouth with his, and breathed him in. By time, they took a breath; she was in his arms and desperately wanted to stay there. His eyes seared into hers. She wasn't about to break this moment. She took a deep breathe, tasting him on her tongue. “It happens a lot, you know? One minute, your 18 years old, and on the cusp of life. You are planning for someday, but before you can even blink someday is here. The next breathe, it’s passed, and you’re left to sort out what your life has become. Right now, it’s us, you and me. That’s all it needs to be for now. Save those questions for later, when we are of two shells of self again.” He didn't respond. He closed his eyes, leaned his forehead into hers, and all was silent.
V.
The two weeks following their meeting at the coast was heaven in Egyptian cotton, a whirlwind of lazy chatter, laughter, and rapture. She loved making love to him. A cornucopia of contradictions she’d hold in her mind for as long as she’d live. One night ******* like strangers with blurred minds and non-existent inhibitions, and the next lingering in each other’s embraces and mouths as if they’d never taste anything like this again. Some nights spent in silence. Everything needed to be said, said through their eyes. Other nights he held her, and whispered words he had written just for her. It was in those moments, she believed that their moment was infinite, that they were infinite. She realized that you can’t put a time limit on love. She had found that last piece.
“My name is…”
Names and real selves were no longer a threat. She believed that. She believed with every core of every bone in her body.
VI.
“I will have to walk away soon.” His voice was soft, but determined. She heard him, but she did not listen, because somewhere between the late night confessions and the early morning embraces, she had convinced herself that what they shared could not be walked away from. She believed that she had what he had been searching for, just as she had found what she had been looking for in him.
VII.
Staring at the door from her place on the floor, she grieved. Her last piece was gone. He had left her, not to hurt her, but to fulfill himself. She should have been that missing piece. Why couldn't he need her like she needed him? She didn't know how she got up from the floor. She ended up in front of her canvas, losing herself in the blur of colors, desperate for the last piece of herself. She had to find it. It had to be there somewhere. It had to be…
A month after writing this...
