Under one year ago...
The young woman faced her window, hugging her knees to her chest, the young man at the opposite edge of her bed. From outside came a summer wind, giving her curtains an appearance of inhaling and exhaling. She closed her eyes, her soft, slender profile evident in the slant of a streetlight reflecting into her room. Her neighborhood was quiet, excepting the wind's lazing breath. The young man broke the near-silence gently, hesitantly.
"I'll miss you," he murmured, stating the most obvious thought among the many unraveling in his mind. Thoughts that pleaded, "I need you, to stay, don't leave, not now, or stay closer, what of all that we spoke about before? What about then, what about now, what about later, isn't it possible there could be more? More than even this?"
"It won't be long. I'll call," she replied.
"Will you? I trust you, I really do, but it would be so easy, Amira. So easy to just stop. How do I know you won't just stop calling, or writing, emailing, whatever way we've meagerly communicated these past months?"
"Okay."
She slowly uncurled her shielding arms from around her, shifting toward the center of the narrow queen bed, and slid her hand toward his. The wind exhaled, a cool gust, the curtains opening wide, bathing the two in goldenrod light. He saw her eyes, clear, a promise within them.
"I don't want to lose you. Can you at least tell me whether there's a chance for this to go on? I don't understand, I have never been this close to any human being, not once, not until now. Please. I know I'm rather pathetic, and if you heard me plead and beg like this, you would shudder away, you would look at the walls, and then you would run, but please. Just give me this one assurance."
"It's college, Damir. It's school. I won't be too far away, just a few hours. I'll come down when I can," she said, beside him now, her voice confident, just above a whisper. She waved away the curtains, before they could obscure their faces. He rarely had the chance to see her so close, the slight, gentle curve of her chin. And he saw her eyes as much as he could. They were beautiful, even when seeing what was no longer there.
"Okay."
He deliberated a moment, before speaking again.
"I should have a better graduation gift for you by then."
Her lips opened with a smile, then offered her gift of laughter. He wanted to hear that, all of his life. He wanted to wake to that sound.
"You'd better," she replied, smirking as she brought her face to his. He felt her breathe as he did, a moment, before his lips touched hers, closing his eyes as her hair brushed his, bringing his hand to rest on her cheek.
"I love you, Amira. We don't ever say that, and I know why we don't, and I'm alright with that. But I want you to know. I won't ever say those words because of what we both fear, of the knowledge of grief forced to us through the price of pain."
((*concept of last line conceived by another writer and blogger.))
The young woman faced her window, hugging her knees to her chest, the young man at the opposite edge of her bed. From outside came a summer wind, giving her curtains an appearance of inhaling and exhaling. She closed her eyes, her soft, slender profile evident in the slant of a streetlight reflecting into her room. Her neighborhood was quiet, excepting the wind's lazing breath. The young man broke the near-silence gently, hesitantly.
"I'll miss you," he murmured, stating the most obvious thought among the many unraveling in his mind. Thoughts that pleaded, "I need you, to stay, don't leave, not now, or stay closer, what of all that we spoke about before? What about then, what about now, what about later, isn't it possible there could be more? More than even this?"
"It won't be long. I'll call," she replied.
"Will you? I trust you, I really do, but it would be so easy, Amira. So easy to just stop. How do I know you won't just stop calling, or writing, emailing, whatever way we've meagerly communicated these past months?"
"Okay."
She slowly uncurled her shielding arms from around her, shifting toward the center of the narrow queen bed, and slid her hand toward his. The wind exhaled, a cool gust, the curtains opening wide, bathing the two in goldenrod light. He saw her eyes, clear, a promise within them.
"I don't want to lose you. Can you at least tell me whether there's a chance for this to go on? I don't understand, I have never been this close to any human being, not once, not until now. Please. I know I'm rather pathetic, and if you heard me plead and beg like this, you would shudder away, you would look at the walls, and then you would run, but please. Just give me this one assurance."
"It's college, Damir. It's school. I won't be too far away, just a few hours. I'll come down when I can," she said, beside him now, her voice confident, just above a whisper. She waved away the curtains, before they could obscure their faces. He rarely had the chance to see her so close, the slight, gentle curve of her chin. And he saw her eyes as much as he could. They were beautiful, even when seeing what was no longer there.
"Okay."
He deliberated a moment, before speaking again.
"I should have a better graduation gift for you by then."
Her lips opened with a smile, then offered her gift of laughter. He wanted to hear that, all of his life. He wanted to wake to that sound.
"You'd better," she replied, smirking as she brought her face to his. He felt her breathe as he did, a moment, before his lips touched hers, closing his eyes as her hair brushed his, bringing his hand to rest on her cheek.
"I love you, Amira. We don't ever say that, and I know why we don't, and I'm alright with that. But I want you to know. I won't ever say those words because of what we both fear, of the knowledge of grief forced to us through the price of pain."
((*concept of last line conceived by another writer and blogger.))
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