Pies

She asked him one morning as they lay tangled under sheets made warm by the heat of their bodies whether he thought pies tasted better right off the pan or served on ceramic plates. He traced lazy circles on her thigh as he thought. Straight from the pan, maybe. But pie does taste better with cream and you always take a slice of pie and put it on a plate before pouring on the cream. She considered that for a moment and said that if it was about the cream then maybe they ought to pour cream right into the pan to have an even comparison. She furrowed her eyebrows as she spoke and he laughed and leaned in and kissed her, right in between her brows as if to get her to stop worrying. She grinned and pulled him on top of her, showering his face with kisses.

He bought apples that evening and dumped them on the kitchen counter. She looked up from her laptop where she was typing up some important letter and grinned. It was going to be a good day.

The shared stories of their days at work as they sat cross-legged on the floor chopping and peeling apples. There was that guy she always saw on the subway, the one that drew buildings and skylines on scraps of paper and on the backs of flyers. There was that lady he met on his way to work who burst out of an office and yelled that she was engaged. He chopped the apples into lazy pieces while she fiddled with the peel. He laughed at the way she held her knife and although she reached out and hit him with the back of her hand, she felt like she wanted to grab hold of that laugh and hug it to sleep every night. Never let go of it, essentially.

Then they realized that they hadn't made the dough and all the apples they had cut would darken and ‘become icky’ by the time they got the dough to rise. She read somewhere that squeezing a lemon over the apples would prevent them from darkening, she said. And he thought that they had nothing to lose (except maybe twenty apples) and went along with it. She kept the lemony, cinnamon-y apples in the fridge and joined him in the kitchen where he’d already begun mixing the dough.

Unlike in all those sappy movies they managed to get the dough ready without breaking into a flour-fight. A fight of pots and pans seemed imminent however, with threats hurled back and forth every time someone opened the fridge to steal a piece of lemony apple. See, it’s a good thing there were so many apples he said. She hit him with a spoon. He chased her around with a cutting board.

She cried when they were all done, with the bowls all washed and the timer set, thinking of all the things they had lost along the way. And how it might just be another month before they got to spend time together like this again. He hugged her until the pain went away and as always she concluded that the long waits were worth it just because they got to do things together once in a while.

She felt better but still refused to let go of him. He made to move to the living room couch but she clung on to him like those little monkey babies you see on Animal Planet. He wanted to watch the news in ten minutes so he thought, oh well, and picked her up and carried her over to the couch where they settled down, him with the remote and her on his lap.

She fell asleep by the time the timer rang so he coaxed her awake, he knew the kind of monster she could become if woken up the wrong way. She woke up and blinked, focusing on the careful expression on his face and smiled and kissed him harder than he expected her to. He looked a little dazed as she leapt off his lap and skipped to the kitchen and his expression made her even happier. He followed and wrapped his arms around her waist as she cut the pie carefully into two halves and then divided one part into slices. She moved the slices to another bowl, and took one in a ceramic plate. The special plates, the ones they bought on her first raise, the ones they only took when they ate together. He let go of her and poured cream all over the slice of pie on the plate.

They argued over which pie they should try first and decided it didn't matter really. They finished the slice and decided that this was definitely better than the strawberry pie they made a few months ago. Apple was more pie-able she said. He tapped her on the nose with the back of his spoon.

He settled into the blankets while she went to get the pie in the pan that they’d left in the oven so it’d stay warm. She poured all the remaining cream over it and crawled into the blanket with him. She said she was too lazy to feed herself and he took turns, scooping up bits of cream and apple and pie crust for her and then some for him.

About two hours later when they had a real dinner and put away all the dishes and crawled into bed, hugging each other so tight that they could barely differentiate whose head was resting on whose arm, they had arrived at a conclusion. Pie tasted better off the pan. No doubt about it. Scraping up all the bits of crust from the pan, with a tiny bit of cream and some of the apple leftovers made making pies worthwhile.

posted from Bloggeroid

Windows

If we could put in a window between our two worlds I would. Because at times like these when I miss you so much that I feel actual physical pain resonating through my body at the thought of you I could just reach over and tap you on your shoulder. And you'd turn around and smile and I'd be okay. Because I fall in love with you all over again everytime you smile. Even harder when you laugh.

If we could put in a window between our two worlds, it would be nice. I could just turn around and ask for your opinion on something I read or wrote, maybe we could discuss it for a while, maybe we could argue. I could maybe reach out and touch you, run my hands through your hair, touch a thumb to the corner of your lower lip. The times when we want to be alone, we could just draw the curtains on our side and it'd be okay, we know we'll open them up when it's time.

posted from Bloggeroid

Boxed Belongings

Natalie opened her eyes sleepily. For a few seconds she couldn't figure out where exactly she was. She felt an arm around her waist and then she remembered. She focused her gaze on the pale blue curtains, and the light filtering through the crack. She crawled out from under the thick comforter, only glancing behind her for a second at the figure hidden in the sheets. The glimpse suffices, she’s filled with a rush of affection. Her partner, her love, the only one she’s wanted as much as she did right then.

She hummed Emily’s favorite song as she stepped out of the washroom. She pats her face dry with the worn out towel hanging by the door. ‘I really ought to redecorate, now that I've moved in officially,’ she thinks, eyeing her boxes piled by the door, making plans to go shopping later in the day.

She went into their room with steaming mugs of coffee, filling the tiny room with the scent, “Emily, sweetie, wake up.”

“Em. Come on, you've slept enough, love.” Natalie sets the mugs of coffee down on the dresser and pulls apart the curtains. She stands there for a bit, basking in the sunlight. She watched their neighbor cross the street, checking the time on his watch, in a rush to get to work maybe.

She smiled. She felt so calm now. Now that everything was decided, now that they were finally going to begin their life together. 

“So I was thinking we ought to go shopping later? Maybe get a few towels. Do you have milk somewhere else besides the fridge? I threw out the empty cartons.”

She turned around from where she was folding her clothes to find Emily still wrapped up in the sheets. She giggled as she crept up to the foot of the bed, her mind filled with almost childish delight at what she was about to do. She grasped the comforter firmly and with a quick tug pulled it off Emily’s body, expecting to hear a slew of curses and whining. Emily didn't move.

‘Wow she must really be fast asleep.’

All she could see from where she stood was Emily’s long dark hair all over the pillow, it was only when she walked over to the side of the bed that she saw.

Emily’s eyes were frozen wide open, her mouth slack, something that looked like dried spittle all over the edge of her mouth and pillow, and her lips the grey-blue color of death.

Natalie's scream resonated through the apartment, filled with boxed belongings and dreams. She fell back and kicked herself away from the bed, collapsing against the walls, pushing apart a bookcase on her way, with soundless sobs escaping her shaking body.

And we all come crumbling down

Title: And we all come crumbling down

Word Count~900

Genre: Speculative Fiction

A/N: Another piece from my NaNoWriMo attempt.

It is a cold day. The sun is almost directly above my head and the clock shows half past twelve. It is supposed to be the hottest time of the day and yet it is the biting cold that dominates. If there were any form of precipitation, it would have been snow, but there wasn't any. It was a cold, dry day. The icy wind blew strong, forcing the chilly air to engulf the body, gnawing at any exposed skin. My hands hurt. My face stung. I kept walking

It is almost as though time had stopped. There's not a living being in sight, not even an insect. No movement. No sounds. It is a dead city. It is almost ominous, the silence. As if to warn of the coming of the new age, of the approaching apocalypse that must precede any rebirth. After all, a phoenix wouldn't exist without a fire. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. And we all come crumbling down.

He walks down the street. I know he's coming for me. There's a purpose in that stride. An intention in each step. Each movement is calculated, the degree at which his head is tilted downwards, the angle to which he swings his arms. He doesn't look like the biting cold affects him. He makes me feel like a child. As though each of my movements are spastic, as though I have no sense of bearing or self respect. As though I ought to crumple at his feet and beg for forgiveness.

He stops right in front of me. 'Let's go inside.'

I nod numbly.

He walks me to a door. 'Aren't you feeling hot?'

I look up at him, my eyes blank.

'I mean, aren't you dressed a little too warmly for a summer day?'

The door opens and a blast of warm air hits my face. I'm greeted by sights, sounds, smells, a little too much to take in at once.

It's a restaurant I used to frequent once, then had stopped when I got bored. They've renovated, I notice. The curtains were never this dark, they are now a dark wine red, like the curtains I have at home. The tables are sleek and made to look like they are made of some fancy wood. The floors are shiny, there are flowers on each table, surrounded by rose petals floating in a bowl of water.

The waitress takes us to a table at the back. I hear the sound of the 'Reserved' card being lifted off the table, of forks and spoons scraping against breakable plates. Sounds of couples talking, some in heated arguments, some whispering sweet nothings, some talking about how all they wanted was to be in the other's pants. I heard the chair scraping against the floor as he pulled the chair out for me, pretending to be a gentleman. I heard a scream in my mind as I smiled, pretending I didn't see through his pretences.

I smelled food. I smelled rose petals. I smelled the hair product on the man sitting on the table at the other end of the room, with his hand high up on his wife's thigh and his mind on the breasts of the woman at the next table.

---

I felt fear, I felt pain, I had tears rolling down my face. The tears stopped, but the pain remained long after he left. He loved me, he said. I felt spent. I felt used. I felt dirty.

I stood up gingerly, clutching the bloody sheets around my naked body. I walked up to my mirror and looked. I looked at my bruised eyes, my torn lips. My arms were marked all over where he held me down while he rammed into me. My stomach was bright red on the side, where it hit the bedpost when he threw me on the bed, it would be purple tomorrow. My thighs were bruised. Fuck.

I limped to the bathroom and turned the shower on. I dropped the sheet I was holding around myself into the corner and stepped under the warm water, soothing my sore muscles.

I stepped out, dripping wet. Wrapped a towel around my hair and pulled on a robe. I went to the kitchen and boiled some water to drink. My throat was sore. I leaned onto the counter, my body hurt too much to sit or lie down and sipped my warm water.

I woke up face down on the kitchen floor, the cold tiles acting as a cold compress on my bruises. I pulled myself up. I stumbled to my balcony and sat down on the floor, leaning against the metal railing. I reached over to the table and took the last cigarette from the pack. Lit it, put it to my lips and inhaled. I closed my eyes and focused on the sounds of the traffic below rather than the throbbing of my headache, or the pounding hatred in my mind.

I finished my cigarette. I slowly stood up and walked into my room. I stripped the bed and rummaged through my cupboard for fresh sheets. I tossed the ruined sheets to a corner, I'll burn them later. I climbed into my freshly made bed, smelling of laundry soap and fabric softener and slept.

The Time I Put Salt in My Coffee

Title: The Time I Put Salt in my Coffee
Word Count: 250 [Someone give me a medal :D]
A/N: This was a topic we thought up for a story writing contest in college and since I couldn't participate this is something I thought up in ten-odd minutes during math. And after that, I went to sleep.

---

The time I put salt in the coffee instead of sugar was the day I killed my husband. It wasn't very hard to kill him. He came at me with his precious signed baseball bat and I ran and hid in the kitchen closet. I tried not to make a noise while I breathed, but it was difficult. Tears poured down my face and my breath came out in gasps. I clasped my hands over my mouth and looked around. My eyes fell on bottles of wine, chili sauces and other condiments. I spotted his mother’s prized possession, a precious heirloom she called it, a huge ceramic vase sitting under a shelf. I opened the door and peeked. I saw him standing at the doorway to our bedroom, baseball bat still clutched in his hand. He was turned away from me. I sneaked up behind him, raised the vase over my head and slammed it down on his. He crumpled forward. I didn't really have to check his pulse to know he was dead but I did it anyway. I washed the blood that had spattered on my arms and face and picked up the phone and dialed 911.

“I killed my husband” I said. I gave them my address and hung up. I walked into the kitchen, cold mugs of salted coffee still on the table. I poured myself a mug of boiling water from the kettle and dropped a teabag in it.

I've always preferred drinking tea anyway.

---

Missing Shadows

Title: Missing Shadows
Genre: Speculative fiction (It sounds a lot cooler than it really is :P)
Word Count: 747
Yeah. Under normal circumstances I easily break the 1k limit but somehow when I'm trying to build up to 50k, I fall short. Cruel, cruel world.

A/N: This was supposed to be the first chapter of my novel. *sigh* Anyhow, it's a short story now.

----

I am awake. Conscious at the very least. I can feel my mind stirring, slowly shaking off the drowsiness induced by my late night. My world is still dark. I take a deep breath and try to open my eyes.

My eyelids feel heavy, not the kind of heavy caused by a late night at work or a night out gone wrong. It feels as though someone's glued my eyes shut, as though my neurotransmitters have switched off and my brain is isolated from the rest of my body. Trapped inside the shell it once controlled.

Panic strikes and I feel my breathing getting irregular. My hands get clammy, my heart starts to beat faster, my body starts to shiver. I try to regain control over my mind and I force myself to take slow, deep breaths. It works. Somewhat. My heart slows down to a more normal pace, my body stops shivering. My hands are still clammy. I attempt to open my eyes again.

The world is pitch black. I sit up, frantically looking around. There is nothing to see. No light, no objects, not even shadows. I can't see.

I fall back onto the bed and cover my face with my hands. I will myself to calm down, I start breathing normally again. Baby steps. I try to visualize what I would see.

The faded yellow walls, the painting on the far end. The dim light from the lamp mounted on the wall behind me. The clock on the bedside table, it probably would be indicating that it is 8 am. The dressing table on the side, the mirror reflecting the thick, wine red curtains on the opposite wall.

I sit up and slowly open my eyes. It is a little blurry at first but then the lines become sharper. The room is exactly as I imagined it would be. The yellow of the walls, the dim light from the lamp, the clock showing 8 am, the dressing table, the mirror reflecting the wine red curtains.

Rubbing my eyes in an attempt to kick start my stalling consciousness, I stretch and get off the bed. I walk over to the dressing table and finger comb my hair into a ponytail. It has been getting long, my hair. I need to get a haircut. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I see that my hair which I usually maintain at about shoulder length, has grown up to my elbows. I am not quite sure how it escaped my notice for this long. I guess I have just been that busy. I search the table for an elastic, I can't find one. I end up braiding my hair instead, to keep it out of my face. I notice the clock in the reflection, it's still 8 am.

Maybe the battery is dead. I walk up to the table and pick it up, I hit it against the palm of my other hand a few times in a futile attempt to bring it to life. I know I have a couple of spare batteries somewhere, I open a drawer to check.

It is pitch black. Nothing at all. Not even a shadow.

I look up and start to notice the things I'd missed. The parts of the room that I hadn't visualized are still blurry. The headboard of the bed, my slippers, the door. I rip the curtains open and it's pitch black outside. I turn around and come face to face my reflection in the mirror.

She's screaming, I can't hear it though. I can see the terror in her eyes. Her hair grows longer, the dark brown tendrils twisting around her neck forming a noose. Like a giant rope that's come to life, it tightens around the pale skin of her throat. She clutches at the bonds with white trembling fingers. Her knuckles are pale and she grapples against the stronghold, the noose is getting tighter, her eyes grow wide, her face grows pale.

My hands fly up to my neck as I start to feel something tightening around it. I touch my throat but I can't feel anything but my skin. The pressure is getting unbearable and something twists my face to look at my reflection in the mirror. She's looking at me, her eyes are begging me to help. I feel myself get lifted off the ground, I'm choking, the world is growing darker. I'm feeling dizzy.

With a loud crash the mirror shatters. It's over.

Won't Close My Eyes

It's not something she remembers very well. It's not something she thinks about often. She just knows that it happened. She just knows that no matter what she becomes, this will always be a part of her.

You ask her something about her life, anything. Start with her name, her age, her family. As you get close to her, ask who her first crush was, who her first boyfriend was, how long did they last. Ask her when her first kiss was and she'll name a date and a place, she'll name a boy she used to love. You'll smile and maybe you'll say 'That's so cute!' and she'll smile and the conversation is done there. Maybe you'll talk for a while and maybe you'll meet her again someday, but that there, was the first lie she ever will tell you.

Her first kiss was not a boy she loved. It was a man who claimed to be her tutor. It's not something she dwells upon, but if she tries to focus, she remembers meeting her eyes in the mirror and stubbornly refusing to close them, because somewhere in that twelve year old girl's mind, she had this idea that you close your eyes when you kiss someone you love. She didn't love this man. She wouldn't close her eyes.

Ask her how long it went on, she wouldn't know. It's almost as though her mind has locked this part of her memory in a box and hidden it away in a dusty corner. Ask her when it started, she won't know. She can't remember. All she knows is that he used to ask her to study something he'd just explained, and she would, head bowed over her book, and she'd study while he groped her under the table. Then he'd ask her questions and she wouldn't know the answers and he'd shout. She never cried when he yelled, she stared obstinately back into his eyes.

He'd stop when he heard footsteps outside the door. He was a religious man, someone who taught the ways of God, her parents never had even the slightest doubt. When they'd come in to check on her, he'd be on his best behaviour and she'd say nothing.

She doesn't know why but the thought of telling her parents scared her. Once she was older, she read something on child abuse, it said that the victims feel fear and guilt. She thinks that maybe she was too young to comprehend it, what she felt back then was guilt. She doesn't quite remember those emotions, not vividly, not at all. As though it's too painful to remember. As though her mind is protecting her from herself.
She tried to protest in her way. She'd arrange the table and chairs in such a way that he couldn't reach her under the table. She'd wear two, maybe three pairs of trousers. She'd wear a pair of jeans with a belt. She had wanted to lock herself away, she was angry, but mostly she was scared.

She wonders what went through his mind. Did he ever feel fear? Of being caught, at the very least. She didn't expect him to fear the God he taught her about, he probably knew that all of what he taught was lies. She remembers him whispering that she should tell him if she was uncomfortable, and not her parents. She remained quiet. He kept insisting, he made her walk over to his chair and stand by him and told her again. She nods and he kisses her. She locks eyes with the girl in the mirror.

He had to leave to some place for some reason she doesn't remember anymore and she wished he'd never come back. She wished he'd just disappear from her life, it'd make everything a lot easier. But one day her mother tells her he's back and that he'd called and she'd be starting classes from the next week. And she breaks down and cries. The words coming out aren't coherent. She doesn't know how long she cried, or even how long it took for her to make sense. She doesn't know anymore. But she knows it ended then.

She's not sure how it has affected her. Sure, she's a little uncomfortable with physical contact, but that's probably just personal space issues, she thinks. She doesn't break down into tears when she thinks about it, she doesn't think it haunts her. She just knows that it is a part of her. She was lucky that it stopped with just that. She thinks of all these children, boys and girls alike, who go through this and so much worse and she can feel their pain. All their innocence, all of their carefree childhood, taken away with just one act.

She wishes she could go back in time, and pull that man off her younger self, slap him across his face and rip those hands off his wrists. She wants to hold that twelve year old girl close and tell her that she did no wrong, that she will grow up to be stronger than she ever expected to be.

She wipes the tears off her face and puts her memories back in their box, and puts the box back in its dusty corner. It doesn't do anyone good to dwell upon the past, she thinks as she holds her own little girl close. Her baby brother sleeps in a cot nearby and she thinks she wants to protect them from the world. Put them away in little boxes and shield them from all the negativity until they are old enough to face it. She knows she wouldn't ever deem them old enough, she knows she wouldn't be able to.

She stands up and walks across the soft carpet. She turns around and takes one last look before she shuts the door and walks over to her own room. She climbs into her bed and pulls the covers over her head. As though she's hiding from herself. She doesn't want to be seen crying, not even by herself. She's stronger than that.

---

Dial CHILDLINE: 1098 from any phone service in India  to report a child in distress. The CHILDLINE service is a free 24x7 tele-outreach helpline service for children in need of care and protection. For more information, visit www.childlineindia.org.in

The Second Glass of Wine

Title: The Second Glass of Wine
Genre: Angst
Word count: 1k
Summary: She lost the one constant in her life of changes. She cries, she throws things, she copes. 
A/N: Title credits - S(M :P) and V. I love you both and I don't know what I'd do without you.

I love the sound of rain, it reminds me of the times we sat together on the balcony during rainstorms with glasses of wine in our hands and cigarettes on our lips. All those times we shouted over the crescendo of the crashing rain to be heard. We spoke about unfair bosses, ridiculous working hours, the lame pick up lines the loser coworker tried on us that day, anything, everything. Some days we just sat there, not a word passed between us, it was all unsaid, we still understood.

You'd always been there, the only constant I needed in a life of changes. Boyfriends and acquaintances came and went, you stayed. No matter how long it had been since our last conversation, the bond remained. Every girl needed a best friend, you were mine, I was yours.

You are the most important part of most of my memories. You was the first one I told when I got my first job; the first thing I bought with my own money was drinks when we went out to celebrate. Being your friend was easy, I didn't have to try, I just needed to be myself.

That little black dress we both tried on and loved but left at the store because it was ridiculously expensive. We never forgot it though, we stared wistfully at it every time we passed by until they removed it from the display. The way the sales girls looked at us, we were those two weird girls who drooled at a dress each time but never bought it.

We promised we'd be with each other the first time we got drunk, who knew what we'd spill under the influence. I ended up getting drunk with my colleagues the first time, but I felt bad, like I betrayed you somehow. I bought us a bottle of vodka on your birthday but we didn't like it much anyway.
Those nights we stayed up watching movies, pretending we were still kids, as if it was all a long sleepover. We woke up sprawled on the floor with the laptop still switched on, and went to work that day bleary eyed and with prominent dark circles under our eyes.

We met in school, friend of a friend, it didn't take us too long to become inseparable, giggling over little things, sitting at the back of the classroom. We swore we'd never let anything come between us, but we once did and I guess we were stronger because of it by the end. I remember those conversations we had after we made up, it was a huge misunderstanding, we both felt the same way and I'd never forget that moment when we realized we could stop apologizing, it was all forgiven and forgotten, we were better than before.

We were similar in some ways, our love of new things, open mindedness, but we had our differences, I was always more flighty, you were more grounded. You still put up with my crazy mood swings and impulsive decisions, like that one time we drove out in the middle of the night because my favorite band was landing at the airport at that ungodly hour in the next city.

That one late night phone call you made, the first time we spoke about everything and nothing, that call probably was the beginning of everything. That one time we sat on the front porch and I cried, talking about things that seem so insignificant now.

As I walked back from where you are now, tears poured down my face and I wasn't really there, I couldn't see the people with me, I couldn't see the road ahead of me. I wished you were crying with me instead of me crying at your memory.

The first time I ever felt truly alone was when I walked back into our apartment after the funeral. I still hear your voice sometimes. It used to reduce me to a crying, shaking mess, curled up against the kitchen wall. Then it stopped making me cry, it made me angry instead. I threw things, I broke things, I yelled at strangers and screamed into pillows. I've woken up on the floor where I passed out after I tired myself out. At one point it was the only way I could sleep. If I closed my eyes, I saw you there.

I pass the corner where the car barreled into you every time I go out to get groceries. Sometimes I stand there for a while and I can feel you there with me. It's almost like you were never gone. I drop some money into the hat of that old homeless man who sits there, he's taking care of you for me, keeping you safe until I come again.

I've never been a believer, neither had you, I couldn't accept the whole 'God calls the good people' because it wasn't fair, you were too young, you didn't deserve to die. I was angry at everyone. How could everyone go on with their lives when I had lost everything? How could they expect me to act normal, like nothing was wrong when everything was wrong. I didn't know why I lived anymore, it was pointless to stay on, I couldn't bear with the pain.

People talked about how I was in shock at your funeral, not shedding a tear, I didn't care, you'd only gone out for work, you'd be back home soon. You're still around aren't you? I still feel you here. In your room, in the kitchen, on the balcony. I still pour out two glasses of wine, it's waiting for you. You're coming back, aren't you?

It still hurts all the time, it hurts so bad that it is physical pain. Each time I close my eyes, I see your face, and you smile at me cryptically. Sometimes I hear your voice telling me to be strong but I can't. It just makes me hurt a little more, because I now realize I'll never get to hear your voice in reality again, it's only going to be in my mind from now.

I tell myself I have to move on, that life goes on even if it feels like it has ended. It doesn't work, it hasn't worked yet. Maybe it will someday. But for now, it hurts. And I can't deal with it anymore.

I'm done.

Reminisce

Title: Reminisce

Word count: 837
Dedication: To someone who means the world to me. About someone who means the world to him. (I love you guys) *hugs* *squishes* *It's so fluffy I'm going to die*

----

It had been a while since I last met him. At least seven years. And so much had changed.

We were around 12 the last time we had seen each other, he was a scrawny, pale little boy, I wasn't all that big either. Then he left and there was an email about the new Harry Potter movie, one about dragons, but that was it. Nothing more.

He's grown so different, so much taller (I'm stuck at maybe 10 centimeters taller since I was 12) and it leaves me wondering if this is the guy I came to meet as we walked towards each other. Then he smiled and said my name, and he was the same boy I knew.

---

She joined us for lunch.

She was everything he'd described her as being, sweet, smart, funny, adorable. All those times we'd texted, he'd always had an endless amount of things to say about her and now that I had met her, I began to understand why.

I'm awkward with couples, I really am. When they get all sweet and lovey-dovey I'm thinking 'ew'.

These two, however, were… I can't really describe it. I noticed those secret looks they shared over the menu cards, the way their hands brushed each other accidentally-on-purpose. Somehow I was content just watching them, maybe because they had this infectious sort of happiness about them. The kind of happiness you wish you had.

The way he smiled at her, the way her smile got a little brighter when she caught his eye, the way his eyes betrayed just how deeply he felt about her, the way she smiled and her face flushed delicately each time she caught him watching.

I'm a skeptic. I don't particularly believe in anything, religion, God or even love. Hell, if I'm willing to admit that it felt like these two were meant to be, then these two better be handcuffed together for the rest of eternity. And as I thought that, I didn't get that snide voice in my head going, 'Or at least until they get tired of each other.' so I guess that means something.

She had to leave soon after and him and I took a bus to the airport. I listened to him talk about life, college, exams and her.

'Your life really does revolve around her doesn't it?' I ask, amused. Well no, I guess I was amazed.

He laughed and changed the topic, quite skillfully, I might add.

It's his eyes that give it away, them shining like they do at the mere thought of her. The message couldn't get any clearer, just how in love they were.

I spent the rest of the ride in a bit of a daze. I've loved, I fall into each new experience with a passion like nothing I've ever seen before.

This was something I'd never seen, never experienced. The way it felt so right to see them together. Almost as though all that bull in the movies about having a soul mate was really true.

I'd been terribly excited to meet her, after all that I had heard. It was even more special to meet her in person, to hear both their versions of the story of how it all began, on a day everyone claimed was lucky. I think, at that particular 'lucky moment' no one on earth could have been luckier.

They say each person has a calling. Some people find it, some don't. It's supposed to be something that sweeps you off your feet, something that makes your life worthwhile.

Maybe it's not just a vocation or a hobby. Maybe you find your calling in love. Maybe love is what makes the world go round and not gravity, maybe 'to love' is what some people are meant to do, everything else is secondary.

Sometimes in life you find your calling. Sometimes you don't. When you do, it blows you away, it messes with your head and you're left feeling vulnerable and just a little scared, I mean how could something, someone, mean so much to you? Is it even humanely possible to care just as much as you do about this person?

Sometimes it’s terrifying but deep inside you know it's okay. It's you against the world and nothing else matters just as long as you know you will see the reason for your happiness right beside you when you need them the most.

That's love I suppose, I think as we stepped out of the bus at the airport.

"It was really nice to see you again."

He smiles and we walk towards the departures gate. His phone rings and he takes it out. Judging by his expression and that smile that crept into his eyes, I'd say it was her.

"She's asking whether we've reached."

Just a simple text and here he is, a goofy smile stretched across his face.

I can't help but laugh, "You've fallen so hard."

He grinned, "Yeah, I guess I have."

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Dancing In The Rain (Part 2)

Summary: Kangin was successful, the money, the job, the perks. He find happiness that he hadn't realized was missing from his life when he meets an old friend from college, Sungmin. When Sungmin disappears, what's going to happen to Kangin?

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AN: This is part 2. You can find Part 1 here. And yes. This is the last part.

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Three months later, Kangin went to work and switched his computer on to find an email from his old business management professor at college asking if he would mind being a guest lecturer for a day, the students needed to see a live case study. Essentially, he was supposed to go over there and talk about how he saved the magazine. He wasn’t interested. He had typed out a polite letter of declination when his secretary came in with his coffee and his schedule for the day. By the time she was gone, he had changed his mind. Kangin thought that he really should just ask his secretary for a printed copy of his meeting timings, he couldn’t remember the last time he paid attention to her.

A week later when Kangin drove in through the university gates, he felt an unfamiliar thumping in his head. He tried to tell himself that it was only because he hadn’t been there in a while. He wasn’t quite sure if he believed it.

It wasn’t hard to find the professor’s room. It was in the exact same place it had been a few years ago. After the usual formalities and pleasantries he told Kangin that he would be addressing the senior class and the freshmen, was that okay. Kangin nodded, then called his secretary to free his schedule.

Soon after, the professor led him to the freshmen class. He spent most of the lunch hour wandering around campus, answering questions for eager freshmen, rejecting some of the too eager ones. He ended up with a pocket full of phone numbers but he just tipped them into the waste basket.

He pretended he didn’t know what or who he was looking for. Deep inside, he knew he wanted to see Sungmin but he was ignoring that part of his mind for the time being. One half of his mind wanted to meet Sungmin, and ask him why he had disappeared from his life all of a sudden. The other half was prepared to run away and hide if he saw Sungmin’s face in the crowd. He was usually so rational; he couldn’t explain why he was so illogical and indecisive about this. He wondered why he was so disappointed when the bell rang at the end of lunch and he still hadn’t met Sungmin.

He met the senior class then, and soon it was over. The excuse he had to be hanging around the campus was now invalid. He walked towards the parking lot.

It would have been a scene plagiarized from a cheesy movie if he found Sungmin right then, as he was walking to the parking lot. Kangin thought it would be even cheesier if Sungmin came running up to him as he was driving out through the gates. Cheesy and predictable. Also something he was hoping for.

The next morning the sound of fists pounding on his door woke Kangin from his alcohol induced stupor. He had fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning and he wasn’t quite sure just how much beer he had drunk. He scrambled up from the floor, nearly tripping over empty beer bottles numerous times before reaching the door and pulling it open.

Kangin blinked once, then twice. The beer must have been playing tricks on him. He reached out and touched the face in front of him, whispering the name of the person he could see in a twisted alcohol slurred haze.

“Sungmin…”

Then he promptly passed out.

***

When Kangin woke up it was dark outside. He slowly sat up and tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He felt the vestiges of a throbbing headache in the back of his head and stood up very slowly, trying not to aggravate it.

He walked into the living room and turned the soft lights on, expecting to find a mess to clear up. There wasn’t. He didn’t find his beer bottles or filled ashtrays. What he did find was the hallucination from that morning waking up from where he was lying on his couch and walking towards him.

***

About an hour later, Kangin was eating what Sungmin had made, not really tasting it, mainly because of the million questions that were running through his mind. Sungmin noticed him looking, smiled and said, “After you eat, hyung. We’ll talk then.”

There was a knock on the door. Kangin tried to get up but sat back down halfway through because of the renewed pounding in his head. Sungmin stood up, “Hyung, don’t strain yourself. I’ll get the door.”

He heard the door open, then a woman’s voice said, “What are you doing here?” He didn’t hear Sungmin’s reply. Lee Ha Ni walked into the room, Sungmin following her a few steps behind.

Though Kangin had too much of a hangover to look up at her, he could almost imagine her expression when she said, “OH! Youngwoon-oppa! How are you? Oh, don’t eat that. I’ll make you something that’s good for hangovers” and pushed Kangin’s bowl away from him before flitting off into the kitchen. Flitted. Like an insect.

Kangin mumbled, “Crazy fucking bitch” and pulled his bowl back towards him. To Sungmin he added, “Tell her that if she’s going to make eggs I’ll kill her.”

Sungmin chuckled. “Hyung, don’t say that, she’s your girlfriend isn’t she? She just cares about you.”

Kangin thought he had heard wrong until he looked up to find Sungmin’s eyes on him, almost waiting for an answer. “What? Her? My girlfriend? Who told you that?”

Kangin watched Sungmin’s expression change from playful to astounded, then apologetic, “Oh sorry, I didn’t know you guys broke up.”

Now Kangin was sure that he was mirroring that astounded expression Sungmin had on only seconds ago, “We were never dating, Sungmin.”

“Oh. She told me you were. And not to come here anymore. That’s why I-”

Sungmin’s voice broke off as Ha Ni came back into the room. Kangin thought he saw a dirty glare directed at Sungmin flash on her face before she switched back to sickly sweet as she sat herself on the arm of Kangin’s couch. Sungmin looked awkward and seemed to be trying to leave. Kangin somehow never wanted to let him out of his sight again. It felt like he’d never come back if he left this time.

“Did you tell Sungmin that we were dating?” Kangin asked Ha Ni quietly. Sungmin’s eyes widened and he whispered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Oh shit’ while Ha Ni reddened visibly and fought to keep an expression of nonchalance.

“Yes and I had my reasons oppa, we’ll talk about that later.”

Sungmin slowly slipped out as their voices rose and leaned his head back against the door and closed his eyes, bracing himself, awaiting the inevitable.

Then she said the words that made Sungmin feel like his whole world had just collapsed beneath him and he held on to the door handle for support as he waited to hear Kangin’s reaction, terrified of the words that were about to come.

“So what?”

Kangin’s voice saying just those two words rang inside Sungmin’s head, the noise resonating in his mind. What was that supposed to mean, disgust or indifference? Or could he dare to imagine that he was defending him from Ha Ni’s words, ‘I only told him that to protect you. That kid is delusional! He thinks he is in love with you!’

The rush of blood to his head prevented him from focusing on much of the rest of the conversation, so he stood there, supporting his wobbly knees up by his hand on the door knob and was thrown quite out of balance when the door flew open and Lee Ha Ni stormed out, giving him a look that could kill.

Kangin came out of the room slowly, and looked relieved (Relieved? Why would he be relieved?) when he saw Sungmin at the door, “Oh I thought you had left me (He wants me to stay?) again (Again? Does it really matter to him when I’m gone?). Come in.”

Sungmin wasn’t sure if he should but just in that short exchange he had been confused by Kangin’s words so many times he had to go in to make sure he knew what was going on.

They sat on the couch and Sungmin was too nervous to make eye contact and so he decided to stare at his hands instead. Kangin decided he ought to break the awkward silence so he cleared his throat. Sungmin looked up at him for a fraction of a second then looked back down as soon as he met Kangin’s eyes.

“Did you hear what she said?”

An almost indiscernible nod.

“Was she making it up?”

Sungmin took a deep breath then shook his head. He looked up and said, “If it creeps you out, I’ll leave.”

Kangin thinks he’ll never forget the expression on Sungmin’s face just before Kangin leaned in and kissed him all of a sudden. Sungmin thinks it is sweet the way Kangin began to pull away from the kiss when Sungmin was too shocked to respond, interpreting it as dislike. Kangin replays the moment over in his head, when Sungmin wrapped his arms around his shoulders, threading his fingers through his hair, pulling him closer as he had begun to pull away.

Sungmin breaks the kiss, leans his forehead on Kangin’s, panting slightly, his lips curling into a small smile when their eyes met.

Kangin can’t help grinning as he leans forward and nibbles on Sungmin’s full, pink lips and loves the sound of Sungmin’s suppressed giggle escaping through the kiss.

That proves to be their breaking point and they both laugh for a good five minutes at the end of which Kangin decides that Sungmin’s laugh has to be the cutest thing in the world.

Then the bowl of food that Lee Ha Ni made gets almost toppled over with all their laughing and shaking and Kangin rewrites his list of Cutest Thing in the World, deciding that it is Sungmin’s get-down-to-business face.

Sungmin makes sure Kangin eats and that all the bowls are washed before kissing Kangin again, tackling Kangin so he falls back onto the couch.

Later that night, they sit together on the very same couch they spent so much time making out on, watching TV, eating popcorn and fighting for the last bottle of beer. Sungmin gets up, offering to go buy some more and Kangin reaches out to pull him back but it is too late.

Five minutes later, Kangin swears silently, switches off the TV and locks the door behind him as he runs after Sungmin.

It is drizzling and Kangin laughs as he is reminded of the day he met Sungmin after a very long time, the drenched guy in the white shirt. He sees Sungmin coming towards him, barely looking at anything around him, trying to get back as fast as he can. Kangin stops right in front of him and Sungmin narrowly avoids collision and says, ‘Sorry’ before trying to duck around him. Kangin holds him firmly and says, “You shouldn’t say sorry when someone bumps into you.”

Sungmin looks up and gives him an impish grin, “I wanted to get back to you.”

They stand that way for a while and then Kangin lets go of him, feeling conscious that they were in the middle of a street. They start to walk back to the apartment together.

“You know what? I think I fell for you when I saw you standing in the rain with your arms wide open.”

Sungmin smiles and slips his hand into Kangin’s, “Maybe because you could see my sexy body through my thin white shirt.”

Kangin looks indignant and Sungmin falls in love with that expression, maybe that’s why he’s a second late to start running away from him. A smile spread across Kangin’s face as he chased him down the street, their finally expressed feelings connecting them with an undeniable bond, the threads of which were running alongside them, dancing in the rain.

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