Thus with a Kiss

Chapter sixteen.

Paige.

It’s been 7 days, one whole week, and I’ve heard nothing from Lawrence. Not to be one of those girls, but why hasn’t he messaged me? And yeah, I guess I could message him, but surely if he was really interested, he’d reach out first? And I know it’s silly to obsess so much over one tiny insignificant moment we had in the park, but I felt so at ease with Lawrence that I really did think it could be the start of something good. At least for a little while anyway. Oh well, I did a good thing just putting myself out there, rather than continuing to live in the cage of my own solitude. Even if the sting of rejection hurts more than I’d care to admit.

Despite checking my phone every few hours for a text that never came through, the past week has flown by in a flurry of uni deadlines and overtime at work. Distraction is the best fix for an overactive mind. At least today I have the day off, which means spending the morning in bed, trying to coax myself from beneath my body-warmed covers and the peace that sleep always brings. I spend the morning reading, getting lost between the pages of fictitious characters and unrealistic love stories; comforted by the characters that touch my life, if only for the time it takes me to get from one book to the next. Maybe it’s my solitary lifestyle that caused such a fervour for reading, but the safety I find in between the lines of each fictional adventure, is unlike any the real world has ever been able to offer me. Which is why the only thing I’ve ever been able to trust steadfastly is reading because the only hurt it ever causes me is the kind that is second nature.

I hurt because a beloved character of mine is killed in a tragedy. I hurt because I don’t agree with the way the author gives a villain, who does not deserve it, a brilliant redemption arch. I hurt because sometimes an author is able to put into words what I’m feeling, in ways even I cannot. I hurt because my own emotions only become expressible to me in the mouths of fictional characters. I hurt because none of the connections I make are ever real. I hurt because it’s never real.

But it’s always there. No matter how many eons go by and civilisations that turn to dust, the desire for someone to pen their thoughts down on paper for any who will indulge them, is ageless. It defies time.

That’s why I can only ever rely truly on the escape of my books, the comfort and solace I find between pages, because how can it ever abandon me, if it will outlive me?

It can’t. 

I’m so caught up in the pages of my book that I don’t even realise the time. It’s well past one in the afternoon by the time I even bother to get out of my bed, tearing myself away from the plot twist I can feel is on the cusp on being revealed. I tell myself to get up and run my few errands, with the promise of returning to my bed to read as soon as my tasks are complete. Maybe I’ll even run and get a coffee on the way home, as a reward for simply forcing myself to endure life today. Name a better duo than a good book and coffee. I know I can’t.

The weather is miserable again, rain misting the air with perpetual moisture. Not bothering to look my best, I head out in a baggy jumper and tracksuits, layering up to hide away from the dismal atmosphere outside. I take a slow walk to the post office, enjoying the cold air that weaves its way into my lunges, the dampness that clings to my eyelashes and skin. When the weather is this grey, the streets are pretty quiet, inhabited only by those who either can’t drive, live for the drizzle, or want a change in pace from the boredom of the four brick walls that surround them. I walk in near solitude, smiling at the odd person who also happens to brave the misery, counting the cracks in the pavement beneath my feet as a way of passing time. It takes me no more than 15 minutes to reach the post office, the sign on the door saying open in a cheery shade of yellow.

I push the door open, immediately enveloped in a rush of warm air. Making my way to the counter, I rummage in my bag for the item I wish to return. Oh the agony of buying online, you never can guarantee if what you order will in fact be what you desire. 

‘I need to return this please, I have a QR code to scan for the return address’, I smile at the woman behind the counter, recognising her face from my many trips to the post office.

‘Sure thing, pass it over’. With the simple click of a button, my label is printed, and my parcel is secreted away, ready to be returned to sender. The simplicity of modern technology at its finest. My only other order of business for the day is grabbing some food for dinner, so I make my way the short distance to the shops to grab some chicken for a stir fry. With both the post office and dinner checked off my to-do list, I can comfortably allow myself to go straight back to bed without the guilt of doing nothing for the entire day.

But first, coffee. 

The queue out the front door of the coffee shop is less than ideal, but the warm thoughts of coffee and a good read get my feet moving to the back of the queue before the practical voice in my head, that says I can make coffee at home, has even reared its head. I’m hit first by the smell of coffee, then the cacophony of noises that ebb and flow as friends with loved ones and couples bicker at the seemingly inane. It didn’t take long for the barista to make my coffee, now one of the establishment’s regulars that I no longer need to order, I just walk in and pay, my coffee sitting waiting for me on the side. This time, however, the queue is so long that after paying, I’m forced to wait a good ten minutes before the rush has died down enough for the baristas to get to my order. I take this time to drink in my surroundings, in awe of the easy-going manner that those around me seem to exude. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t envious of their ability to just jump into life. Of course, you never really know what’s going on in someone else’s head, but on the surface, all these strangers seemed, if not happy, then content at the very least.

The man in front of me picks up his black americano, and I’m again reminded of Lawrence’s eyes and their depth that seemed to go on forever. Although black coffee is the antithesis of my coffee preferences, I can appreciate the simple, stripped back notion of such a strong, bitter drink. Even if my own taste buds would rebel at even a sip. As the man walks away, I grab my own drink off the counter, excited again by the prospect of snuggling under my covers and reading. Because I am nothing if not a creature of habit and I will be damned if I let anything compromise that.

The walk back home takes no time at all and my ability to jump back into bed even less so.

The second I open my book, I’m pulled back into the escapades of mythical creatures at war with their own kind and heartbreak so potent my own heart bleeds a little for the tragedy of it. I guess the closest thing to heartbreak I’ll ever experience is the first person accounts I read, since I’m too scared to let anyone get close to me to experience my own heartbreak. And maybe it’s that tragic thought, my own comfortableness with living so completely by myself that compels me to put my book down and pick up my phone. Maybe it’s that secret desire that burns like a tiny flame in my soul, that invisible tear drop of loneliness in my eye, that has my fingers typing away with little conscious thought. Maybe its that voice in my head that started to yawn awake the first time I heard Lawrence speak, but before I can second guess myself, or change my mind, I take some initiative and message Lawrence first, because I’ll be damned if I continue to let the fear of rejection keep me from living.