Member-only story
A Language Only We Knew
Shadows between moments are what we became.
You depart with the first stray hints of sunlight peeking through the hotel curtains. When I hear the door shut softly behind you, I sit up in bed and shed the appearance of pretending to be asleep.
When you get home, you’ll tell your roommate you met a girl at the pub and went back to her place. He’ll think nothing of it.
And me? I’ll go back to him, the same as always, as if you’re not the one who holds the string leading straight to my heart. He won’t pry: he’s not even home, instead off on a business trip he’ll complain about later. The first night he’s back home, that’s all he’ll do, again and again and again till he falls into a restless stupor in our bed. I don’t think he’ll even get one kiss in. To him, life is his job, and I exist just at the periphery of what remains at the end of the day.
It’s different from the way you and I are: we met at a small bookshop I went into one day to escape the rain, and from your place at the till you kindly asked if I needed an umbrella. I still remember the way your dark eyes assessed me — the sodden mess I was, my hair tangled by the wind — but the concern on your face won out over any humor in the situation. I self-consciously ran a hand over my hair before I said, yes, that would be nice.
