This Is How I Speak - 1. Chapter 1

“Fuck this!” he cussed.

“What are we doing here, Will?”

“What does this mean?”

“Who am I to you?”

The questions assaulted me in sharp spears of pain that penetrated my defences. I watched as he hurled them, deliberately.

He knelt beside me as I sat, unmoving, on the couch.

“I said ‘I love you’,” he repeated; anguish embedded in his voice.

I smiled at him, frustration mounting in the form of tears in my eyes.

“That’s not good enough,” he whispered

He looked away, hands dropping to his sides as he stood up.

“Not anymore.”

He lifted his feet sluggishly, putting them one in front of the other: away from me.

I mustered the strength to hoist myself onto my feet. I closed the distance between us. I grasped his wrist, feeling the warm hum of his blood pulsing through his veins.

“Please,” I begged, “Andrew, please.”

He turned his head, plunging his focus deep into the recesses of my soul.

“Then say something,” he pleaded.

Weakness seized my faculties as I stared at his lower lip: trembling in anticipation, in fear and in frustration. My fingers loosened.

“Say anything.”

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The doorbell rang. I stared at the ceiling, looking for patterns in the flat whiteness of the paint. I searched for the signs of where the strokes began and where they ended. I wondered if I stared closely enough, I would see the grain of the ceiling: blemishes and bumps along its seemingly smooth surface. The doorbell rang again.

My bones protested in creaks as I heaved my body out of bed. The parquet floor greeted my soles coldly. I padded over to the door. The peephole revealed a familiar face. I unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Hi,” I said, my voice hoarse from lack of use.

“Hi,” he replied, “You don’t look so well.”

His voice trembled with concern as he lifted a hand, as though to reach out at me. I waited for his warm touch to ease the ache in my chest. The hand found a place in his hair.

“I’m alright,” I said, but neither one of us believed it.

“Why didn’t you use your key?” I asked.

“It just didn’t feel right,” he replied.

“Oh,” I muttered.

“Actually, here, have it back,” he said, as he dug his keys out of his bag.

As he unthreaded the piece of metal, the distance between us seemed to lengthen. The tears that I thought had run dry started to fill my eyes again. I looked away. His fingers brushed my skin, leaving the nerve endings tingling, as he deposited the key in my open palm. I yearned to close my fingers around his.

“I’ll just go and grab some of my stuff,” he said.

“Wait, Andrew…,” I blurted.

He looked at me, expectantly.

“It’s this way,” I gestured to the storeroom, frustration at my weakness building inside me.

“Oh,” he muttered, disappointment weighing down his features.

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“Do you want this?” Andrew asked, holding up a blue monkey-bear.

“Sure,” I replied, as I took the stuffed animal from him.

I combed through its dusty fur with my fingers as I watched Andrew look through the items in the box. I watched as he hesitated, choosing the parts of him that he was going to take away from me.

“Andrew…,” I muttered.

He paused as he lifted his eyes, focusing them on me.

The emotions rushed forth like water from a broken dam, gushing from my aching chest, flooding my throat.

“Maybe you should take the bear,” I said.

“Oh, okay,” he said, confused.

The stuffed creature changed hands. He turned back to the box, rummaging through the corpses of our relationship. Anguish twisted at my insides while frustration boiled in the back of my eyes. I turned my back on his crouching figure and walked away, unable to stem the flow of the tears burning a trail down the sides of my face.

I sat on the side of the bed we used to share. I waited for his voice to echo through the empty apartment, announcing his departure. The ache in my core pulsed with fervour as the end loomed over me. I fell into the comfort of the duvet, wishing I could dissolve into its embrace.

A sharp edge dug into my lower back as I rolled over onto Andrew’s side of the bed. I felt under the covers for the foreign object. Tugging at it persistently, I dislodged the notebook from beneath my weight.

Recognising it immediately, I flipped the cover over and began to read.

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“Will, I’m done,” Andrew’s voice travelled from outside the room.

His words interrupted the beautiful images that occupied my mind: numbing my pain.

“I’m going to leave now,” he said, standing at the doorway.

The words sunk into my consciousness, igniting the agony that resumed its conquest of my body.

“Andrew, please,” I sobbed, ”Stay.”

“I don’t think I can,” he replied, eyes fixated on the wooden flooring.

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t think you want me to,” he said.

“I should go.”

“Wait,” I said.

“Why?” he asked, “Why should I?”

A pained expression etched on his face, he stared at me, waiting for my response.

“Because…,” I trailed off, knuckles turning white from gripping the diary in my hands.

“I thought so,” he muttered as he turned away from me.

All of the grief, anguish and frustration combusted inside me: immolating every nerve ending. The fog of suffering lifted as the cogs settled harmoniously in my mind.

“Read this,” I said, numb.

“What?” he asked, whipping his head around.

“Read this,” I repeated, holding up the leather-bound notebook.

“What is it?” he asked.

“My diary,” I replied.

“Will, I don’t think –“ he argued.

“Just read it,” I interrupted, “Please.”

“Alright,” he conceded, taking the book from me.

“Now,” I insisted.

Cocking an eyebrow at me, he flipped the cover over and began to read.

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Heads streamed through the tiny doorway and bobbed their way up the stairs at the side of the auditorium. They separated into streams that trickled along the various rows of chairs cutting across the expansive hall. The steady flow dribbled to a halt: the door swinging shut.

A golden halo burst forth from the door, interrupting the professor mid-sentence. It froze in its place as eyes pinned its wearer in his spot. The professor picked up his introduction once more as the fine golden crown floated up the stairs. My eyes followed the top of his head up the stairs, watching as he emerged above a head of dark hair blocking my view.

Bronzed skin rose from the mess of curls obstructing my vision, broad shoulders ascending moments after. With each step he took, his arm grew in length: fingertips eventually brushing against sides of his pockets.

A clatter at my feet peeled my eyes from their blatant stalking: my pen had slipped through my fingers. I reached under the seat, feeling for the instrument blindly. Stretching my fingers to their maximum, I urged them to go further.

A deep smooth voice interrupted my futile efforts. I flicked my eyes to the source: a pen in an outstretched hand and a wreath of golden strands glowing in the harsh light.

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“Always knew you were a creep,” Andrew teased, chuckling.

The music faded out into a painful silence.

“Will, I don’t know what you’re trying to do but –“

“Read on,” I interrupted.

He watched me as I peered into his eyes.

He sighed, resigned, as he flipped the page.

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He whispered musical notes into my ears: warm breath caressing the ridge of my ear. Electrical signals barreled through my neurons, triggering sharp jolts of sweet agony.

I huddled into my own cocoon, willing my concentration to focus on the empty page in front of me and not on the sadomasochism that he seemed to indulge in unintentionally.

The fine silvery hairs on his arm tickled my own, brushing up against my skin as he shifted his hand. His wrist flicked in precise motions, leaving a trail of inky black letters littered along the lined paper.

My name escaped his lips, beckoning me. My eyes trailed the outline of his pale pink lips as they formed the words: like a personal secret. They roamed up the sharp planes of his cheekbones, only to settle in twin pools. His eyes shifted erratically before narrowing, focused on my own. Like quicksand, the chocolate pools drew me in as I sunk into a muted world.

A proposition that I had not fully understood floated through the muffling silence.

Naturally, I agreed.

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“I thought you were shocked, disgusted even,” Andrew remarked, “You just stared at me for a long time, dazed.”

“I thought you were going to reject me,” he said, looking up at me.

“I could never,” I said solemnly.

“Really?” he muttered, as he flipped the page.

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Your deft fingers lay quietly between mine –

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Andrew cocked his eyebrow at me, demanding an explanation.

I nodded, eyes tracing the ridges of my knuckles.

His eyes dropped back to the page.

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Your deft fingers lay quietly between mine, the warmth wrapping itself around my centre. Your thumb caressed the knuckle of mine while our feet pushed against the cobblestone. I sneaked furtive glances at your face, wanting nothing more than to be telepathic.

There was a moment where you closed your eyes with your head tilted slightly backward, exposing the smooth swath of your throat. A timely breeze ruffled your golden strands, picking them up gently. You savoured the perfume of fall as I indulged in your exquisite vulnerability. Something shifted inside me: the fluttering that often started as I looked at you quieted, settling into a gentle warmth of familiarity.

Your eyelashes trembled as your eyelids lifted. I looked away, but a moment too late. Your eyes caught mine. Fingers tilted my chin up, your brown eyes fixed insistently at my avoiding pair.

Fallen leaves rustled against the cobblestone as they traipsed down the street, driven by the wind. You stepped forward, our collective heat enveloping us. You leaned into the small space between us and I closed my eyes.

Softness pressed against my lips, igniting sparks that crackled under my skin. The warmth in my centre amplified, its heat pulsing through my entire body.

I stumbled forward, trying to follow your lips, as you pulled back. We looked away simultaneously.

A sharp wind tumbled through the trees around us, rustling their leaves loudly. I stole a glance at you, your eyes meeting mine. You squeezed my hand lightly. A second passed before I squeezed back.

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“I can’t read anymore,” Andrew cried.

Teardrops dripped from his chin, spotting the pages of the notebook, smudging the words.

“I can’t. Because if I do, I’ll forgive you, I’ll take you back. And we can’t be together,” he rambled hysterically.

“We shouldn’t,” he gasped, exasperated.

“Just read it,” I said quietly.

“I won’t ask for your forgiveness. I won’t ask you to take me back,” I promised, ignoring the fissure that widened with every word.

His eyes, reddened, searched my face. His fingers lifted the corner of the page and turned it over.

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Moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains that fluttered in the gentle breeze. Crickets chirped in the distance, warning us of the arrival of the encroaching sun, with its blazing heat that would obliterate the calmness of the night. They cried endlessly, but there was no one to listen to them but me.

I retreated into the warmth that pressed against the length of my spine: the ridges of your lean torso easing my distress. The saltiness of evaporated sweat teased my sense of smell, bringing to my forebrain the recent memory of your body slick against mine, in the throes of passion. A latent heat rushed to fill my body.

I shifted against the damp sheets, turning to face your sleeping form. Your chest rose and fell with each breath you inhaled: filling you, nourishing you. The urgent heat dissipated as I watched you breathe. I reached across the space between us, intertwining our fingers. A thought occurred to me as your restful breaths lulled me back to sleep.

I think I love you.

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“What –“ he asked, looking at me earnestly, moisture collecting in his tear ducts.

“Read on,” I pleaded, my voice cracking.

“Please.”

He flipped the page.

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You left.

I love you.

You waited for me to say the words you have said to me so many times, too many times.

I love you.

I disappointed you.

I love you.

I wanted to say it so bad.

I love you.

I just don’t know why I can’t seem to.

I love you.

It should be easy.

I love you.

Why is it so hard to say?

I love you.

I’m afraid.

I love you.

I was afraid.

I love you.

That was me, trying to protect myself.

I love you.

But there’s no denying it.

I love you.

And you left anyway because I couldn’t say it.

I love you.

So, here I go.

I love you.

Because I have nothing else to lose.

I love you.

But I’m saying this as I stare at the ceiling.

I love you.

When I should really be saying it to you.

I love you.

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“Andrew,” I said, a teardrop racing down my cheek.

He looked at me, his chocolate eyes melting, clear streams running down the sides of his face. His halo glowed in the light of the setting sun.

“I love you.”