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He watches her sleep
breathe in, breathe out.
Like a metrenome, keeping measured time of the breaths he takes, the number of times his eyes flit over to the door and back to her. It's white oak, and splintered wood. The door. It's his fault, really, he should have been more careful when he said he could fix it... it had a particularly annoying way of getting stuck with just a screwdriver.
''Men can't all be Mr. Fix-its'', Chakor told him afterwards when Suraj stood with the tool loosely in his hands and shame draped about his face. If they were, she said, ''If all men could fix things, then we wouldn't have a world.''
Breathe in, breathe out.
It's one of those Saturday mornings, where the long-awaited sun doesn't come and the rain takes its place with static noise like God's bullets bouncing off the windowpanes. The neighbors are making breakfast, he can smell it through the window. The blue, translucent curtains she picked out last week are drawn. The heating system groans and vibrates and chugs along with the last of its feeble life, and he wonders when it'll finally break down so he can have an excuse to fix something, even though he can't. He is one of those men who was not made to fix things. His eyes wander back to her sleeping form, beside him. She is stretched out on the bed like a cat, in a classic death position. From this angle, he can only see one of her perfectly arched brows, her chin, her light brown hair, her back. She never faces him when she sleeps.
Breathe in, breathe out.
''I can't because it makes me self-conscious,'' she says. So he looks at her when she is vulnerable. She is the most beautiful girl he's ever seen in his life. Perfect, golden skin that stays the shade it is, rich pink lips, cat-like, brilliant brown eyes, brown wavy hair that does whatever she wants it to whenever she wants it to. She looks good in every color, every article of clothing she puts on. When she's sick she gives a radiant glow; when she cries she looks like an angel. And she's not annoying, or stupid, either.
When he met her first after years he thought someone perfect should have some flaw. If she wasn't dumb or prissy, she must be mentally retarded, equipped with an IQ of 70, max. But she wasn't. She must be obsessive-compulsive, and her hands must be wrinkled from the soap-water she washes them with all day. She wasn't, and her hands were smooth. So then he thought she must be autistic, schizophrenic, or have multiple personalities. She must have her tongue cut out, or have irritable bowel syndrome, or pick her nose in public. But she didn't.
He traces her jawline with his thumb.
Breathe in, breathe out.
She is perfect. The rain is morphing from a drizzle to a blizzard of droplets, each liquid jigsaw piece pounding his ceiling like they want to bring down the world. His hand that has been tracing her jaw now reaches her neck, and he spans its width, surprisingly discovering that his hand can wrap around half of it.
Breathe in, breathe out.
''You are beautiful, Chakor. Time has passed, and I have discovered new things about a new me. You have truly changed me. Still, I'm scared, because I'm growing a deep feeling inside my heart that I just can't explain. I truly don't know what your feelings are. I want to receive love and trust from you.''
''In the beginning, things didn't seem to go very well. I actually had my doubts about you, and I wasn't sure you were actually taking me seriously. But it was too late to turn back. I had already fallen for you and I wasn't really looking forward to giving up so soon. I tried so hard to know you. I wasn't going to let you go so easily!''
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Even the timing of her breath is regular; she is not tainted by the impartial, molding ugliness people attain in sleep. God. Oh god. He wants to kiss her right now. The curtains taint the sky lights drifting in from outside, and everything in the room is awash with slate-blue lace. The flowered patterns envelop her like a shroud, but he is alone clothed in shadow. She stirs, opens an eye, notices him. Smiles, and slurs out a groggy 'Suarj' before going back to sleep. He doesn't answer her. and looks to the door again and back to her.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
''I've kept my feelings for you contained as long as I can and true, honest feelings should not be contained and kept quiet forever. There is so much about you that people don't see. They only see the physical. but my feelings for you is more than skin deep. You mean so much to me. Just seeing your smiling face or hearing you heart-melting voice brightens up my worst days and makes them more than just bearable. I dream of you day in and day out; you're the only one on my mind now.''
''I am in love with you Chakor Suraj Rajvanshi.''
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He watches her sleep
breathe in, breathe out.
Like a metrenome, keeping measured time of the breaths he takes, the number of times his eyes flit over to the door and back to her. It's white oak, and splintered wood. The door. It's his fault, really, he should have been more careful when he said he could fix it... it had a particularly annoying way of getting stuck with just a screwdriver.
''Men can't all be Mr. Fix-its'', Chakor told him afterwards when Suraj stood with the tool loosely in his hands and shame draped about his face. If they were, she said, ''If all men could fix things, then we wouldn't have a world.''
Breathe in, breathe out.
It's one of those Saturday mornings, where the long-awaited sun doesn't come and the rain takes its place with static noise like God's bullets bouncing off the windowpanes. The neighbors are making breakfast, he can smell it through the window. The blue, translucent curtains she picked out last week are drawn. The heating system groans and vibrates and chugs along with the last of its feeble life, and he wonders when it'll finally break down so he can have an excuse to fix something, even though he can't. He is one of those men who was not made to fix things. His eyes wander back to her sleeping form, beside him. She is stretched out on the bed like a cat, in a classic death position. From this angle, he can only see one of her perfectly arched brows, her chin, her light brown hair, her back. She never faces him when she sleeps.
Breathe in, breathe out.
''I can't because it makes me self-conscious,'' she says. So he looks at her when she is vulnerable. She is the most beautiful girl he's ever seen in his life. Perfect, golden skin that stays the shade it is, rich pink lips, cat-like, brilliant brown eyes, brown wavy hair that does whatever she wants it to whenever she wants it to. She looks good in every color, every article of clothing she puts on. When she's sick she gives a radiant glow; when she cries she looks like an angel. And she's not annoying, or stupid, either.
When he met her first after years he thought someone perfect should have some flaw. If she wasn't dumb or prissy, she must be mentally retarded, equipped with an IQ of 70, max. But she wasn't. She must be obsessive-compulsive, and her hands must be wrinkled from the soap-water she washes them with all day. She wasn't, and her hands were smooth. So then he thought she must be autistic, schizophrenic, or have multiple personalities. She must have her tongue cut out, or have irritable bowel syndrome, or pick her nose in public. But she didn't.
He traces her jawline with his thumb.
Breathe in, breathe out.
She is perfect. The rain is morphing from a drizzle to a blizzard of droplets, each liquid jigsaw piece pounding his ceiling like they want to bring down the world. His hand that has been tracing her jaw now reaches her neck, and he spans its width, surprisingly discovering that his hand can wrap around half of it.
Breathe in, breathe out.
''You are beautiful, Chakor. Time has passed, and I have discovered new things about a new me. You have truly changed me. Still, I'm scared, because I'm growing a deep feeling inside my heart that I just can't explain. I truly don't know what your feelings are. I want to receive love and trust from you.''
''In the beginning, things didn't seem to go very well. I actually had my doubts about you, and I wasn't sure you were actually taking me seriously. But it was too late to turn back. I had already fallen for you and I wasn't really looking forward to giving up so soon. I tried so hard to know you. I wasn't going to let you go so easily!''
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Even the timing of her breath is regular; she is not tainted by the impartial, molding ugliness people attain in sleep. God. Oh god. He wants to kiss her right now. The curtains taint the sky lights drifting in from outside, and everything in the room is awash with slate-blue lace. The flowered patterns envelop her like a shroud, but he is alone clothed in shadow. She stirs, opens an eye, notices him. Smiles, and slurs out a groggy 'Suarj' before going back to sleep. He doesn't answer her. and looks to the door again and back to her.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
''I've kept my feelings for you contained as long as I can and true, honest feelings should not be contained and kept quiet forever. There is so much about you that people don't see. They only see the physical. but my feelings for you is more than skin deep. You mean so much to me. Just seeing your smiling face or hearing you heart-melting voice brightens up my worst days and makes them more than just bearable. I dream of you day in and day out; you're the only one on my mind now.''
''I am in love with you Chakor Suraj Rajvanshi.''
Save Save
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