[A little note: This was a request for zobbiesqueen 8 – The way you said “I love you.” as an apology. from a list of angsty prompts. ]
For your listening pleasure 🎵
January is more than the start of a new year.
It’s a fresh start for them. A new us – that is what he calls it. That is what he tells her after they exchange silly grins and yell Happy New Years to each other in the split seconds that the clock strikes midnight. In the split seconds that fireworks erupt in the sky, he crushes her lips hungrily to his as if getting even a singular taste of her will never be enough.
It is never enough.
Bundled together with a heavy blanket he packed lying between them for warmth; the building they’ve broken into gives them a good view of New York Times Square. When they pull away reluctantly from each other, they spend some of the passing hours in silence; watching the tiny people down below – wondering what their stories were, how they met each other.
They spend the other half talking about things that matter, and things that don’t. School is their first topic; his enthusiasm at finishing his sophomore year is nearly the opposite of her lack of enthusiasm at finishing her junior year. She tells him she can’t wait to be out of here, to be free from the choice her parents made for her when her acceptance letter for Hartfeld came in the mail. He’ll never admit that a small part of him has always been afraid that her getting out of here – doesn’t include him.
They talk about the future with their knees pressed together and their shoulders touching. They talk about having kids – showing them what it’s like to be in a stable home. The kind of stability neither of them ever had; coming from broken homes. She thinks it’s the first time she’s ever wanted so much with someone – and he thinks it’s the first time he’s wanted so much from someone. Their whispers turn into rushed sentences the longer they talk and then loud laughter once he pours the champagne; glasses clinking together while they smile indulgently at their better half.
She thinks she can tell the exact moment where he’ll kiss her again, where the night will end up another memory she wants to play over and over again – on loop. His eyes does that little crinkle she knows so well, and smooth lips press passionately against softer ones; whisking away the quiet sadness still echoing inside her heart. She can’t let it stay there though. Doesn’t a new beginning bring an endless year of possibilities?
Underneath the stars, their clothes are peeled off one layer at a time – unhesitant fingers taking their time in exploring, as though its their first time. They bask in each other’s skin, fingers that kneed into flesh, that tease each other. They know where brings the most pleasure and how long before they become undone. She trembles when he’s had her, feeling vulnerable in a way she used to never think possible – he grins in a way that makes her think she’ll be his girl for a lifetime. And when their lips meet, again and again – she embraces him, desperate for his light – hoping the happiness he promises will wash away the coldness of December.
February starts off the way it seems to start for nearly everyone. The chores around the house are broken evenly; usually nothing is out of place from an almost spotless apartment. And school has mostly kept them too busy to stress about the little things. The little things that should matter. Forehead kisses slowly disappear. The effortlessly teasing between them slowly becomes brittle, threatening to shatter under the weight of silent pressure and the spur-of-the-moment cuddles has stopped – leaving the bed feeling colder, even as they burrow themselves into sheets too thick for the season. The little cracks of their relationship begin to show – chips here and there that would crack under anymore weight. Habitual rituals and pass-times of binge-watching, cooking and dancing – these are the things that keeps them from exploding, or sinking into the lurking oblivion that always waits when they least expect it.
It is still too cool to stay outside for long hours, and often plans are cancelled with their friends to seek out new adventures. They stay inside; lying in tangled sheets, entwinning fingers and tracing patterns across sweaty skin. They are not looking for fights; they are looking for another reason to stay, another happy moment – he counts the faint wrinkles underneath her eyes and she stares into his golden browns as evening becomes dawn.
March is when the masks begins to come back. They slip slowly into their smiles, their laughter and even in the little gestures they used to reassure for their eyes only. It is the masks they think they’ve abandoned in their promise from January that threatens to unravel. From the two years of falling fast and hard for each other, like two burning stars destined to collide. The season brings rain that keeps them angsty; watching from the window as they lock themselves inside separate rooms when the stress is too much – or when tearing each other’s clothes within quick hurry to shut out the rest of the world is no longer enough.
The mask is different everyday. Sometimes it isn’t there. Sometimes, it’s in short bursts. Other times it lingers even after he falls reluctantly asleep, while she stares helplessly at the ceiling – waiting but never finding quiet.
His mask is half-angry and half-overbearing when she tries to pull away, when she tries to slip into herself. Her mask is half-distant and half-sad; wrapped around a string wound so tightly that it clings around her throat, making it hard for her to breathe. The only option left is letting the mask settle between them, turning the air tense as they wait for spring.
April brings a lot of make-up sex and pretense. They find strength in their false reality; unloading their unresolved feelings through every kiss, through every thrust of passion. As flowers start to bloom, their cycle of happiness returns a tenfold, as though it’s never disappeared in the first place. Suddenly, they cannot get enough of each other – not even after ravishing each other for an hour. Maybe two. They sneak off during mid-afternoon, skipping classes to meet in one of their favourite spots. Hasty fingers quickly find each other’s embrace beneath the sun, and even beneath the sunset. Passion burns brighter than ever before, with every touch, with every nail bite – scratch or kiss. Passion flares the moment their eyes meet, the moment they can drink in the familiar pieces of themselves they recognize in each other, as their own likeness.
May brings many showers. There is no longer a cool chill to early mornings and late evenings – only a downpour of droplets meeting them at every turn. The chilly air may be gone but it still permeates inside their quiet apartment – unspoken and unprecedented by the rollercoaster of emotions that comes with sporadic changes, spur-of-the-moment decisions and fights that ends in angry tears.
Neither of them cries in front of each other. Crying is a sign of weakness and she hates being weak in front of anyone – especially in front of him. Crying is a sign of resilience and endurance – he must endure what happens in May. He thinks maybe it’s his fault, maybe he hasn’t done enough. And then he shakes his head – he’s always the one stretching – reaching for her; only to come up empty when he opens his hands and finds only a piece of her heart – but never the entire thing.
Their home is filled with uncertainty and whispers of what has always made them different resurfaces. She can’t stand his taste in music. He hates finding cigarette butts in their apartment. He always leaves the TV on. She never cleans their apartment. Their fridge is always empty and the only common grief they share are empty pizza boxes from the night before; only after another late cram session until exams are finally over.
June is the break they both need. When Hartfeld has releases their shackles, they spend sometime apart – often by a friend of a friends’. Their apartment is cold without the laughter and happiness that exuded every crook and corner, and the promises they made in January are less than echoes of a past. A past they sometimes never recognize. A past that hits them the moment they step in, only to quickly retreat from after slamming the door shut behind them. They make excuses to avoid each other; desperate to find a way back to the quiet calm they knew before their edges started to chip and no longer fit each other.
July is a wake-up call. He tells her how much he misses her and she tells him the same. They fall into familiar banter; and déjà vu strikes their consciousness before they quickly shove it away. She remembers to finish the laundry on time and hums the half the soundtrack of one of his favourite albums. He remembers to shut off the tv after tucking her into bed and spooning behind her. Slowly, they begin picking back the pieces they left in June back together. Piece by piece, hoping they will find the entire picture again.
August is quiet. The trees are beginning to fall; a slow descent into the chilly part of the year. They visit their families in August. He is always better at calling and making sure she goes to bed with her head clear and her heart full, while she is better at waking him up in the morning to remind him that she loves him.
September and October are the start of fall quarter. The leaves have become a dull brown with the empty and half-fulfilled promises they left behind in August. And with every slow descent back into the Earth comes the frigid air, comes another memory they swore they would never forget. Jackets are often switched out for coats; their boots are always out the door before the other barely has the chance to say goodbye. And slowly, they are reminded of May. She pushes the thought away with her dad’s old type writer and tattoo appointments with customers when the days are too slow, he hides behind probability and calculus; dancing when even numbers can’t shut his brain off. The house chores and schedules keep them busy until November.
November is cold. She prefers it, enjoys the blistering air that always leaves a numbing bite whenever she is out too long, whenever she ignores his advice for the proper clothes. The cold gets her out of bed within minutes of waking up with a hurried good morning. The cold doesn’t do the same for him. He hates the bitterness that comes with the cold; the way she shuts him out again with her shrugs and two-worded answers. He hates what November is doing to them. He’s desperately trying to remember January every time she leaves their door.
She digs her fingers in her pocket every time she’s outside, searching for a familiar relief of smooth paper between her fingers as she stares up Hartfeld stretching acres around her. She doesn’t remember it being this cold last year, or the year before that when they first met and all she used to think about was how long she’d have to wait to see him again. When things used to be as simple as I’d like to see you again, rather than as forced as I’m fine or I don’t want to talk about it. She misses when there wasn’t a tightness around her neck, like a noose that she yearns but can’t get rid of. She misses when early spring made it easier to remember how much they love each other in the first place.
December is the closure they both need but never speak of. Not at first. In the early days, they titter and tip-toe on eggshells around each other until everything comes crashing down. All the pent up emotional turmoil building from the year behind them. It all bottles down to this moment – grabbing and yelling at each other, breaking even the toughest parts of their armour with every word. Their armours are laid to rest, bare and naked with tears blurring his eyes, and sobs wrecking her chest. It is too late to take back words now, too late to swallow them back as the tears fall.
He’s fed up with waiting for her walls to crumble. It had taken all of his to snuff out the icy chills from her heart. She’s scrambling to make him believe in their January lie, their promise of forever – despite the frigidness of herself. But January is a lie – a falsehood they tried convincing themselves could be real. He doesn’t want to leave but he doesn’t think he’ll survive staying.
Promises of forever tumble from her lips but he can’t take it, he hates that he can’t take it. He hates that her apologies are always a little too late. Always a little too flat. And she’s tired of fighting their battle – fighting and straining the barriers between love and hate.
December brings the absoluteness of snow, the uncertainty and fear, the emptiness that increases with each passing day that fills with frigid air. It steals the brightness and warmth of the sun and gives them a taste of darkness. And when the only answer in the morning from her pleas and half-strung apologies of I love you becomes the deafening silence of him leaving, January is their harshest lie and their hardest goodbye.
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