He’s so damn tall, I have to perch atop my toes.
And because I’ve forgotten how to speak, I manifest all the words I wish to say onto my lips, and press them against his cheek. Maybe it’s the hope warping my reality, but I swear I hear the sharp intake of his breath.
Did the glass break for him too?
“Thank you, Marlon,” I whisper once I withdraw.
He holds my gaze, and for a second I fear and hope he’s going to kiss me forreal. He doesn’t.
Rather, Marlon smiles at me, bowing his head
“Anytime, m’lady. Now, go on before your Mum takes any more paparazzi photos from behind the curtains.”
I turn, heading toward the door feeling like a new person. Before I open the door, I glance back. Marlon is in his car now, but he’s still watching me. As I meet his eyes, he waves.
Marlon, but not Marlon, all at once.
Twenty Nine
It was there all along.
Telling me, through the dreams I would have of Marlon's brown eyes, instead of Rafayel’s green ones.
It was there, in the way my heart would race at the sound of Marlon’s voice, at the way he would say my name.
In how I would crumble at the sight of his smile. A sight I want to commit to my being. To tattoo beneath my eyelids.
It was there, in our late night calls.
And even back then.
The truth would stare me in the face, when Marlon would infuriate me in ways that no one ever had before. He’s always been the only one able to crawl under my skin. To challenge me.
Throughout the better parts of my life, and the worse parts I’ve faced, he was always there. And through the better days and worse moments of his life, I was always there.
We’d always been lingering, within each other’s gravity. Nobody knows me quite like he does. It’s always been him.
And if the poets didn’t know us any better, they would call us soulmates.
Thirty
The world seems to remain the same,even as I wake up feeling entirely different.
Dad cooks breakfast for my family as normal, slotting scrambled eggs atop my plate as though I don’t have a raging swarm of butterflies at the pit of my stomach, eating away at my appetite.
Mum raves on about how we didn’t load the dishwasher correctly last night, chastising us and showing us once again the proper way, oblivious to the fact that Marlon’s face was floating before me.
Even now, as we all load ourselves into the car for our Sunday Mass, everything is as normal.
Nothing had changed, except everything had changed.
Only Ria seemed to understand something had shifted.
After Church, while my parents scour the grocery aisles for items on the list, Ria pulls me back.
“You didn’t tell me much about what happened yesterday with your date,” she says, her expression twisted in anticipation and a mock hurt.
I slow my pace, my heart racing. If I tell Ria now, if I voice it out loud, then it becomes real. If I keep in these feelings, there’s a possibility they could fade on their own.
