18. eighteen
eighteen
LYSANDRA
It had been a chilly October evening in Edinburgh.
The streets were foggy, umbrellas hung atop the heads of my Scottish companions, and the stones beneath were laced with rain.
As I tilted my chin upward, I noticed the way the orange leaves swayed in the air.
My boots clicked with each step. The scarf around my neck shielded me from the cold.
I brought it up to my lips and held tighter onto my umbrella and my hot coffee cup.
I’d been walking around St. Andrew’s Square. The sun was setting, and the sky was painted amber. Golden lights flashed with every glance.
Then, I saw a black iron bench situated at the center of the square. The bench was facing the tall monument before it. The same place where Ezra and I had been sitting at, many years ago. I couldn’t forget that night. I didn’t think I ever would.
I had uncovered myself in a way I never had before, and since then, I was never the same.
I came to visit this place often. As if I could relive a faded memory. I watched as the holograms of our youth appeared. How I hated that he slipped through my fingers like sand, that he was an apparition of my dreams. I let out a breath, as if I could exhale the pressure in my chest.
Is this what love felt like? Because I hated it.
I felt like I was a ghost visiting the scene of my death. The beginning of my decomposition.
Despite the length of years, I still held onto my dusty green journal. Its pages had been worn at the edges, and the cover had been peeling. I’d done what I could to keep my thoughts on the pages from decaying.
I flipped through the beige sheets. Only a few empty spaces left for me to fill. The emotions I felt this moment seemed fitting for me to unload my pain all over notebook. And so, I began my writing ritual.
Occasionally, I would lift my eyes to glance at the strollers around the square. A gust of wind pierced my back as I runed the vellum below me.
Taking a sip from my coffee, inserting an earbud into my ear, and forcing back the tears that fought to slip.
But it was my own fault. I was the one who harbored a broken heart within me. Like a pathological masochist, I frequently visited the site where Ezra and me created a deep bond with one another.
There had been a magnetic force that caused me to look up, and my pen slowed. I spotted the person who had been haunting my nights since our departure, five years ago. He had been standing by the grand monument, his hands tucked in the pockets of his black trench coat.
His expression had been still. I caught him mid-thought before his eyes widened and his lips gaped. He jolted. I watched as he gulped, then sauntered toward me.
He claimed the space beside me with hesitation, perhaps unsure whether he could stay within my proximity.
White puffs left my lips as I spoke, “What brings you to this side of town?”
“A ghost from the past.”
He read my mind.
I swiftly closed my notebook. I knew that he noticed when his azure stare locked on the ink stains scattered across my palms.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Ezra enunciated, motioning his chin toward the book in my grasp. I moved it closer to my chest, extending my arm over it.
“No,” I replied.
Ezra hummed and switched his gaze to the tall statue before us. He wasn’t going to insist. Good, because then he would know that I was writing about him.
Or maybe he wouldn’t.
I had given him the impression that I hated him. Perhaps he wouldn’t realize that I was still under his spell. Hopefully, he wouldn’t acknowledge the way I stuttered whenever he was around, or the way my hands trembled when he sat down next to me, or the beat of my heart whenever I saw him.
I promised myself I would be different, that I wouldn’t remain within the fortress of my enclosure.
Vulnerability didn’t always bring heartache. American researcher, Brene Brown, claimed that vulnerability brought happiness. I was about to find out if her statements were true.
“Fine. I’ll share one poem,” I said.
Ezra turned, a brow quirking upward.
I held up the book before me and began, “I watch as you fight to live a life without me. There is a glass window that stands between us, giving me a clear view of your being, strong as the walls of Jericho.”
“Short and sweet,” he chirped. His lips curved at the corners; he seemed pleased that I had finally shared a piece of my journal. As if he’d been waiting years for this moment. What he didn’t know was that I had been living all these years with anxiety to be this close to him again.
Even if we never rekindled our past relationship, it didn’t matter. It was his person that was significant.
“What has you so tortured?” he questioned.
I examined the difference in his features.
He was a man now, no longer a teenage boy.
So many years, so much time without him.
And still, I asked myself why he decided to lie to me.
His glasses shone under the brilliance of the lamps behind the bench.
A strand of his raven-black hair fell over his forehead.
Over the past five years, I had fantasized about the outcome of our romance if he had not betrayed me.
A small smile appeared on my face. If only he knew. I simply replied, “A shadow that accompanies me.”
With all of my willpower, I withheld my hand from reaching for his.
“Guess we are still twin souls,” he replied. “Even after all this time.”
The words left me. If I spoke anymore, I would reveal my deepest truths. And I couldn’t take that risk.
“I should go,” I said.
He tilted his chin downward. Gloss covered his eyes as I watched the muscles in his jaw contracting. I grabbed my notebook, my pen, my coffee cup, and stood.
“Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
“Night,” he replied.
I wished that he would come after me. I closed my eyes, willing him to run and stop me from leaving. When I found myself in the middle of a bustling crowd, I knew he wouldn’t find me.