Chapter 1 : Act 1
| ||Rating: 15+||Chapter Reviews: 4|
Background: Font color:
When you're lying next to me
Love is going through to me.
Oh it's beautiful.
Without meaning to, we compare people between each other. Otherwise, where is the expression there is not another like her/him coming from?
They say that love stories do not resemble one another, that each time a new love blossoms, one switches to a higher level, where they get to feel differently because of the experience they have, becuaseof the fact of once being filled with similar feelings, but knowing less of them.
To be comfortable with this reality can be sometimes difficult to achieve because to put away things of the past or close them in boxes on which dust is meant to settle means starting from zero.
I would say that there is no zero. There is living the present, something you can't reach without all those things and people you leave behind. But isn't it hard?
But what about that famous statement? That as one only lives true love once in their lives, then the rest are just trying steps, that lead them to or away from it? In this case, if that one true love remains somewhere behind, is one's ability to love somehow canceled as well?
I met people who say they will never love the way they loved before, that they no longer have what to give. What hope is there left anymore, when one's willingness to give is perished or consumed.
When the past remains an ideal and there is no point of comparison to it, what chances does the future any longer have?
I am wasted away,
I made a million mistakes.
Am I too late?
Albus walked from the bed to the window, then from the window to the bed and so on. It was a harsh waiting, but he knew the waiting was harder for Autumn, so he tried to not show how irritated he actually was.
Despite the bad moment, Autumn was cheerful and lovely. The smile wouldn’t let her lips, as she kept talking all along. So Albus tried his best. He kept talking with her. He kept his smile. Though, the walking, back and forth, helped him. It just felt like he was actually doing something. He just wished he could do something – anything. But he was useless. Despite it all, Autumn treated him as he could do magic. He could. Though, not the magic she needed.
“Al, my dear, I spend this whole day in my bed, so I could not possibly guess such a thing. That’s why I’m asking: Is the floor burning? Because there’s no other reason I could find for you changing the path once and again,” her lovely smile carried the words out with a power of life only she could afford.
“Autumn, you are the strangest creature I have ever met,” he replied, walking to her bed once again.
“Thanks,” she laughed, but not with the same strength as earlier. It seemed that every try of showing life and power brought even more weakness in return.
Autumn was, indeed, the strangest of creatures. She had a lovely surface over a strong will. Some days, Albus thought she’d climb the highest of mountains without having a single hair moved from its right place. Somehow, even now, he still thought she would. He really thought she would get up from that bed and climb that mountain. Miracles could happen. However, not in that case.
Autumn looked out the window for some seconds. Observing her every move from that close, on the corner of her bed, he knew something was wrong. The second she turned her eyes from the window to the blanket covering half of her body, she blinked nervously, like a child who made the mistake to look too much into the sun and now was trying to see normally once again.
Unlike children, Autumn didn’t seem to get better. Albus saw on her face something the pretty face never showed before: fear. Without moving her eyes anywhere else from the blanket she set them on, she hastily searched for his hand. He caught hers tightly, the despair revealing in his eyes – she was trembling.
Although both knew what was going on, Autumn acted like everything was perfectly normal when saying, “I loved France, Al,” she nodded simply, holding his hand with all the power she had –which wasn’t actually much – as her eyes, despite her inner fight, watered.
“I loved France, too, Autumn,” he replied, trying to keep himself from crying. “And I loved...,” he continued holding her hand even tighter, as if he had held much enough, he had kept her there. But he immediately felt the little power in her little hand becoming none, light fading from her eyes and color fading away her cheeks.
“I ALSO LOVED YOU!” he has cried as if there had still been any chance for her to hear – there wasn’t.
“I love you! I love you! I...”
It was all over...
Story inspired by the song Addicted of Enrique Iglesias (quotes above).
Other Similar Stories
When in Paris