The Right Side of the Wrong Bed || Bruno Mars

Chapter 32

Bruno

Waking up.

People did it everday. There was nothing special about it. But, ever since that day I lost contact of my normal life, to me, there was now. Every single time I opened my eyes to another morning was a challenge.  I didn't know what to expect I'd see. If I look beside me, will her face be the first thing to fill my sight or only empty sheets? On the first days, it was always empty sheets and white walls I had been praying to see every morning that passed. Wishing to find myself in my room in my house at Studio City, in the hopes that maybe all this time, I only had been dreaming. But as days said hello and bid goodbye, that desire gradually faded, erased as sudden feelings for her began to build a home in my heart until all I wanted was to stay.

I opened my eyes.

—cream walls.

My anxiety subsided—

to find myself still stuck in this world where I had been desperately seeking for an escape from. I had found something but it wasn't an escape or anything that had to do with it. It was this thing that starts with "L" and ends with "E." It was hard to believe than in less than a hundred days, I'd feel that way for someone. I had thought maybe it was only infatuation. But did infatuation include sacrificing?

I tilted my head to the right and just as I was expecting, her freckled face warmed my eyes. She was sound asleep, her face smoothed and free of any curve of emotion.

I was expecting this. A butterfly invasion in my stomach at a glimpse of her.

I want to wake up everyday for the rest of my life like this, her face—flawed but perfect as described by my eyes—being the first things I see—

Realization hit me, and the butterflies suddenly transformed into something terrible like shards in my gut. A heavy mass of sadness sat in my heart all of a sudden.

I checked the time on the alarm clock placed atop the bedside table and did a mental computation.

One day.

Twenty-four hours.

One thousand four hundred and forty-four minutes.

These numbers were approximately all that was left of our final moments together—and she wasn't even aware of that. She shouldn't have to be, anyway—and as we lay there, they continued to reduce, getting fewer and fewer, lessening my chances. Because time never stop for anyone, not even for us or for the queen of England.

I gazed away and swallowed the prickling sensation in my throat. The fear of waking up the next day not finding her there beside me overwhelmed me.

Faye shifted, I felt, and as I looked beside me again, I found no body lying there. She had sat up and was now rubbing her eyes at me.

"Morning . . ." babe. Hesitation led me to keep the word unspoken.

"Good morning," she smiled and ran her fingers through her lengthy hair, effortlessly mesmerizing me.

"It's late. Don't you have work?" I queried.

She shook her head, stifling a yawn. "The whole day is intended for the preparation for the ball."

"Does that mean it's my day-off too because I'm going to the ball?"

She rolled her eyes, suppressing a smile, and jumped off bed. "I'll prepare breakfast."

At that, I sat up.

.

Bacons, eggs and coffee wafted the air of this final morning.