✿ l u k e ✿
I've imagined what it would be like to see Eleanor up close. But I've never imagined it actually happening, and right now, Eleanor's right next to me. Since I always keep my sketch pad near me 24/7, my paintings of her always give me a sense of comfort that a candid part of her is always with me. But she's here. And she's not just a painting or a thought anymore—she's a breathing masterpiece.
"Hi," she says with a grin. "I don't think I've ever seen you in school."
I internally panic. I don't think she knows that I can't speak. I don't think most of the people at my school know. And the reason for that is because they simply don't care. They all probably assumed that I was just a silent outcast who always sits alone, and who never raises his hand in class.
I offer her a simple smile and shrug.
"Cool Cobain shirt, by the way," she says with glee in her voice. I think she always sounds happy when she speaks.
I bite my lip and look down.
"C'mon man, talk to me. I don't even know your name." She flashes me a closed-lip smile and nudges my shoulder repeatedly.
What should I do?
This is the problem with my condition. I'm tired of always trying to find a way to tell someone that I can't exactly speak. I'm tired of telling people what I can't do. I'm tired of seeing pity in their eyes after I tell my horrific tale of woe.
"Hey Eleanor!" someone calls from two seats behind us, interrupting my thoughts.
Eleanor lifts herself up from the seat and peeks behind. I stay still and fiddle with the pencil in my hand.
"Come sit with us. We have something to tell you," the girl continues.
I look up at Eleanor and see her smile. God I love that smile. She looks at me apologetically and starts to get up from her seat.
No no no no no.
"I'm sorry, we'll talk another time," she says with a little wave before disappearing from my sight.
I slump down on my seat miserably and close my eyes with a prolonged sigh of frustration. I've been imagining talking to her for as long as I can remember, and I had the chance to just two minutes ago.
And I had to ruin it because I can't fucking speak.
I know she made conversation with me just for the sake of being polite. Because that's the way she is—she's a people person. She's aware that a lot of people know her name, and she's constantly nice to everyone, even to complete strangers. But would she ever consider having a friendship with me wherein she's the only one who talks and tells stories? I've figured from the way she speaks that she's used to someone replying to her and bantering about with her. I don't think she's used to being the only one who's trying to keep the conversation alive and people being silent around her. She radiates her happiness whenever she's around people that you can't help but feel the same.
And that's so amazing. Despite my inability to speak, I still felt that ounce of happiness. I felt so empty before she sat next to me. Just having her near me was enough to make my lips curve into a smile.
Eleanor Eleanor Eleanor.
Eleanor Matthews is in my advanced literature class. Apparently, she swapped schedules and now here she is, sitting three rows ahead of me, her glowing auburn hair in plain view.
Of course everyone is delighted to have her in class. The boys around her are already making a move to get her to notice them, but all she does is smile and laugh—out of pure politeness. I turn back to my laptop and continue writing my essay while using the format on the board as a guide. Whenever I look up, my eyes automatically fixate on Eleanor before focusing on the board. It's because I know she's there, and I can't help but look at her. That's the disadvantage of having something so beautiful near you—you get too distracted to even do what you're supposed to do.
"As usual, your work never ceases to amaze me, Mr. Hemmings," Mr. Dixon announces from the front. Pairs of eyes turn to me, including Eleanor's. "I especially like this part of your essay."
Mr. Dixon clears his throat. "Love shouldn't feel like a rushed Saturday night. Love should feel like an overwhelmingly lazy Sunday afternoon, where the television is on and you feel so comfortable and free."
I see a few heads nod. Eleanor turns back to me and flashes me a smile along with a thumbs-up. I feel my heart flutter. I don't think she knows that she's the reason why I describe love the way I do; why I even have an idea about love.
"I love the way you detail your essays with metaphors, Luke. Your mind is so creative. Not just work-wise, but entirely. I think you should be in 'more advanced literature class,'" Mr. Dixon says with a hearty laugh. "I'm dying to read your finished short story at the end of the semester."
I nod and sink back in my seat. I peek up to look at Eleanor and widen my eyes when I see that she's already looking back at me. She's holding up her notebook with three words scribbled on them.
So am I, she had written.
i honestly love this story so much its so cute awawAWwaw can i be eleanor pls fuk
so anyway i felt infinite the other day bc we were on top of the world and staring at the tree tops and having a blast. life is beautiful wow ok bye idk why im rambling so much
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masterpiece ✧ hemmings (on hold)Fanfiction
❝Your paintings are amazing, but Luke, you're the best kind of art there is.❞ There are three facts about Luke: one, Luke can't speak. It's been that way since he got involved in a car accident thirteen years ago. Two, he has the biggest crush on th...