Two words. Three vowels. Four consonants. Seven letters. It can either cut you open to the core and leave you in ungodly pain, or it can free your soul and lift a tremendous weight off your shoulders: It's over. But if you have the courage to say go...
It's ridiculous, I know, and I hate to admit it. Most of the time, I can barely admit it to myself–I can barely put the words down on these pages. Yet I cannot help how I feel. He's the man I haven't even been with... But I still think of the looks we exchanged that made me burn up. I still think of the way his eyes drank me in. I still think of his sweet words that made my core react...
I can't help but wonder what if... What if...
The world is all about him; his name seems to follow me like a shadow. It's been five years since the last time I saw him, and he has moved on with his life.
Neither of us had a reason not to–it feels like nothing happened between us at all. I moved on with my life too, haven't I? But why do I occasionally find myself thinking about him, then?
He probably doesn't even remember my name anymore, and I'm trapped with this ache in my soul... Ache filled with regret. What if I dared to take it a step further? How messed up would that have been? At least then, I would have been able to scratch this itch that surfaces within me every so often.
His girlfriend had been mentioned a few times in the media, and it still breaks my heart every time. I hate myself for it. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to think this way. I don't want to feel this way.
What a fool I was...
What a fool I am.
Estella's gaze rose from the tiny journal that she always carried with her. With all the chaos that constantly pounded through her head, it proved to be a useful companion to clear her mind from thoughts that plagued her mind. It was a way to declutter her mind; put all the wonders and worries away, so that she would be able to let go of them entirely.
Some things, however, she seemed to be unable to let go of.
The journal was almost half full at this point; it was one of her most prized possessions that carried all of her secrets. Years had passed, yet she found herself always struggling with the same things.
'You're nothing.'
'I just don't feel it anymore.'
'You're a monster.'
'You're worthless.'
'I'll just leave it at that.'
The words were engraved in her mind, serving as a reminder every day of who she was as a person. She despised herself for it.
She shut the journal as if it would help her block the thoughts out of her mind. Estella wanted to tune out–she needed to tune out. She didn't come to Paris just to sulk over things that didn't quite work out. She didn't come here to drown in her past.
No, she was here for the future. The entire world was at her feet, and she was ready to take it. With her modeling career taking off, many called her the model of the decade. Bazaar, Vogue, Cosmopolitan. They all wanted her on their front pages. They all couldn't get enough of her. She was booked to the point where she had to refuse certain gigs because it was physically impossible to fulfill them all.
Her manager, Carlo, was more than pleased with the way her career advanced and the direction it was headed in.
She was the it-girl, she was the woman that young girls now looked up to.
Wanting to be like her. Wanting to look like her. Wanting to think like her. Wanting to talk like her.
Estella did her best to set a good example for them–even if she constantly had to fight her own dark thoughts, feeling as if she was a fraud that deceived the world. If only they all knew the chaos that was always in her mind.
On the bright side, right now, at least she was in the city that she loved. Estella was always fond of Paris–the city of love. The city where all the hopeless romantics wandered to–and those who only dared to dream about a movie-like love.
Her now good friend Yves Saint Laurent had invited her to be a part of his newest fashion show that took place in one of the most beautiful cities in the world–if you asked her. at least. The media labeled the fashion show as 'new,' and 'innovative,' and 'unlike anything the world had ever seen.' Estella could vouch that it was, in fact, true. She was excited about it–her career was about to launch to a whole new level, and she was ready for it.
Sitting at a cute little cafe, she pushed her designer sunglasses up her nose as she grabbed the newspaper from the empty table beside her. She took a sip of her mandatory morning latte that was served with a croissant, just about to flip through the pages. Her French wasn't the best, but she was able to catch a word here and there, and it was enough for her to make sense of the words that were in front of her.
Her heart dropped as her eyes set on the front page, where a familiar face greeted her. Estella didn't need to understand any words to understand what was going on when she spotted him on the front page.
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Freddie Mercury, in all his glory, along with the rest of his band.
He looked different–so different from the last time they saw each other five years ago. He cut his formerly long hair that used to frame his face, and now had a thick mustache sitting right underneath his nose. She never thought of him as a mustache kind of a man, but it suited him. She couldn't deny it. He wore a white tank top that showed off his muscular build, and she found it hard to separate her gaze from the sight.
Freddie looked good. Undeniably good. He aged like a fine wine.
Pushing her sunglasses up her nose, she observed the image of him, her perfectly manicured nail trailing over the image of him. A part of her wondered what he was up to in his everyday life. Did she ever cross his mind the way he did hers?
Queen was touring around Europe–she was familiar with the fact. How could she not be? The world was going crazy for them, following their every move, pleading for more of the art they created, and the band never failed to give.
What she didn't anticipate, however, was the fact that they'd be here during the time of her fashion show. The chances of the two of them meeting all over again were low, but Estella found herself hoping that maybe–just maybe–she'd run into him somewhere.
They'd exchange a quick glance, and he'd be able to see just how well she was doing. Just how happy she was.
