Lonerism

Pink Skies

A.N. A cute idea that I somehow managed to make sad. I'd call it a talent, but whenever I'm writing something these days my mind just ends up taking it down sad and depressing routes. This is the result. Sad/happy. It's nice. I hope you guys like it.

Pink Skies

His favourite colour was pink.

He liked tulips, and cats, and old cars. He always smiled at elderly couples. And he loved the beach, watching the pink skies at sunrise and feeling the sand beneath his feet.

Looking back, I admire him a lot more now than I did back then. When I met him I was young and naive, blinded by my own arrogance. I kept telling myself that it would never work, not with him, and I believed it. I never even gave him a chance, I realised, as I began my walk down memory lane.

I started seeing all of the moments that we shared together over the years, all the times that he smiled at me in the hallways at school, the happiest sort of smile, like he'd found everything that he'd been looking for; and I'd remember how he used to laugh, how tightly he'd hold me at night whenever I stayed over, and how the whole time I'd be thinking - no, it's not him, he's not the one.

I mean, he can't be.

Then I remembered the day that it all began. The first time we kissed, it was underneath the bleachers at school, our faces covered in shadow, the entire field silent but for our wispy breathing.

He made the first move. He was taller than me, and older than me, and I was sure he didn't have a care in the world. So he leaned in close to my face, a smile on the twists of his lips, and kissed me right there. Back then, I should have thought that it was the most magical moment in the world, and that he was the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen, but I didn't.

As he kissed me, I remember how I almost let go, how I almost let myself melt into him, and how I almost enjoyed it.

Sure, he was good looking, in a way, but I didn't feel that spark, that electrifying pulse all through my body - maybe not a physical feeling, but I wanted something inside to assure me that he was the one. But all I felt was nothing. Nothing at all.

I always thought that he was pretty weird looking. Not in an unattractive way, his face just looked unusual, his lips big, and squared 80's-looking glasses propped on his nose. His hair was a colour somewhere between brown and blond, pinched behind his ears to frame his face, and his voice was so deep it sounded as though he were standing on a beach somewhere, shouting as loud as he could over the endless ocean water.

But he was under the bleachers with me, his big hands gently placed over mine, and his lips against mine. When he pulled apart, he smiled, and right then I knew that it would never work.

I was sure that he was everything some guys must look for in a soulmate. He was kind, and his smile was perfect, and I could see him making someone so happy. A part of me knew even then that it would never be me.

"Floyd," I said, breaking the silence that followed our first kiss. "We shouldn't. What if someone sees?"

"Fuck them," he teased, kneeling in and stealing another from my lips. I should have stopped him, but I didn't. "I'd kiss you in front of the whole school if I could."

"You better not do anything like that," I warned him.

He showed up at my house with a bouquet of pink tulips a few weeks after that. Luckily, I spotted him from my bedroom window before he managed to ring the doorbell, and legged it straight down the stairs.