Stevie
The normal chilly breeze rushes into my door hurriedly as soon as a crack of light appears from the outside. It stumbles across my cheeks, leaving a slight redness there, before tipping and rushing straight down my spine, which releases a wave of goosebumps across my whole body. A sigh escapes my lips as I step out into the chilly air.
The only bad thing about working so early in the morning is that my commute is always ice cold, while my way home, especially in the summer, is warm. I tend to always carry my jacket in my arms since it's too hot with my brisk pace.
With a quick push of my thumb, the lid on my coffee canteen snaps open, revealing the steaming, caramel colored liquid lying just beneath. Just as I raise the cup to my lips, I'm warmly greeted by the scent of vanilla before I begin to taste it. The warmth and sweetness of my favored drink runs all over me, not only giving me some of my lost body heat back but drawing out my bubbly personality, which was slightly wrecked this morning by my loss of sleep.
The chatter of people feels my ears next, somehow just now hitting me that I'm in the morning rush. Many people listen to music on their morning commutes, sometimes the volume being so loud I can catch a glimpse of what they're listening too. I, however, like to listen to the sounds of the city. It wakes me up in the mornings, especially the car horns that can give anyone quite the jolt when they are in the right proximity. Just after this, the sounds of birds chirping fills the air as they dive towards the ground, trying to beat one another for scraps of bread and crackers, accidentally dropped by passersby. Regardless of how much I love it, this morning it has acted as white noise, aiding in the amplification of my relentless thoughts.
It's been eleven days since the party with no contact from Liam. Heat rushes up to my cheeks at that thought, since he's obviously not thinking about me. It's not often for me that I connect with a person on that level, and even more rare when it's a man. I've come to the conclusion that my infatuation is rooted in having a connection with another person—a feeling that's long been suppressed.
The last time I had a boyfriend was three years ago when I first moved to Britain. We met at the same coffee shop I go to with Flora every week. Stress was eating me alive after the big move, so I decided to sketch to calm my nerves. It was then I caught someone watching me from the table over. Instantly, he blushed, stuttering over his apology to which I laughed at. Somehow, he got enough words out to start a conversation but forgot to tell me his name before I had to leave. Every single day he came back to the coffee shop until I did again four days later and introduced himself as Oliver—Olly as I eventually called him—and asked me out on a date. From there, our relationship blossomed.
Olly was the exact image of a person I saw myself with: smart, kind, and happy. Our intellects rivaled each other's, sparking debates, but also learning in every conversation. The one thing he lacked was the ability to make good jokes, so we rarely laughed unless it was something that I said. Making people laugh was and are one of my favorite things, so it didn't bother me until the end of our relationship. His major was English, specifically creative writing, so he left me little letters around the house, which was cute, at first. Words never came easily to him when spoken, so whenever he needed to tell me his feelings, instead of picking up a conversation, he picked up a pen. It bothered me—the unwillingness to have a conversation with me—but it was how he communicated, even if I told him my true feelings.
The issue came when we professed our love for one another. Mine came in the form of words the first time, and his by using letter. The number of times he wrote I love you on paper was infinite, yet I could count the number of times he said it in person on my fingers, or well, it seemed like it. For six months, we never fought once until I brought up the fact of his feelings only being written towards me. The fight lasted weeks, but never once in that fight did he tell me he loved me to my face, or why he was such a closed off person. I'm one to talk, being closed off myself, as he pointed out. Trust is earned, however, which means it needs to go both ways. It's hard to show someone your soul who hides there's in return, so I was also closed off, but I never tried to be.
