The Art of Romanticism | DISCONTINUED

ONE

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The alluring blue light flashing against the large display of his phone pulled Griffin Alvarado's attention for the noise around him. The drunken voices and off tune singing faded into white noise as he zeroed in on flood of messages rattling his phone closer towards the edge of the marble countertop. He snatched it, quickly and eagerly, ignoring all the other notifications until his eyes lit up upon noticing one name.

Mercedes.

They had been texting all of summer. Her quick witted replies and sassy remarks distracted him from shooting scenes, remembering his lines, and answering simple interview questions. How could he recite strings of affection to a costar when all he wanted was to whisper his heart as poetry into the only ears he would want to see that vulnerability. Griffin had been reduced to starting at her instagram posts, entranced by her selfies, the bigger than life personality projected through her captions. She made him feel like walking on glass was akin to floating through space, time drifting elegantly as they stared into each other's eyes. He wanted to see her, touch her; fuck, he needed to hear her.

Griffin imagines that her black hair is as silky as the most expensive silk money can buy: smooth and shining and capable of sliding through his fingers like a gentle waterfall. He imagines the way she must feel and smell: soft and delicate, with a touch of rose and apples. Dark skin that illuminated when the sun kissed her just right, a natural perfection to display nature's favor for her. His infatuation was made clear through his awkward borderline obsessive request to finally meet her in person. They set up a time and place and Griffin had never felt like such a girl before. He counted down the days until their fated meeting, practiced the exact tune of his voice for their first conversation, surely to be a serenade of his proclaimed affection. Staring at her photos became a nightly routine, a precursor to dreaming about her and envisioning the shape of her against his. 

On the date of their meeting, Griffin could barely contain his heart. The organ made leaps and jumps, stubbornly refusing to beat at a normal pace. He arrived at the cafe with his hair growing in gel, turtleneck cutting off his circulation, and slacks too damn tight. He glanced at his reflection outside a restaurant's window and practiced his smile. No, too awkward, too stiff, no, too scary, ah, that's the one.

Mercedes never arrived.

Griffin had been stood up before. He was no stranger to the agonizing pain of feeling your heart deflate right in your chest, all the excitement and nervousness spilling out of you like a fatal wound. The sun had set by the time he realized the rejection that lingered in the air. The rose bouquet suddenly felt like a pack of rocks weighing down his shoulders. Refusing to let a once of a lifetime love escape from him, Griffin resorted to messaging Mercedes again and again. First it was double, then triple, then Griffin realized he racked up seventy unread messages. He was only embarrassed slightly.

He went months ignoring the empty feeling thudding at the walls of his heart, a forgotten chamber that nibbled at the back of his mind. It was always there, teasing him to no end. Griffin stopped entertaining the possibility that Mercedes would ever contact him again.

And after three months, there's 
finally a reply.

Griffin unlocks his phone so fast that his finger sliding frantically across the screen probably looked desperate to any onlooker. He gave that detail no mind. He stares, soaking up the words, rereading its contents over and over and over again. He couldn't breathe. The carmelized tone of his cheek flushed a bright and vibrant red.

Mercedes Get it through your thick skull already. You were CATFISHED dumbass. STOP texting this number this was just for fun.

Silence.
A beat.
A beat later.
Griffin remembered where he was. The noise and chaos came crashing down onto Griffin's senses violently. Cheap beer sloshed against the wall, the bass of the DJ's set revertabrated across the room, making the walls shake and scream. Griffin scrunched up his nose in disgust when layers of vomit, pizza, and sweat lining raging bodies on the dance floor diffused throughout the air. A touch on his shoulder had Griffin reeling back, whiplash ensured.

"Hey man, why'd you look like someone just busted your balls?" Everett Harvey asked nonchalantly as if a person did not just fall down the stairs behind him. He wore a big lazy grin on his face, bright blue eyes highlighted with mischief and entertainment.

Griffin blinked slowly and steadily, pushing his heart back into its rightful place before releasing a low laugh, "I'm going to be honest, this whole evening feels like a fever dream. Where the fuck are we?"

Everett whistled in what Griffin decided was pity and draped his arm over the latter, dragging him around the terrain of the party using dramatic gestures with his free hand. "If you're so drunk that your memories disappeared, then I need to catch up. When did you get better at drinking than me?"

"Dude, I do everything better than you." Griffin's attempt at his usual humor put a strain on his voice. He was still in a haze, slightly using Everett's body as an anchor to get him through the room without sinking to his knees. If Everett noticed the dead gaze his hazel eyes held, he didn't mention it. Instead, Everett threw his head back in a boastful fit of laughter before pulling Griffin in a headlock. Griffin didn't even try to struggle.

"Sure are getting cocky aren't ya? When you wake up tomorrow thinking your name is Chris Hemsworth don't you dare ask me to make you my remedy smoothie. I won't budge, even if you start crying like the soft baby you are."

The corners of Griffin's lips edge up in a small smile, which must of been the indication Everett needed to shake his buddy up and continue their descent around the room, "In all seriousness G, this fucking party has your whole ass name on it. Consider this your orientation to Syracuse!"

Now that Everett mentions the intentions behind this chaotic atmosphere, Griffin pulls his eyes to the decorations littering on the wall. Posters with his face on them stare back at him cheekingly, his name is spray painted along the ceiling, and he's pretty sure someone just passed by with a sticker of his face stamped proudly on their forehead. The weirdest thing to see was himself on a huge display on the wall. The large screen TV was projecting the Netflix series he starred in. It's trippy to watch himself run across a soccer field in an overly dramatic representation of college soccer games, but the fact that there's people gathered around the screen, their eyes wide with anticipation brings a full fledged grin to his face.

Everett acknowledges this change of demeanor with a whoop and obnoxiously pinching his cheeks, "There he is! Look at that pretty smile, awwwwww!"

"Stop the baby noises you fucking weirdo," Griffin says with full endearment as he retches himself away from his best friend. 

He's distracted now thankfully. Moving with the beat of music, cheering along with the crowd's reaction to his first on screen kiss ("What the fuck, you got to make out with Sabrina Carpenter?"), and slipping ice cold vodka down his throat. It's easier to pull forth new things to his mind and push Mercedes away from his memories forever. It's fine, he's fine, Griffin will be okay. It's a chant beating throughout his skull through the rest of the night but comfortable in the same way he relaxes after seeing Everett grin back at him.

This heartbreak can be forgotten. Griffin and the trepidation of his heart will be fine because he will never have to see that beautiful face ever again as long as he remains in New York, where it's impossible for painful reminders to haunt him.

He's fine. He's fine. He's fine.

Until he's not.

♧

author's note

hi! so i've been sitting on this idea for a fat minute and i'm so excited that i can share this with you all!

i'm pretty sure all the chapters will be short tbh (between 2k-3k words)

i hope you enjoy this journey!

thoughts?