notion • john murphy

47 - TORTURE

[ TORTURE ]

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   "This song sucks, John."

Murphy scoffed at Sayah who sat boredly on the kitchen bench, watching him cook. "You can pick one then."

Sayah shifted in her spot. "No, no. That's fine."

Murphy paused, eyes glancing up to look at her. He smirked, placing the kitchen spoon down and approaching her. "You don't like music?"

"No," Sayah replied. "I just don't know much—any, really. I think if I did know some though, I would really love it."

Murphy grew closer, leaning against the bench. "Can you dance?"

Sayah chuckled. "Dance?"

Before she knew it, Murphy was close—too close, and his hands were on her thighs. "I could teach you." He grabbed her hands in his and pulled her off the kitchen bench onto the tiled floor.

"John," Sayah shook her head.

"Trust me." He whispered, placing his hands on her waist after guiding her hands around his neck. "Like this," He instructed. "Now here comes the slow part." The song slowed as if he had ordered it to and Sayah could feel his breath hit her face. They were close. They were really close. "Now we sway." He whispered, careful not to talk over the music.

His head was down, close to hers and she closed her eyes, resting their foreheads together as they swayed. Sayah felt her body go warm as his hands lightly gripped her waist, and she absentmindedly touched the nape of his neck. "This is nice." And it was. The dream that wasn't a dream had been playing in her mind over and over again lately, but now it was silenced, replaced by the real feeling of him, his hands on her waist, his heartbeat that she coukd feel even through both of their clothing. Just them.

"If the City of Light wasn't. . . what it actually was," Murphy whispered. "We could've had this every night."

Sayah opened her eyes to see him looking down at her. She could see the strange blue of his eyes, and. . . she loved him, still. She wanted to brush the hair that fell over his temple. A small strand really, but enough for her to feel brush against her own temple. She didn't want to move.

"Every night, you and me," He added before he inhaled deeply. "I want to be honest."

"What is it?" Sayah questioned quietly, hoping it wouldn't have them separating—she needed this moment, just a little longer, she just needed to savour it, pocket it, keep it saved.

"I love you." Murphy whispered sadly. "I know we're not. . . together, but I need you to know."

"I know." Sayah was careful not to step on his feet. "And I love you. We don't have to be together for me to love you." And she was glad that she could tell him, and he could say it back. There was nothing wrong with it. She knew, and he knew—it would probably never go away.

"It's hard to be. . . just friends, I guess. I'm sorry for what I did the other day when we were playing with the ball. It was—"