The Nightly Montage

This is Who We Are

My 1k entry to The_Bookshop's and HurricaneBC's "Define Normalcy" prompt.

You stand in the middle of the snow-dusted square, waiting for a rare streak of sunlight to pierce through the clouds and reveal the person you've been searching for.

Would it be so romantic? Could it be? Would you deserve it?

You long for how it used to be, back when you embraced the stares with mirth and even pride. Back when the light he brought in your life was all that mattered. You'd walk the streets with him, arm in arm, and feel like both of you were on top of the world.

But maybe that was an illusion. Maybe you fooled yourself in believing you could handle the jokes and snide comments thrown your way, while inside it ate at you until you couldn't bear it any longer. It was why you hid for so long in the first place, after all. The fateful day came when you finally measured the distance between him and the rest of the world. You made your choice; you wanted to be like them, and not him. You wanted to be normal. And perhaps that was the reason you were doomed from the start, because what you wanted was impossible.

The crowd shifts; subtly so, but you've learned to read human movements like ripples on a pond. Or perhaps it was instinct, and not himself who told you he was there. He catches your eye. Then the crowd parts, and suddenly neither of you are invisible to the other.

Time slows down and speeds up at the same time. With five quick strides you and the man are within arms' reach. You take in his coat, slacks, and boots. The things that the average person would wear during a cold spell. Things that he would never wear. The things that are too quiet, too mundane, too ordinary for this man's kind of wonderful.

You begin to cry.

"Was this the wrong thing to wear, too?" the man asks. You shake your head and cry harder.

Strong, firm hands guide you through the blurry crowd to a metal bench. He helps you sit down. A soft handkerchief presses against your face. Your tears are gently wiped away before the air can turn them into bits of ice. But when your vision clears, all you can see is what's left of the man whose heart you broke.

A familiar voice tickles your ear. "Hey, listen to me, 'kay? I have this nasty cough and it's killing my throat. If you keep crying, you're gonna leave me with no choice but to sing. And I'm warning you now: It'll be bad."

You chuckle, though the moment is fleeting. The handkerchief flutters in the breeze, and you manage to catch it before a sudden gust of air whisks it away. It's smeared with your carefully-applied concealer. The shame brings fresh tears to your eyes but you blink them away.

"I miss you," you say finally. "I miss being with you."

"Me? Which me?"

"The man who wears leopard prints and fuzzy slippers. The man who dances whenever a catchy song comes on the store speakers. The man who can dress and act like himself because he doesn't give a damn about what other people think."

You drag in a breath. "I don't expect us to return to whatever we were before. But I just...I want you to know that I know what I said was wrong and hurtful. I'm sorry."

He nods, silently considering your words. Then he stands up.

In one fluid motion, the man you loved takes off his sweater to reveal the outfit underneath: a neon paint-splattered shirt decorated with sequins and gold glitter. Then he slips off his hood. On his head sits a hand-knit rainbow-coloured beanie. Matching paper cutouts dangle from his ears. Several people have stopped in their tracks to gawk. He sits back down beside you.

Despite yourself, you smile. "You've taken up arts and crafts, too?"

"It's never too late to learn," he replies. He drums his fingers on the bench, thinking. "I've thought about that day ever since," he begins, "and I'd be lying if I say you didn't hurt me. But you were the first lady to accept me as who I am. That hasn't changed. So I don't think it was a mistake that once again, we've ended up together."

His gaze lingers on your face. "You're beautiful, you know," he says softly. Slowly, you reach up to touch the side of your face. Your skin feels dry and exposed in the cold air, and that's when you realize your makeup is gone. Your finger traces the pale patch of skin on your otherwise brown face.

Your stomach knots itself into a tangle of thoughts and emotions. What was he thinking? Why didn't you bring a scarf just in case? What are other people going to say when they see you? But mixed in with the embarrassment and the fear was a strange airy feeling. The feeling of freedom. Of relief. As if you've stepped on a stage, and suddenly you're no longer afraid of the audience, only struck by the wonder of the spotlights and how incredible it feels to be there.

Still, it takes everything in you to not hide your face in your hands. You lower them into your lap. You can feel other people's gazes lingering on your face for a second longer, but instead of ducking away, you lock eyes with that of the man you loved--and still do.

"Are you mad?" he asks, half-seriously.

"...I won't be if you sing."

He laughs, then obliges. You join in. As your soft voice rises and falls with his rich baritone, snowflakes begin to float down from above, swirling and dancing in the breeze, but never touching the ground. 

Two romance stories in a row from the socially inept Jade?! What is going on?!

It was a heck of a challenge to write a satisfying story in 1k words, especially a story that wasn't 100% monologue.

Oh, and curious: Did any of you think the ex-boyfriend was dead or not human or something? Maybe it's the atmosphere (apparently my writing can be described as flowery~) but 2 people thought the dude was dead and I'm trying to figure out why.

Thanks for reading as always. <3