Light spills in through the window, illuminating the desk placed just in front of its sheer drapes. Jamie's jacket is still thrown over your chair, causing the memories of that night to trickle through your busy thoughts.
Today was a quiet afternoon, both inside and out. The trees seemed still, the grass didn't sway, and even the birds didn't chirp, almost as if they could feel the emptiness inside the apartment too.
Jamie had been quiet as well. He was usually the more talkative between the two of you and you couldn't help but miss the sound of his voice. You hadn't seen him much today, but it also didn't help that you'd been cooped up in your room most of the day.
The guilt was still eating you away. This was all your fault, how could you go out and face him? How could you look into those swirling blue eyes of his and not see the pain you've caused him? This was your mess, and it was one you didn't know how to fix.
It's easy to hear the little fluttering noise against your window, because of how silent your room is, but you still can't seem to bring yourself to take so much as a glance toward it. The sound continues on as if there was something trying to get inside. It's another moment before you finally look up, only for the sound to vanish.
There's a small shadow over your desk now. Where the light once poured over the typewriter and its parchment sheets, was the silhouette of a butterfly. As if sensing your attention, it flaps mystically away from view. Now, it was gone completely.
That was a sign as good as any.
The pads of your feet hit the floor softly and you tiptoe over to your desk. On it, lay the sheets of parchment, untouched as ever. You sit down on the chair and bring them closer, taking in their abandoned state.
You couldn't really figure out what direction to go in with Jamie's story. Kat was an amazing writer, she always knew what to do with who and when, but you... you felt like a fool trying to take her place. Most of the story hadn't even been yours, but a rewritten, unoriginal copy of what she'd once made.
Of course, the story was a little cliche. The two of you were way too young when creating this to have it any other way. It was the typical "boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back" kind of plot. Maybe that's why you couldn't do anything with it. It was so far from real life. You were trying to write about the kind of love that wasn't real.
So what kind of love was the real kind?
Flipping through the thin pages, you skim through the words and try to think of a way to save this bit of work. The thought of scrapping it comes across your mind more than once. Not every story needed to be told, you figured.
The last page of the unfinished story is in your hands and its scene throws you a bit off guard. Jamie and his love interest—who happened to be an alternate version of you—were fighting. In this chapter, Jamie serenades his love with his guitar and all is solved. That's when you get an idea. This awkwardness between you didn't have to last.
You tell yourself a million times that what you're about to do is far from romantic. This was a friendly, platonic move. That's all it could be anyway.
Your voice calls his name before you can stop yourself. There was no need to overthink this situation, but the clenching in your fists says otherwise.
"Yes?" You hear his footsteps trail down toward your room. The emotion in his voice is imperceptible.
You take a silent breath as he comes into view, a lean figure at your doorway. His eyes linger on yours for a second, a deeper emotion overtaking his face before it falls along with his gaze down to the floor. There's no denying the fracture in your heart.
Even though it hurts, you push the feeling away. You push it away until you can feel it no longer. Until the traces of it are as far from your expression as they are from reach.
"I..." You clear your throat in an attempt to get the shakiness out of your voice. You haven't used it all day. "I was wondering if you wanted to go downtown with me. There's an instrument shop and I thought maybe we could get you a guitar or something."
For the first time all day, the veil around his face is lifted so that the blank and practiced expression disappears. Now, it's not just his eyes that hold the emotion, but the rest of his face as well. He's eyebrows show that he's confused, but the slight upturn of his lips tells you he's happy, and for a second, you see a hint of something else. Sadness beneath the joy.
The vulnerability only lasts a second. Then, his expression is solemn again—taut like the limbs of the old oak outside your window.
"Are you sure?" he asks gently.
You nod and hope the smile on your face is enough to convince him. "My treat."
Jamie smiles too, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He stops himself just as he turns to leave and gives you his first solid glance in your direction. "Thank you," he says.
Half an hour later, you're in a cab. Neither of you says much, but you're content watching the tall city buildings pass by through the window. There wasn't much to say without it being awkward, but every now and then, you'll catch Jamie's reflection in your window. More than once, he's watching you tenderly from the other side of the car.
He holds the door open for you after you arrive at the destination and pay the cab driver. He smiles softly as you step out of the car and you return the expression. As expected, there were tons of people in the streets and sidewalks of the city, but you easily navigate your way through them, having lived here all your life. You have to grab Jamie's hand, in order to not lose him in the large swarm of people. It's warm and comforting, as it always has been. Your heart aches for more of his touch.
The old shop smells of maple wood and amber. On the shelves are a vast collection of shiny, stringed instruments , all with varying prices. From violins and their corresponding bows to harps and their tall, sleek frame. The guitars hang on the wall behind the counter where a skinny old man wearing glasses two sizes too big for his face stands.
Jamie's face is a mixture of every joyful expression you think you've ever seen in his life. His smile is large and reaches his eyes. Something you'd feared you would never see again.
You don't realize you're still holding his hand until he leads you hurriedly down to the counter where the guitars are. You struggle to keep up, breaking out into a slight jog to avoid falling on your face.
"Someone's excited." The old man pushes up the glasses on his face. "What can I get you, son?"
Your heart melts at the smile on Jamie's face when he turns his head to look at you. It's a look that waits patiently for your approval.
"Get whatever you want," you whisper.
✧ ˚ · .
All of the sudden, there's a beautiful sound coming from the living room.
Your outing took longer than expected, and by the time you'd gotten home, both of you were hungry. Here you were, scanning your fridge for things to warm up because cooking wasn't exactly your thing. It never had been.
Jamie, deciding to stay in the living room, was supposed to be tuning his instrument. Now, he's diverged from methodically plucking the strings to strumming a soft song. One that pulls you away from your previous mission like a moth to flame.
He's hunched over the guitar, feeling the strings with his fingers, feeling the music with his heart, eyes closed, lip bit, completely in tune with the moment. The passion on his face is clear and you're sure this is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
You don't move, afraid any more sound will break the trance he's in. His hair pours over his face in golden strands as his head bobs to the music, foot tapping like a metronome. Don't stop. You think. Don't ever stop.
The song grows with more emotion, more passion, with every strum. The notes bend and swirl around the room, echoing against the walls in a blissful spell. It was the kind of music that made you happy because you knew the person making it was happy too.
And then his strums soften down into the dainty tune he'd started off with. The music slows until the last note tapers off completely.
The silence that rings after is almost as magical as the piece itself.
"Wow," you say. "You're amazing."
He smiles, the faintest red showing through his cheeks. "Thank you."
You make a move to sit next to him on the couch, admiring the guitar he'd picked out. It was a wonder how something that had once been a simple block of wood could produce a sound so vibrant. The fact that Jamie knew how to wield that sound into the piece you'd just heard was astounding. That was the magic itself.
When Jamie looks at you, it's not awkward or practiced. His expression isn't distant and he makes no move to widen the fair distance between you. It's perfect, almost as it once was again.
"How do you..." you scoff. "It's just so cool."
Jamie chuckles and pushes the guitar in your direction. "Try it."
"No!" you quickly shake your head. "No, it's not my thing, I'm sorry—"
"Come on," Jamie says, his tone croon and insisting.
You take the guitar from his grasp and place it on your lap. He nods approvingly, only adjusting your grip slightly. His hand is like sparks against your own. His body warmth radiates against yours, but you can still feel the distance he tries to keep away. There was no need to break down the barriers you'd only just been able to put back up.
"Perfect," he compliments, admiring the way you hold his guitar. "It looks great, just strum now."
You chuckle and shake your hand in disbelief. Then, you strum down on the open strings. The sound was a pretty but disappointing resumption of his melody. You didn't know the notes.
"Try placing your finger here," Jamie says, guiding your fingers against the fingerboard with his own. "Like this."
You strum again and the sound is different. The note is familiar.
"See?" There's genuine pride in his voice that makes you proud of yourself as well.
You smile and laugh again, placing the guitar back in his arms. "Pretty," you say. "But keep it, you're better at it."
He rolls his eyes obnoxiously. "Of course I am."
Your roll your eyes back and stroll into the kitchen for something to eat. There truly was nothing in your pantry and you were beginning to contemplate not eating at all.
As if reading your mind, Jamie's up and walking towards the kitchen as well.
"Don't worry," he says kindly. "I'll make you something."
You try to ignore the feeling that flutters inside of you like the butterfly against your window. This of all feelings was the hardest to push away and for that reason, you knew that when Xander came home, you would have to tell him everything. And you would.
But for now, you bask in the pleasure of knowing that the distant void between you and Jamie had been filled.
You catch him as he walks toward the stove, half wondering what on earth he'll find to whip up and half not caring because anything he touched seemed to turn out all right regardless of whether it was food or not.
"Hey," you murmur, tugging nervously on your sleeve.
"Hm?" He folds his arms, giving you his full attention.
"I know this is random, but...the kiss," you continue, hating to drag the moment up but it needed to be addressed. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you or anything, it's just been eating at me..."
He nods, knitting his eyebrows together. "I know," he says. "Trust me, I know and I'm sorry too. It was completely wrong of me. There was... no excuse." He lets out a regretful sigh, almost whispering, "I shouldn't have done that."
His apology hangs in the air for a moment. There are a million looks exchanged between the two of you, a million words. None of them feel good enough.
I'm sorry I kissed you.
I'm sorry I liked it.
I'm sorry I wish you were mine.
"I shouldn't have either," you mutter, half expecting him to walk away, but he stays. And as you look up into his eyes one last time, you begin to wonder just how much of that statement either of you truly believed.