He asked me what my favorite film was.
I took my time to respond. It's the kind of question I think about too much. Because I like films. And he loves them. I want to impress him, but I don't know enough. I am as in love as he is with moving pictures, but we are two, very different peas in a pod with little similarities of the negative. I was careful. I said the ones that did not come first to mind. He was not pleased. He was curious. His curiosity turned hours to days. Days to months. Months to moments. To memories.
Fast and fleeting. I was his. He was mine.
He would look at me as if I was something he never thought he would have. Exhaustion from the world would disappear as I see him walk toward me, grinning. He would smile at me with teasing arrogance as he makes funny faces. But then his stares would suddenly focus on my eyes, and I would not be able to stand still. He would give my heart a heavy pounding it could barely handle. Our fingers would touch, and he would hold my hand shakily. I would lay my head upon his shoulder as I try to hide my embarrassed face. We would talk for hours, uttering words 'I love you' and 'I cannot wait to see you'. He would share stories about his day and would tell me he wished I was there with him. He would keep wanting to know stories I might want to tell through his lens. I would pause, but would not give in. He would make me listen to songs that speak his deepest, darkest desires. He would kiss me with eyes closed. Like he loves me. I would feel the butterflies slowly taking over my body. Like I truly love him. Euphoric.
Brief and momentary. He became my world. And I, not his.
I would still pull him closer. He would not fight back. But he would not go further. Down the hill, we would go. Colder, and colder, the temperature started to mirror the feelings he is losing. Still, neither of us would dare say a word. In a crowded place, polluted with loud noises, we would turn unbearably silent. And he would not try to break it. Each step, he would walk a little farther from me, and I would pretend to maintain the distance. He would take one last glimpse of me. I would watch him, until he starts to fade. Until my eyes could fool me enough that I no longer wish to replay that final scene in my head. He was not curious anymore. His unwarranted love masked as curiosity ceased easy. Turned memories to wounds. Wounds to scars. To nightmares.
(movie still from her)
