Short Story
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mrsdalloway
- Posts: 31
- Joined: 21 May 2008, 08:27
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Short Story
I wrote this a few months ago and would like some feedback, if anyone reads it. I really do need your help cuz I can't judge what I've written myself. Please be honest, and give any tips if you can... I know it's a bit confusing but it's supposed to be something like flow of conscioussness... Anyways, hope you like it.
PS. I don't know how to format the text properly here in the blog so it's all a bit messy, ah well :/
Blank Verses
Books are not good for my mind, she thinks.
No. She is wrong. How else is she to escape, if not through reading? What else is she to do? Even though books can make life incredibly dull and meaningless (for they make one glimpse things one cannot physically see or touch or be), making her immensely regretful, she wishes for nothing more than to feel those feelings, see those places and be those people she has always known better than she knows herself. She thinks, why do I live in this world as it is now? Why instead of going for walks in a glittering garden full of blossoming buds and peach trees and bright blood red roses and blue skies and nearly ethereal clouds does she have to sit under a skateboard, excessfully, dangerously intoxicating her mind with her so many (though often unimportant) friends? She knows that’s what it is always going to be like. She knows there’s probably nothing she can do. Meet the right people, in Amsterdam? For where else will she find such gardens, such beauty? Anywhere, probably. She knows that. But she also knows she must allow herself to dream. So on she goes. Gardens in Amsterdam! Or Paris, perhaps. Yes, Paris, Paris is delicious. But then she thinks, or rather feels, again: Amsterdam. But maybe that is a matter to be decided at a more appropriate time.
She lets her mind wonder, and ends up resenting where she is, who she’s become and what she is going to do next. She looks around. She is in a room she thought she liked, she knows she likes it, but just because that’s the best she can get, living at the time she lives. Artificial lights are everywhere. Light coming from the cars outside, from windows across the street. She surely would much rather be seeing flowers, the moonlight reflected on a small lake beside the fresh bright house she would love to live in. That’s where she should be, she can’t help realising. All the women with their smooth porcelain skin, which invited delicate yet strong, decided hands to the touch. For the men would be that way. Yes, that’s what they would be like! Horse-riding in the mountains, reading by the window, swimming in the lake. Indeed it sounds rather better than skateboards, racy meaningless sex, toxic numbness. Better than getting up and rushing to get whatever she has to get to. All the time.
Right now she knows she can’t keep imagining these things. She can’t concentrate on anything at all. She has never felt so empty. She has no idea what made her feel this way. Could it possibly have been the dream she’d had last night? It was peculiar. Yes, very strange, quite vivid, strangely real, she was sure of it. They said she was going to die. She had little time, but it was inevitable and everyone knew it, denying it was of no use whatsoever. I am not a fool, she tells herself. She knows for a fact that it was just a dream, and therefore it was nonsense to let herself be blown into this storm of doubt and fear.
She feels her head turning. Now everything is spinning round and round again, now it’s all different again, everything has changed. When she woke up this morning she thought she was in control. Or at least she knew how deceiving just ‘feeling things’ can be. Suddenly she feels so so so angry. Why does she have to be a failure?! Why is she never good enough at anything that matters to her? She can’t stress enough how frustrating it is. She can’t shout it out on paper. But that’s what she is doing inside. Shouting in despair. I am so angry, she says to herself. I hate myself for not being capable
It is inside me.
As sharp and bright and intense as a full moon reflected on a silver dagger. But I can’t print it on paper in the way I wish I could, the way I need to so I can continue on living, she cries. She half believes in this power, half thinks she is utterly useless, ordinary, trivial. She feels such admiration for the ones who have some culture, a little desire to learn and improve. A little desire to grow. Inside. How she would like to know them! For all she currently knows is vanity. She feels herself drowning in the sea of nothingness the world around her seems to be. There are a few, rare, unexpected pieces of lost wood floating, flowing in the ocean. But she can never, could never get close enough, reach out, and save herself. She wasn’t good enough! She isn’t good enough! Or the circumstances simply never allow her to. She sort of hopes, believes, desperately wishes she one day will be able to venture through life with one of those saviours. Venture a day! She knows that would be happiness right there. One day. But her wish is irrelevant now, nothing is to happen. I don’t want to depend on anybody, only I can save myself.
Then she goes on to thinking about what she wants. She does not know at this precise moment. She usually thinks she does. But now she just can’t tell. What does she want. I do not know, she ponders. That’s unusual. Maybe the books and dreams have swiped all of herself from her. This might not be inconvenient. It is hard to tell, you see. A sense of insubstantiality regarding her own being is introduced in her mind, her soul, or whatever part of human beings is supposed to have control over their actions. I want to pour out all the light that is inside me, bleed it all out. Out it must go. She says passionately to herself, her voicing echoing in the room, suffocating her.
In fact, she doesn’t even want the flowers and lakes right now. Except she realises she does want them. She does know what she wants now. Flowers, lakes, moonlight, little boats, flowers, candles, fresh strawberries- how wonderful it would be to walk through a strawberry field!- fountains, flowers, waterfalls, dusk and flowers. That’s what she wants! But she wants something else too. She knows she cannot have it. She cannot have what she wants. No. She can’t. She won’t say it or write it down. She is ashamed of it. She is not worried about what people (oh people… what do they matter?) think, but unfortunately this is very relevant to the matter. How she wants to voice it! She can’t voice it (conflict, it’s ‘contrast’, someone said, that’s what makes life what it is). Voicing it. It’s something she just won’t allow herself to do. But she feels it! It is a strong, violet red searing flame that fills her entirely, burning her insides, her heart and lungs, fusing with the light. How did she get there? To the state of wanting it so bad. It is not wrong. Obviously not. But it’s not possible, because she is not good enough, she can’t, she can’t pour the light out.
Suddenly she realises that there are times when puzzling, unknown notions of love, sorrow and hopelessness fuse together and bear on desperation, taking unimaginable dimensions capable of invading the core of one’s being in such a way one does not know where one’s conscious being ends and the desire for the entire self to cease altogether begins; one is unable to move or react to anything for the sense of impossibility pulses ready to explode into a flame of one’s failures. Rationality and awareness of failure fight the illusions one moulds to trick the mind, the deceit… that it is, it is worth living, after all. The battle only ends when the explosion takes place.
There’s nothing more left to think or say. She wants the flowers, the lakes, the moonlight, the little boat. The flowers, the candles, the fresh strawberries, the fountains, the waterfalls in the dusk. But none of that matters if she isn’t to have what she wishes for, what she needs. And for that reason, now, she is gone. She is no more. Dust, of nothingness. Dust of everything she ever longed for. Gone. She is.
Now, she was.
PS. I don't know how to format the text properly here in the blog so it's all a bit messy, ah well :/
Blank Verses
Books are not good for my mind, she thinks.
No. She is wrong. How else is she to escape, if not through reading? What else is she to do? Even though books can make life incredibly dull and meaningless (for they make one glimpse things one cannot physically see or touch or be), making her immensely regretful, she wishes for nothing more than to feel those feelings, see those places and be those people she has always known better than she knows herself. She thinks, why do I live in this world as it is now? Why instead of going for walks in a glittering garden full of blossoming buds and peach trees and bright blood red roses and blue skies and nearly ethereal clouds does she have to sit under a skateboard, excessfully, dangerously intoxicating her mind with her so many (though often unimportant) friends? She knows that’s what it is always going to be like. She knows there’s probably nothing she can do. Meet the right people, in Amsterdam? For where else will she find such gardens, such beauty? Anywhere, probably. She knows that. But she also knows she must allow herself to dream. So on she goes. Gardens in Amsterdam! Or Paris, perhaps. Yes, Paris, Paris is delicious. But then she thinks, or rather feels, again: Amsterdam. But maybe that is a matter to be decided at a more appropriate time.
She lets her mind wonder, and ends up resenting where she is, who she’s become and what she is going to do next. She looks around. She is in a room she thought she liked, she knows she likes it, but just because that’s the best she can get, living at the time she lives. Artificial lights are everywhere. Light coming from the cars outside, from windows across the street. She surely would much rather be seeing flowers, the moonlight reflected on a small lake beside the fresh bright house she would love to live in. That’s where she should be, she can’t help realising. All the women with their smooth porcelain skin, which invited delicate yet strong, decided hands to the touch. For the men would be that way. Yes, that’s what they would be like! Horse-riding in the mountains, reading by the window, swimming in the lake. Indeed it sounds rather better than skateboards, racy meaningless sex, toxic numbness. Better than getting up and rushing to get whatever she has to get to. All the time.
Right now she knows she can’t keep imagining these things. She can’t concentrate on anything at all. She has never felt so empty. She has no idea what made her feel this way. Could it possibly have been the dream she’d had last night? It was peculiar. Yes, very strange, quite vivid, strangely real, she was sure of it. They said she was going to die. She had little time, but it was inevitable and everyone knew it, denying it was of no use whatsoever. I am not a fool, she tells herself. She knows for a fact that it was just a dream, and therefore it was nonsense to let herself be blown into this storm of doubt and fear.
She feels her head turning. Now everything is spinning round and round again, now it’s all different again, everything has changed. When she woke up this morning she thought she was in control. Or at least she knew how deceiving just ‘feeling things’ can be. Suddenly she feels so so so angry. Why does she have to be a failure?! Why is she never good enough at anything that matters to her? She can’t stress enough how frustrating it is. She can’t shout it out on paper. But that’s what she is doing inside. Shouting in despair. I am so angry, she says to herself. I hate myself for not being capable
It is inside me.
As sharp and bright and intense as a full moon reflected on a silver dagger. But I can’t print it on paper in the way I wish I could, the way I need to so I can continue on living, she cries. She half believes in this power, half thinks she is utterly useless, ordinary, trivial. She feels such admiration for the ones who have some culture, a little desire to learn and improve. A little desire to grow. Inside. How she would like to know them! For all she currently knows is vanity. She feels herself drowning in the sea of nothingness the world around her seems to be. There are a few, rare, unexpected pieces of lost wood floating, flowing in the ocean. But she can never, could never get close enough, reach out, and save herself. She wasn’t good enough! She isn’t good enough! Or the circumstances simply never allow her to. She sort of hopes, believes, desperately wishes she one day will be able to venture through life with one of those saviours. Venture a day! She knows that would be happiness right there. One day. But her wish is irrelevant now, nothing is to happen. I don’t want to depend on anybody, only I can save myself.
Then she goes on to thinking about what she wants. She does not know at this precise moment. She usually thinks she does. But now she just can’t tell. What does she want. I do not know, she ponders. That’s unusual. Maybe the books and dreams have swiped all of herself from her. This might not be inconvenient. It is hard to tell, you see. A sense of insubstantiality regarding her own being is introduced in her mind, her soul, or whatever part of human beings is supposed to have control over their actions. I want to pour out all the light that is inside me, bleed it all out. Out it must go. She says passionately to herself, her voicing echoing in the room, suffocating her.
In fact, she doesn’t even want the flowers and lakes right now. Except she realises she does want them. She does know what she wants now. Flowers, lakes, moonlight, little boats, flowers, candles, fresh strawberries- how wonderful it would be to walk through a strawberry field!- fountains, flowers, waterfalls, dusk and flowers. That’s what she wants! But she wants something else too. She knows she cannot have it. She cannot have what she wants. No. She can’t. She won’t say it or write it down. She is ashamed of it. She is not worried about what people (oh people… what do they matter?) think, but unfortunately this is very relevant to the matter. How she wants to voice it! She can’t voice it (conflict, it’s ‘contrast’, someone said, that’s what makes life what it is). Voicing it. It’s something she just won’t allow herself to do. But she feels it! It is a strong, violet red searing flame that fills her entirely, burning her insides, her heart and lungs, fusing with the light. How did she get there? To the state of wanting it so bad. It is not wrong. Obviously not. But it’s not possible, because she is not good enough, she can’t, she can’t pour the light out.
Suddenly she realises that there are times when puzzling, unknown notions of love, sorrow and hopelessness fuse together and bear on desperation, taking unimaginable dimensions capable of invading the core of one’s being in such a way one does not know where one’s conscious being ends and the desire for the entire self to cease altogether begins; one is unable to move or react to anything for the sense of impossibility pulses ready to explode into a flame of one’s failures. Rationality and awareness of failure fight the illusions one moulds to trick the mind, the deceit… that it is, it is worth living, after all. The battle only ends when the explosion takes place.
There’s nothing more left to think or say. She wants the flowers, the lakes, the moonlight, the little boat. The flowers, the candles, the fresh strawberries, the fountains, the waterfalls in the dusk. But none of that matters if she isn’t to have what she wishes for, what she needs. And for that reason, now, she is gone. She is no more. Dust, of nothingness. Dust of everything she ever longed for. Gone. She is.
Now, she was.
'The word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping'
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Original Cyn
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reid
- Posts: 1
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Hi, I also wrote this many months ago and I would like to tell a half truth/half fictional story of my life.
THE LETTERS
1995 - June 18
Dear James,
I was glad when I learned that my classroom was next to yours, at least, even if we can't be as close as seat mates, we are still in close proximity.
Pardon my use of words and grammar. I know you are going to be your class valedictorian and I'm just a poor average girl who barely made it to the list. I even have to look up the dictionary several times because I just wanted this to be perfect. But perfect does not exist now, does it?
Though I feel pain because this year you'd be graduating, I still am thankful since I can still see you even for just a year.
They say nothing compares to high school life. Is that true? At least tell me from your point of view. Did you ever contemplate to purposely fail exams just to remain in high school?
Sigh! Silly of me to ask. Of course, you would want to leave this pathetic boring high school life.
Well, I guess now is the right time to really tell you why I wrote you this particular letter. See, I really wanted to tell you that I like you every time you visit our home. It's like seeing you for the first time. But I guess you'd just laugh at my face.
Why would my brother's best friend see me as a girl he would like when every time he sees me, I am in my worst appearance?
The thing is, I know that you only see me as a younger sister you never had. Nevertheless, thank you for that. Better than nothing right?
Anyway, Wo ai ni, James
Sealed with a kiss,
Lyla
2002 - August 10
"Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" Lyla gasped. It didn't take long for her to realize that she lost the letter. "I'm sure I really put it in a safe place. Why oh why would it be lost? Why now after seven long years?"
"Hey, what are you so upset about there? Aren't you suppose to be studying?" Latrel, her brother, just arrived from school.
"Yo bro, did'ya happen to see a.. well.. uh..."
"What? Spit it out!"
"A letter?"
"What letter? And if by chance I happen to see it, what would I do with your stupid letter? I wouldn't understand your handwriting anyway."
"Hmp! You're just jealous coz I got a very nice handwriting."
"Like I do. Had dinner yet?"
"I was too busy searching for the letter that I forgot to cook dinner. You'll have to cook for yourself."
"Why you little..."
She didn't let him finish his statement and rushed herself into her room. She was getting ready to hit the sack when she heard him call up.
"Hey brat! Did you know?"
"Know about what?"
"James went to seminary."
She went dead silent. Her mind suddenly came 100% awake and she wanted to kick the daylight out of her brother. She very much wanted to cry but no tears would flow out from her eyes.
"Brat! Are you okay?"
Still silence.
"You're mean! I am still talking to you and you just slept. Talk to the walls Latrel.
And what will I tell you? I'm not okay because all these darn seven years I was in love with your best friend and I still am until now? And that I turned several suitors because I was waiting for him all this time? Who am I kidding Latrel? Now how am I supposed to sleep and how am I supposed to concentrate in the exam tomorrow? Thanks to this heart breaking, mind wrecking news you delivered to me.
2002 - August 24
Dear James,
It has been two weeks since I learned from Latrel that you went to seminary. Since then my life has been in total mess. I couldn't concentrate and I find it hard to do anything except sit and stare at nothing.
My friends had been bugging me to open up but what will I tell them? That the mand I secretly love for seven years went to seminary?
I will be a laughing stock for sure. Why? What right do I have to feel this way when even in my dreams I can never have you?
But see, I am a fool. I am still in love with you and fools don't just give up.
I guess I have to start mending my heart if I expect it to love wholly for the next seven years.
What a mess.
Still yours,
Lyla
2003 - December 24
The Christmas eve mass just ended and Lyla was on her way home. And there she saw James standing as if waiting for her.
She hesitated for a moment then braced herself. She greeted him in a coolest voice possible, not wanting him to sense a bit of her pain. "Oh, it's you. Merry Christmas. Leaving for home I bet?"
"Yeah."
"Well me too. Gotta go. Had to eat so much tonight."
"Uh - hey! Wait a sec. Can we talk? Don't worry I'll walk you home afterwards."
"Isn't this talking already?" She said laughing. "Kidding! What about?"
"I - uh - I received... Someone sent me letters."
She laughed even more. The kind of laughter that sounds so hollow to her. "So you wanted to talk to me about some avid fan of yours?"
"She happened to be you."
She went still. She wanted to find humor from what he said. "There's no way she's me. If I admire someone, I would just go directly to him and spit it out and not write some stupid letter."
"Oh, so why keep them in eight years?"
"Don't beat around the bush James. Just tell me exactly what you are talking about. I'm not good at riddles."
"You already know what I am talking about Lyla. These... These letters are yours."
Suddenly her mouth have gone dry, she recognized the stationery and her writing but she couldn't admit it was hers.
"And what made you think it's mine? There can be a lot of people who will use that piece of crap."
"Yeah, I guess you're right but I guess there is only one who can have this kind of hand writing. I have known you Lyla ever since you were still young. You can tell me any lies you want and I guess I'm gonna believe it but this? This is your penmanship and it is not something you can lie about."
"Oh don't give me this darn wisdom of yours. The all knowing James. So what if those were mind? So what if I kept them hidden for eight years? What does it have to do with you?
"I care because you're my best friend's sister..."
"I know! That's all I am to you. Your best friends sister. The one you never had. The one who had frequent nasal discharges, who looked gross and ugly. The one you never had given one glance."
"I care because I caused you pain."
She went silent and sighed.
"People get hurt James. You are the religious one between us. You can't keep people from getting hurt whether they are your best friend's sister or someone you care about. You just can't. Love and hurt coexist."
The silence that followed was defeaning and dawn was already breaking. It was already Christmas morning.
"We should be going now. I missed a night of precious sleep and food because of you." She smiled, tears welling in her eyes, but she was grateful it was still dark. "Mind if I take back what was mine? It won't be of any use to you in the seminary. It will only stand in the way."
He handed them over to her and looked at her. She turned around to the direction of her home and took a step but stopped. She said in a cool steady voice, "I've loved you then, I guess I still am now but I survived eight years without letting you know that these feelings exist. Let's just go back to the time you knew nothing. That way, you'd be helping me. Merry Christmas, James."
"I'm sorry Lyla. I wished..."
"No - don't. Instead you have to greet me back too. That at least you owe me." Then she turned to look at him in time to see his smile. The kind of smile that melts away her resolution but she held back.
"Merry Christmas Lyla."
They parted ways. Her tears poured like rain. But he never knew and will never know.
----- THE END -----
Hope you enjoyed reading it.
THE LETTERS
1995 - June 18
Dear James,
I was glad when I learned that my classroom was next to yours, at least, even if we can't be as close as seat mates, we are still in close proximity.
Pardon my use of words and grammar. I know you are going to be your class valedictorian and I'm just a poor average girl who barely made it to the list. I even have to look up the dictionary several times because I just wanted this to be perfect. But perfect does not exist now, does it?
Though I feel pain because this year you'd be graduating, I still am thankful since I can still see you even for just a year.
They say nothing compares to high school life. Is that true? At least tell me from your point of view. Did you ever contemplate to purposely fail exams just to remain in high school?
Sigh! Silly of me to ask. Of course, you would want to leave this pathetic boring high school life.
Well, I guess now is the right time to really tell you why I wrote you this particular letter. See, I really wanted to tell you that I like you every time you visit our home. It's like seeing you for the first time. But I guess you'd just laugh at my face.
Why would my brother's best friend see me as a girl he would like when every time he sees me, I am in my worst appearance?
The thing is, I know that you only see me as a younger sister you never had. Nevertheless, thank you for that. Better than nothing right?
Anyway, Wo ai ni, James
Sealed with a kiss,
Lyla
2002 - August 10
"Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" Lyla gasped. It didn't take long for her to realize that she lost the letter. "I'm sure I really put it in a safe place. Why oh why would it be lost? Why now after seven long years?"
"Hey, what are you so upset about there? Aren't you suppose to be studying?" Latrel, her brother, just arrived from school.
"Yo bro, did'ya happen to see a.. well.. uh..."
"What? Spit it out!"
"A letter?"
"What letter? And if by chance I happen to see it, what would I do with your stupid letter? I wouldn't understand your handwriting anyway."
"Hmp! You're just jealous coz I got a very nice handwriting."
"Like I do. Had dinner yet?"
"I was too busy searching for the letter that I forgot to cook dinner. You'll have to cook for yourself."
"Why you little..."
She didn't let him finish his statement and rushed herself into her room. She was getting ready to hit the sack when she heard him call up.
"Hey brat! Did you know?"
"Know about what?"
"James went to seminary."
She went dead silent. Her mind suddenly came 100% awake and she wanted to kick the daylight out of her brother. She very much wanted to cry but no tears would flow out from her eyes.
"Brat! Are you okay?"
Still silence.
"You're mean! I am still talking to you and you just slept. Talk to the walls Latrel.
And what will I tell you? I'm not okay because all these darn seven years I was in love with your best friend and I still am until now? And that I turned several suitors because I was waiting for him all this time? Who am I kidding Latrel? Now how am I supposed to sleep and how am I supposed to concentrate in the exam tomorrow? Thanks to this heart breaking, mind wrecking news you delivered to me.
2002 - August 24
Dear James,
It has been two weeks since I learned from Latrel that you went to seminary. Since then my life has been in total mess. I couldn't concentrate and I find it hard to do anything except sit and stare at nothing.
My friends had been bugging me to open up but what will I tell them? That the mand I secretly love for seven years went to seminary?
I will be a laughing stock for sure. Why? What right do I have to feel this way when even in my dreams I can never have you?
But see, I am a fool. I am still in love with you and fools don't just give up.
I guess I have to start mending my heart if I expect it to love wholly for the next seven years.
What a mess.
Still yours,
Lyla
2003 - December 24
The Christmas eve mass just ended and Lyla was on her way home. And there she saw James standing as if waiting for her.
She hesitated for a moment then braced herself. She greeted him in a coolest voice possible, not wanting him to sense a bit of her pain. "Oh, it's you. Merry Christmas. Leaving for home I bet?"
"Yeah."
"Well me too. Gotta go. Had to eat so much tonight."
"Uh - hey! Wait a sec. Can we talk? Don't worry I'll walk you home afterwards."
"Isn't this talking already?" She said laughing. "Kidding! What about?"
"I - uh - I received... Someone sent me letters."
She laughed even more. The kind of laughter that sounds so hollow to her. "So you wanted to talk to me about some avid fan of yours?"
"She happened to be you."
She went still. She wanted to find humor from what he said. "There's no way she's me. If I admire someone, I would just go directly to him and spit it out and not write some stupid letter."
"Oh, so why keep them in eight years?"
"Don't beat around the bush James. Just tell me exactly what you are talking about. I'm not good at riddles."
"You already know what I am talking about Lyla. These... These letters are yours."
Suddenly her mouth have gone dry, she recognized the stationery and her writing but she couldn't admit it was hers.
"And what made you think it's mine? There can be a lot of people who will use that piece of crap."
"Yeah, I guess you're right but I guess there is only one who can have this kind of hand writing. I have known you Lyla ever since you were still young. You can tell me any lies you want and I guess I'm gonna believe it but this? This is your penmanship and it is not something you can lie about."
"Oh don't give me this darn wisdom of yours. The all knowing James. So what if those were mind? So what if I kept them hidden for eight years? What does it have to do with you?
"I care because you're my best friend's sister..."
"I know! That's all I am to you. Your best friends sister. The one you never had. The one who had frequent nasal discharges, who looked gross and ugly. The one you never had given one glance."
"I care because I caused you pain."
She went silent and sighed.
"People get hurt James. You are the religious one between us. You can't keep people from getting hurt whether they are your best friend's sister or someone you care about. You just can't. Love and hurt coexist."
The silence that followed was defeaning and dawn was already breaking. It was already Christmas morning.
"We should be going now. I missed a night of precious sleep and food because of you." She smiled, tears welling in her eyes, but she was grateful it was still dark. "Mind if I take back what was mine? It won't be of any use to you in the seminary. It will only stand in the way."
He handed them over to her and looked at her. She turned around to the direction of her home and took a step but stopped. She said in a cool steady voice, "I've loved you then, I guess I still am now but I survived eight years without letting you know that these feelings exist. Let's just go back to the time you knew nothing. That way, you'd be helping me. Merry Christmas, James."
"I'm sorry Lyla. I wished..."
"No - don't. Instead you have to greet me back too. That at least you owe me." Then she turned to look at him in time to see his smile. The kind of smile that melts away her resolution but she held back.
"Merry Christmas Lyla."
They parted ways. Her tears poured like rain. But he never knew and will never know.
----- THE END -----
Hope you enjoyed reading it.
