Posted on: 2014-07-11
It starts with a tug.
You find yourself thinking of the past, more specifically Your past. You and Him. You think of stares, of dancing, of hatred. You think of ink, of his script, of his fingers as they brushed past yours. And then there it is. The tug.
It catches you by surprise, and quite rightly, because who is He to make you feel anything other than in control? He isn't anyone to you. Not really. Yet there's another tug. And another. And more and more and more until the tugs fall into step with your heart and they thump along quite happily together.
You start to think of him more frequently, and you notice it starts to interfere with your daily routine.
Previous mornings of waking, washing, dressing, eating, talking, breathing, trying, now becomes waking, washing, Him, eating, Him, talking, breathing, Him Him Him, and there's no point in trying.
The secret of Him stops it's tugging and starts thrumming. It thrums between your fingers and under your veins. You think of ink, and the smell of the woods, and...
... you fall.
It happens very, very fast, yet very slowly. It's like climaxing. It's the zenith of a symphony, the split second the air fizzes and everything in you opens up and crumples simultaneously. It happens so fast you barley have time to think 'Oh, it's changed', but it was always inevitable. That melody kept on recurring, that harmony shifted and laid down the foundations for This.
It hurts. I should hope so, too.
Why? Because you deserve it, perhaps.
His house is beautiful, and you realise what you threw away. What you willingly argued away. And worse still; He probably doesn't want you anymore. The past few months probably washed away at Him like the tide, exposing new and fresh eyes.
You have lost all of this. The sunlight spilling onto the marble tiles, the creak of the floorboard in the Westerly wing, the smell of musk and ideas in the library, entrance to that room, that drooping piece of wallpaper.
Then you see Him.
You're almost sick.
It's okay, the first meeting is over and you did well. All things considered.
He wants to see you again, that can only be positive, right?
Considering He also wants you to meet his sister, I don't think the tide has washed away old skin after all.
See? Look at that. Look!
He's looking at you, like He used to. His eyes are dark, hooded, entrapping. They pull and suck like a black hole. Or perhaps it's not so much Him pulling you closer that is revealing, but you letting Him.
Go on, look back at Him. I dare you. I heard about His fondness for your bright eyes.
Your thrumming settles lower and lower until it becomes something new and almost unbearable. It thuds against you, beating heavily between your legs and you want it to end. No. you want Him to do something about it. You feel He must know, He must be aware of this feeling, but He isn't.
You find yourself absently thinking about before. If this thrumming, this pulsating, is what He endured for those torturous months then you think you vastly underestimated Him. You think about the dance, how could He have stood it? You know you wouldn't have been able to. Not with any composure at least.
You hope his pulsating matches yours.
You've lost Him. Once more.
You know, although it was never said, that He would have proposed. If the post had been detained, if he had pushed his horse faster, if...
There may have been hope after the letter but now...
You feel like you're drowning. The tears cast the world into a shadow of colour, but you can't care less. You're irate and upset and wounded but how can you be? How can you be anything when you are positive that you forgot to pack up your heart and left it in Derbyshire?
The good thing is the world always moves on, and always tugs you with it.
Your sister marries, visits, and then leaves indefinitely. That brings you comfort and a small bit of easy joy. You will never be able to coax water back under the bridge, but at least you won't have to try.
There is plenty to do, there are comforts, there is warmth, and there is Jane and Papa. You find it nice being home. It feels cyclical and as if nothing has changed. Life once again rotates with the day and with the night, with the weather, and with the seasons.
You think no more of the past year. No 'but', 'yet', or 'if', because there isn't any point. These things happen, and these things have brought you back home. This is where you belong.
You feel like you belong so much that you almost feel spiteful when the autumn winds blow Him back along to you.
Almost but not quite.
You don't feel how you did before. You don't understand why, or if it is a right, but it's changed.
Maybe it's the weather? Instead of feeling the thrumming heat of summer which would have swallowed you and burnt, you feel content. You feel content to let your heart squeeze at the flicker of his eyes just like you feel content to button yourself up and kick your feet in the fallen leaves.
It's nice. You think it means more to you than anything else you've ever felt in your whole life. Even the painful moments.
You no longer need him to control and pull together the parts of you which threaten to shatter. You'd like him to stand beside you, his hand ready at your elbow to steady you if you slid, but it's okay if he can't be there, if he no longer wants to be there.
You are so lucky that he does.
Of course he does.