Yeh Dooriyan

2 years ago

Saoirse RZ

@SaoirseRZ

It’s been several days, weeks of this cat and mouse game. Him with his countless roses freshly plucked from the garden (and then bought with his dwindling funds), a new, different poem written using Mahi’s borrowed collection of gel pens everyday. He had to practice his handwriting to make the ensemble look presentable, suffering from hand cramps as he was used to punching things, not using his hands to do much more delicate things. He fears crushing the delicate petals with his rough hands, but always remembers Tejo’s ghost of a smile whenever she sees his offerings in the morning, that he learns to be extra careful. Because it was the only thing she seems to accept from him. It was worth it anyway, slaving over the construction paper well past midnight, perfecting every stroke of a word. It was then he contemplates how far he had come from being a spoilt child, taking for granted simple things like time and silence. And so he sits, taking his time, to make sure every word is not only inked but also etched with his emotions, his sincerity, his devotion.

Though leaving said ensemble for her to find was a different matter entirely. He doesn’t leave them in the same place too often, knowing that too much of the routine would make her predict it. Sometimes she’d find it in a file, with the bud of the rose peeking out from the edges. Sometimes it’s inside her lunch boxes, carefully placed by her brothers after being bribed. Sometimes he’d casually place it on her desk in passing; she would be already sitting there and wouldn’t be able to string two words together before he disappears. And quite rarely, he’d hand it to her himself, facing the most furious glare she could ever muster.

She’d still take it from between his fingers, and he’d hightail it from there, also knowing she would never read the cards if she knew he were present. Except, they both know it’s a lie; she knows he’s hovering in some corner, waiting to see her expression, watch her mouth the words and he knows that she knows, that she would read it anyway.

It’s endless however, like a video on loop. She would read it, would smile fleetingly, and then the letter with the scarlet rose would be buried deep in her bag, never resurfacing in his vicinity. They’re warm but cold too, her reaction and her responses. Both of them knowing how much she likes his offerings enough to not react completely hostile even though she was entitled to it, but also to keep her expressions controlled, enough for him to grab onto the hope, but not enough to pull himself up.

He’s held at bay, their feet facing each other, their shoulders leaning against each other in rare moments, heads tilted towards each other, but never really close enough to be with her. There's a chasm stretching between them, once where there was not even a hint of a fissure. It's he who had made a crack, and he who kept breaking them apart despite trying to hold on to their fraying threads at the same time. He can't bridge it, a distance of his own making that she wants to maintain. An impossible drop and even harder climb to reach that ever locked box with her heart. He had held it in his hand once, crushed it and now he's crushing his own heart, the only thing keeping it from shattering is her unconditional love.

They're touching but not at all, the edge of his sleeve catching her back, the hem of her dress brushing his ankles. Friction of leather against cotton but not a brush of nails against skin, of sensitive fingertips and warm hands. It's this emotional distance, physically unseen but he knows it's there. He doesn't touch her anyway, she needs to bridge that. He's gotten no right on her.

He deserves this, he knows. It doesn’t hurt any less. Frustrating that it's the same reactions rinsed, reused and recycled. He can't move on from this stagnant state, every additional effort he makes reduced to nothing, point blank dismissals. He can't reach out too much, he'd push her further away to a distance he can't cover. It's the perfect revenge, really. Every single word he had said to her before, every single sin he had committed reflected back at him now. He accepts it wholeheartedly.

He still can't help yearning for her touch. It's there if he could imagine it hard enough, the soft brush of skin on skin. But when he opens his eyes, it all dissipates like smoke. He can't grab on to it. It distracts him to hell and back and he has to withdraw himself, to keep from losing control.

His glances are deep, raw. Either she pretends not to see it or she truly isn't affected like him. He has to hold himself back, to stop the visceral reaction he gets sometimes when he sees her. Wishing, hoping he could brush her hair behind her ear, to slide his fingers down her jaw. Any excuse to touch to her, to feel their particles mingle, however briefly.

And he can't complain, can he? It's his punishment, his retribution.

___________

He's running out of poems fast and while he could look some good ones up on the internet, it felt better to make one on his own (he's been doing that lately). Only, he keeps pestering his siblings for criticism, asking them to suggest ideas, correct his newfound passion whenever it gets out of hand (which is exactly most of the time). And his work, his actual salary-paying coaching job at campus had begun to be demanding. He actually needed to put more effort into that than fixing his various other problems.

So, it gets a bit tedious when his siblings are overworked for their poetic talent and they begun to repeat the same ideas and that's unforgivable because Tejo deserves unique things.

In a fit of frustration and exhaustion, Mahi out of all the people, insults him and goes on the biggest tirade he has ever seen coming from her. She even manages to land a few hits on him until she sits down tiredly. He doesn't stop her, she probably had been keeping that locked up for a long time and decides to blast him but also because... he was... afraid.

It's why he finds himself in the campus library one evening, with Mahi telling him to go find his own ideas with a few expletives added in. It seemed the most likely place he'll find something worthwhile but it felt odd, the place too quiet and too empty this late in the day. Most students had already gone home and he hadn't actually stepped foot in the library ever since he graduated, so he wonders the shelves aimlessly, fingers running down book spines, with only the sound of his boots for company.

He's calm, surrounded by tall-reaching bookshelves filled to the brim and the rapidly darkening skies reflected on the windows. He steps into an orange glow, his eyes landing on a book at random, and his fingers fly over, ready to pull it out. It's also then he catches whiff of a perfume. One with a familiar floral note. He steps back, almost stumbling in his hurry, and turns into the next aisle casually to avoid startling her.

He need not have feared however, she was concentrated on finding a book. He contemplates briefly, whether he should make his presence known but knows the chances of her leaving were high if he does so. So he stays behind, picking up a book at random to flit through it, but his gaze remains on her.

She's stretching, reaching for a book on the top shelf but can't quite grab onto it. He sees the frown on her face deepen, her teeth digging into her bottom lip as she struggles and he makes an impulsive decision, approaching her.

"Let me help you," he says, stepping up behind her, reaching for the book instead. She stiffens, and swiftly turns around, finding herself caged in his arms. He's frozen himself, the hand reaching for her book stopping midway and the other bracing himself against the shelf to avoid crushing her.

It's the first time he's this up close since days. His heart pounds inside his chest from the near scare but also from the sudden proximity to Tejo. He swallows, his mouth having gone dry. She looked almost ethereal in the evening light.

"Fateh?" She whispers his name, almost inaudible. He can't identify the tone; there's almost a million emotions swirling in the depths of her eyes and he can't tell what she wants to do, what she wants him to do.

They're touching; he feels the tickle of her hair against his sleeves, the skirts of her dress brushing his trousers, her feet caught between his...

He feels her breath on his chin, her darting, frantic gaze on him, her fingers clutching his jacket for dear life...

No, they're not touching. Yet. Not in the way he wants to.

Her eyes are wide, inquiring why he hasn't moved... Yes, why hasn't he moved? Why is he still rooted to the spot, why can't he seem to move his damn legs... why... Why's Tejo not pushing him away herself?

He's struck with the realisation that she herself is indecisive and he for once, just wants to let it all go, let his control slip away...

He just wants to touch her. Just once. Feel if she's still the same, still real. If the words of his poems she mouths is written on her skin.

The barrier drops, just for a moment. Who's, he can't say. Probably both. There's a heavy desperation clawing its way through and he can't control it. It's going to ruin him.

She's staring at him, her gaze flickering all over his face, as if his thoughts are painted on his face, clear to see. He hopes she can... because if she can see and she hasn't ran that means-

Her breath hitches as he crowds her into the shelf. Closer... Her hands jump, one on his chest. He's sure she can feel his frenzied heartbeat; it's loud in his ears. The other's on his bicep, ready to push, to keep this distance. He waits for the inevitable shove but her fingers just curl harder, her nails digging into his jacket and he wishes that he could feel the sting of it for real instead of the phantom pressure on his skin.

The air's hot between them, and he's sure, if there was glass around them, their breaths would be condensing and he wants to feel this heat, on his own lips, his restrain a speck of nothingness in the face of her acquiescence because she's still there, tilting her head up, his sweet, beautiful Tejo, Tejo, Tejo-

"Fateh."

He shatters. He leans down.