2Prologue
He was wearing a simple black shirt that clung to his frame, accentuating his broad shoulders and his toned chest. His dirty converse and some faded jeans completed the whole ensemble. How many times I had seen him wear that attire, I did not know. I probably lost count a couple of weeks after meeting him – he was not one to pay much attention to the outside, and that was always one of the reasons I loved him. He used to say that the appearance should not matter; it was something unimportant, vain and temporary. That was one of the few lessons he taught me during the six years we knew each other, years filled with love, hatred, admiration, respect, and, most of all, friendship. Staring at the screen, I was reminded of the pain I experienced when he left, unannounced, unnoticed, unexpectedly. The last memory I had of him was a rushed kiss on the cheek outside my door, his friends yelling his name from the car, desperate to go, anxious to get under a roof and inside some walls to guard them from the late October night chill. The next morning found me knocking on his door, only to encounter silence. It would have never occurred to me – never in a million years – that my best friend, my rock, the person I relied on, would leave without warning. There was no trace of him. Nothing. No goodbye hug, no last words of comfort to appease this aching heart, no more tears seeping into his warm shirt as I cried, heart shattered in a million pieces. A void.
As I saw him once again, his light brown hair choppy, some bits falling over his eyes, I couldn't help but remember all those times he'd sing something to me, midnight eyes intense, fixed on my emerald orbs, forgetting that the rest of the world existed. He used to sing as a hobby, a way to escape reality; his guitar resting on his lap, his rough and callused fingers strumming lightly over the strings, his voice a mere whisper, barely audible, as we sat on my bed, my back against the wall, knees clutched against my body, while he sat sideways on the edge, his eyes never leaving mine. He used to say that we were what we wanted to be, and that, some day, we'd go far and become something important. He had always been a dreamer. We would climb into the old tree house every Saturday evening and talk – about life, about us, about our family, about the difficult situation at home, about anything that came to mind. He was very easy to talk to; reading me like an open book, he often told me what I was feeling before I could get the opportunity to discover those feelings myself. He said he could see it in my eyes; the pain, the worry, the love, the hope,… Many times I wondered why his eyes held so many secrets that I couldn't decipher. I used to think that he kept something from me, and would demand that he tell me immediately. If he knew everything about me, why couldn't it be the same way with him? I saw this as an issue; he didn't trust me enough, whereas I… I would have trusted him with my life. However, all that trust shattered, collapsed and disappeared the day he left. Unnoticed to him at the time, he took with him my heart, my life, and all my hopes of ever becoming something worthy of mention.
I had always been a lonely child, never having many friends. Until, one day, I dropped my books in the school hallway and a friendly hand reached over to help. I looked up to meet a pair of dark blue eyes, eyes that would haunt me for weeks until I finally mustered up the courage to talk to him for the first time. Mum used to say that, since that day, something had changed in me. I was happier, less gloomy, more talkative. She wanted to know what had instilled such a change in me, her shy little girl, who never expressed her opinion unless asked. I told her over and over that I didn't know, that I hadn't changed. However, my mind was screaming for a talk to the blue-eyed boy, the boy who would become my best friend, the only friend I ever had, the friend that left without warning. When I finally talked to him and found out his name, we would talk during lunch, sitting under the oak tree in the field, the cool breeze moving my hair around, making me shiver, the shadow cast by the tree protecting us from the heating sun. During the first few weeks, I was wary. I didn't know if he was genuine or if he was pretending. Being new at this, I didn't know what to say, what to expect, how to act. I then learned that friendship doesn't mix with acting. It is all about behaving true to our personalities and trusting each other. He became my best friend quite fast – he was the only friend I had. But I for once felt like I could confide in someone, someone who would know what was bothering me, someone who I could share my deepest secrets with. During the first months, I felt a weight being lifted from my shoulders. I didn't have to walk around keeping my troubles to myself, but I could talk to someone about them. The first time he came home, Mum caught my eye and smiled. And I knew then that she knew that this cute, sensitive boy was the one who had changed her daughter –both for good and bad.
After he left, I saw him on many occasions – always on the media. My head wanted to turn around every time I caught sight of him, but my heart longed to know if he was doing alright. I missed him, and I was entitled to. After the six years we had spent together, I wasn't ready to live without him, to face the world on my own. Plus, he left so abruptly that I was worried he was in trouble. I often wondered if he remembered me. He had to. How could you forget someone with whom you had spent your teenage years? I remembered everything about him. From the way he smelled, that strong masculine cologne that made many girls weak and which I inhaled all those evenings, in my room or in the tree house, as I cried into his shoulder or chest, to his quirks and habits. I remembered how a small dimple would appear on his left cheek when he smiled, and how he would rub the back of his neck when he was nervous or uncomfortable. I wondered if he remembered all my peculiarities as well as I did his. Sometimes, he would mention me; never my name, but a simple reference to that girl who had owned his very heart and soul over many years. Always using the past tense. Maybe he wanted to forget me. I had cried uncontrollably the first time I heard him mention me. He was sitting on a chair in a TV set. The host had asked him about his first songs. Were they inspired in any girl in particular? His midnight eyes had glazed over, gazing into space. His face had changed into a melancholic look, his features softening, and he nodded and affirmed. His first songs ever were inspired in me. I hadn't known about these songs. He had kept them a secret, until he decided to become a musician and used one of them to make his way to the top. And now, every time I saw him, I wondered why he had kept so many secrets from me all those years. The songs, the love,…
Before he walked into my life, so unexpectedly, I had been the social outcast. Students at school rejected me and turned their heads when they realised I was heading their way. To me, they were superior, humans that I couldn't compete with. Until he appeared. With him, I discovered that all those people were not worth my attention, my words, nor my tears. Up until he arrived, I had had a very hard time adjusting to life without Dad, and the situation at school just kept pulling me down into depression. Many nights, when I was sure Mum slept, I'd cry myself to sleep – for everything. I cried because Dad was gone. I cried because I hated to hear Mum crying at nights when she thought I was asleep. I cried because the people who I wanted to consider my friends didn't want me in their lives. Then, realisation would hit me. I didn't HAVE friends.
He changed me. Once I had mustered up the courage to talk to him, we started hanging out. We'd walk to school together, we'd spend evenings at the park, he'd come over to my house so we could study together. People at school still rejected me, and didn't understand why someone who they considered dating material would hang out with such a loser. That hurt. My face would crumple and I'd close my eyes tightly, willing the tears not to fall. I didn't want to give them something else to laugh about. A tight squeeze from a warm hand would make me calm down a little, and, if the situation was dire, he'd tug on my hand and pull me away from the herds of students filing into the school hall so he could comfort me and assure me that those people weren't worth it. He was a sweetheart. And a charmer too. He managed to get Mum and my brother to like him by uttering a simple "hello" and directing them a warm and ample smile. His smile was always genuine and inviting, with his small dimple adorning his left cheek. Whenever I caught sight of that small cavity, I would poke it and he would protest. He claimed my nails were always too long and they dug into his skin. Liar. He would swat my arm away as he pouted, and it took all my willpower to keep myself from kissing him. I didn't want to make a fool out of myself and just pour out my feelings. I liked him. Never in my life had I found anything enticing about the opposite sex. They all were mean, bossy, arrogant and not exactly very bright. That was the reason I didn't want to jeopardize the only good thing that had happened to me so far. He could have any girl he wanted – he had the looks and the personality. But, instead, he chose to hang out with me. Slowly, I became aware of my emotional attachments to him. I was falling in love. But it was not a superficial, weak feeling. It was deeper and stronger than anyone could have predicted. When I came to terms with it, I decided to keep my newfound feelings to myself. They had come to me with the worst timing, and I couldn't exactly pour those words onto him while he was dating someone. Yes. Even though I knew I liked him, I was afraid that I was keeping him from living his life and had coaxed him into dating. He had started going out with Madison about a month before the sight of them together started to hurt. She had moved in a couple of months ago, and seemed quite nice. Even though I wasn't supposed to keep secrets from him, they were going steady and I didn't want to be the one to break them up because I happened to love him, my best friend. I tried to convince myself that best friends weren't supposed to love each other. And I managed to do so. Even so, I still cried at night because I couldn't have him.
I kept this feeling a secret all that time. Even after he broke up with Madison, I didn't want to tell him. Why? Because I had always thought too low of myself – and I thought I didn't deserve him. He had to have something better. After he left, questions swam around my head constantly. What would have happened if I had indeed told him what I felt? Would that have been enough to make him stay? What if I had told him on one of those occasions where I had been seriously considering doing so? However, if I had told him, would that have kept him from pursuing his dreams? He had always dropped everything to be with me whenever I needed him, and I was sure that, this time, it would have not been different.
Nevertheless, I still hoped I'd told him. After I found out he'd left for good, I just wanted to see him walk into my house, using his copy of the key, so I could run to him and tell him how much I loved him and how I had harboured those feelings all these years. I'd stare at the door, wanting to hear the familiar rustle of keys and the lock turning. However, it never did. And only then the truth would sink in. I'd lost him.
A/N: So what do you think? I think it's alright... Not great, but...okay... I guess. It's my first fic here, although I've been writing stuff since I was 8. I, for once, have a general idea of where I'm taking this. But, like I said, "general"... VERY general... I suppose that now that I'm on holidays I'll be able to get a couple chapters out before I start going to University in October...
Anyway. Could you review and tell me your opinion on it? Anything you like, anything you don't like,... It'd be very appreciated!