She was curled into a ball on his couch, her wet ponytail dripping on the oversized hoodie she wore. He had purchased it just for her after the numerous attempts she’d made to steal his. Her normally beautiful hands were cut and scabbed; clutching the makeshift pillow she had created using one of his jackets. Her muddy shoes were beside the door, accompanied by her journal and a canvas she’d managed to grab. He didn’t have to look at it, and he really didn’t want to anyway.
She shouldn’t have been there, he knew that and so did she. But as he looked at her in the vibrant flashes from the storm, he realized that she was better off with him than anywhere else.
He quietly replaced the jacket under her head with an actual pillow. Opening the closet, he was careful not to wake her as he removed a quilt and placed it across her small figure.
Making sure she was covered, he retreated back into his bedroom and drifted into an uncomfortable sleep. He knew why she was there, and it hurt him to think that part of it was his fault. But he also knew that there really wasn’t much he could do about it anyway.
She woke up, a heavy feeling all over. Seeing that it was a quilt, sadness washed over her. She knew he’d put it there; knew he’d taken care of her. When she left, all she could grab was her journal and her last blank canvas. But she had lived with less before. Slowly, she stood from her place on the couch. Her clothes clung to her body, her damp skin aching from the pain she had endured. He had already left for work, and she knew he expected her to do as she pleased in his house. She also knew he’d left her something.
Stepping into his room was almost surreal to her. She never thought she’d be back there again. The picture frames still lined the mantle; his family, his band, his friends- all smiling back at her. Then, in the middle stood an empty frame. She didn’t have to think about what it had once contained. She already knew at one time it held the two of them.
A stack of clothes sat at the foot of his bed. She smiled sadly, realizing that the clothes he’d set out were her favorites of his. She quickly changed into them, grateful for something dry to wear. She put her wet clothes in the bathroom, letting them drip-dry over the curtain rod.
The guys eyed him quizzically as he gathered his things. A couple of them stopped to make sure he was ok, but he shrugged them off with the excuse they all used- he was tire. But even though the others let it go, he knew they saw through his façade.
When he got home, he saw her things in the bathroom and his heart ached with all the memories. He stepped in the doorway to the room, his eyes misting over a bit. Her almond-colored hair was fanned out behind her on the pillow, and the sheets covered her body in a graceful yet seductive manner. His cat was next to her, but as he stripped off his own clothes, the feline stretched, jumped off the bed, and exited the room. Smiling to himself, he pulled on a pair of boxers. Slipping under the covers, he bent his body to nest with hers. He kissed her neck and placed a hand on her lean shoulder. Breathing in her scent, tears ran down his cheeks until he was sleeping soundly.
She’d heard the door open when he got home, and she didn’t want to see him awake. She knew this situation would only work as long as one of them was gone at all times. She’d always been good at fooling people, so she wasn’t surprised that he believed she was sleeping. That was how she wanted it. How she NEEDED it. As he climbed under the covers, she felt his warmth and smelled his hair as he moved. He pressed in closer to her and she felt his skin against hers as he rubbed her arm, and his moist breath as his hot lips grazed the back of her neck. It was all she could do to keep from moaning with pleasure, but she somehow suppressed the urge.
He rolled over, expecting to see her rust-colored eyes sleepily looking back at him, but was surprised to find that not even his cat lay there. He listened quietly, trying to pinpoint her exact location. Hearing papers rustling, he knew she was sifting through his stacks of unfinished song lyrics. He got out of the king-sized bed and plodded down the hall in her direction. He peeked in the room to see her sitting on her knees on the floor, papers spread around her and a small stack in her hand. Her hair was in a messy bun and her glasses were sliding down her nose. She wore his gray sweatpants and a wife-beater and he could see tears in her eyes and she read his words. When she finally looked up at him, neither of them said anything. He held her gaze for a moment before exiting as quietly as he’d entered.
The canvas seemed to be mocking her, laughing at her sudden inability to create. It stared back at her in all its white emptiness. Thinking back to the pages she’d read, her eyes burned with the immense pressure she suddenly felt behind them. She was upset, depressed, and angry all at the same time.
And she painted just that. She went at it furiously and when she finished, her tears fell like waterfalls. She propped it up on his bed, laying the lyrics next to it. There was no title, so she quickly scrawled something across the top of the front page.
He knew something was off when he returned home. He went to his bedroom and the first thing he noticed was the once empty frame. It once again held a picture of the two of them. Next he looked to his bed only to find that she had left her own clothes folded there, and had taken the ones he’d set out for her. Then something else caught his eye and he slowly picked up the canvas, smiling sadly. In big block letters, she’d painted, “I LOVE YOU”.
Tears threatened to fall as he read it and when he saw the pages lying there, he couldn’t hold them back any longer. He saw the words she had chosen and he knew he would no longer struggle with the song. For it now had the perfect title, which he read aloud to himself.
“Dear Goodbye”
