I miss him like the sun misses the darkened sky at night.
The old me before I fell in love with Leonidas was addicted to the feeling of sadness. I isolated myself until I felt like the only person in the world. I would sit in my room with the lights off, my covers thrown over me as my tears stained my pillowcase. I would wonder where I had gone wrong, why my chest felt such intense pain that it was hard to breathe.
Now, he’s my addiction, the only thing I can possibly think about. The only person who can lift my face up in a smile with just a glance. The person who can make my heartbeat quicken with a single featherlight touch.
I hate talking about my feelings. I know Mom means well, but when she constantly brings up Leonidas, I get pushed farther and farther into my mind and become someone I fear being again.
The mind is a dangerous place. You either get the life sucked out of you until you’re left as a lifeless shell. Or you fight against your demons until they’re the ones on their knees, begging for mercy. I’m not sure who’s winning my battle. Is it me or my thoughts?
I sit at the front desk at work on this cloudy day. Linda is away for her lunch break, and she left me in charge. If she were here to see me lost in thought, she would scold me to pay better attention to her shop. Rapping my knuckles on the wood, I stare out the window. I see different people running out in the rain. Some walk slowly and smile up at the sky. Children holding hands with their mothers jump in the puddles with their large rain boots on. Others glare up at the sky. They hold their umbrellas over their heads as they curse the ground below them.
I would be the latter. The dark, stormy clouds match the way my heart feels on the inside. The damp air makes me feel cold and uncomfortable.
My eyes slowly turn when the door chime rings. My back straightens when Diego walks in. What is Rodrigo’s son doing here? I’ve never seen him step foot in here before. He doesn’t look like the type to read, but I also had the same thought about Leonidas, and he proved me wrong.
My eyes harden when he closes his red umbrella inside the store. “You know, they say that’s bad luck.”
“I was born on January 13, so I guess my entire life is bad luck.” His eyes meet mine as he turns his head toward me.
I watch with curiosity as he leans his umbrella against one of the floor to-ceiling windows.
Diego looks around the store with interest. With an amused smile, he finds my gaze. “You have a boring job. What happened to the idea of being a stripper?”
“Someone reminded me I’d turn wrinkly and old, so I thought of a better route.”
I bring up the first time we met, and he lets out a husky chuckle.
He nods, and his curly black locks bounce on the top of his head from the movement. Walking closer to where I sit, he leans in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” My voice has an edge to it, but I didn’t mean for him to notice. When his body tenses, I scold myself.
“I thought you could use some company since your boyfriend left,” he mumbles and shrugs his shoulders.
I try to read his expression, but all I get is a blank face that looks like someone forced him to be here. My fingers fidget with a plastic bookmark in front of me. “Why would I need company while I’m at work?”
“Most people don’t leave their houses while it rains. Especially people who read. They’re home right now in their beds, reading while drinking something hot,” he points out like he’s telling the daily news.
“What should you be doing on a normal day?” I ask him while glancing up at him through my lashes.
Turning his head to the side in a thinking motion, he bites his lip. “Playing a video game that does nothing but melt my brain.” He chuckles, the rough sound rumbling out from his chest.
I let out a laugh that I meant to keep in. “True that.” My hand drops the bookmark I was fiddling with to the table as my mind registers something he said moments ago. “How did you know my boyfriend left?”
“My dad brought it up in conversation when he said you looked down.” He shrugs his shoulders and eyes me with pity.
I hate pity, especially from people who don’t understand. He walked into the bookstore I work at like we’re old friends, catching up. News flash: I’ve only had one brief conversation with this guy, and that was forced. Why is he storming in here like we’re buddy-buddy?
“One thing you should know about me—and tell your dad too—is that I hate pity. I’ve been through worse and come out alive,” I explain and glance back out the window.
“I can imagine.”
“Really?” I rasp and laugh. “Please don’t humor me.”
He slams his hand on the table in front of me, causing me to jump in my seat. “I might not know the feeling of losing a parent, especially from being murdered, but I’m far too familiar with feeling alone.” His eyes burn with hate as he glares over at me.
“Then, you, out of all people, should know not to bring up others struggles,” I argue back. My voice wants to crack, but I beg it to stay strong.
“Look, I just thought you could use a friend. It would also make our parents happy if we got along since they’re getting serious.”
