Her entire body locks up at the question, and just when I think she’s going to shut me out completely, she kicks at the sidewalk. “I don’t like cars, they make me uncomfortable.”
“Bad experience?”
Those beautiful grey eyes that knock me on my ass every time I look at them fill with guilt as she looks at me, “something like that.”
“Want a walking partner?” I elbow her, trying to lift the mood so I don’t have to see that horrible look on her face anymore, “I have nowhere to be.”
She smiles, and with a small nod, she grabs my hand, walking towards her house.
I don’t tell her that she doesn’t let go of my hand the entire way back to her place, or point out the fact that the almost hour-long walk is insane. Instead, I listen to her ramble on and on about how much she wants to designgames for a living, lapping up all the information like a dog dying of thirst.
“There’s just something about video games that excites me,” she says, “and it’s not just about the beautiful artwork or soundtrack, the entire process from beginning to end is so interesting to me.”
Her eyes light up as she speaks, and I think it’s the first time I’ve seen her genuinely excited about something. It’s so satisfying watching her talk so passionately about the things she loves.
“I’ve never been very artistic, can’t really draw at all actually, but the thought of creating a beautiful story, and designing a game that could mean so much to someone sparks something inside me.”
When we finally get to what I can only assume is her childhood home, she drops my hand and walks in.
It smells of warm cookies, the scent instantly making my mouth water. The walls are painted in pale blues and yellows, like they couldn’t decide what colour they wanted more. Coats hang on a small rack, and picture frames cover the multi-coloured walls.
It’s a collection of Sasha’s life up until now, a beautiful collage of her history. There’s one of her as a little girl, hands wrapped around her brother with her eyes squeezed tight because of just how hard she’s smiling. He, on the other hand, has his arms reaching in the opposite direction, fighting to get away from his sister, but a wide grin is on his face.
They look identical, other than the slight difference in eye colour, and Sasha’s long hair flowing behind her.
The long black hair she’s had until recently is always in motion, like she’s always on the move.
Once a Little Pixie, always a Little Pixie.
Every once in a while, there’s a gap in the wall, like pictures that used to hang there were ripped down. But the ones with Sasha, her brother, and even her parents are still up, so I wonder who could have possibly been cut out of their little family.
Her parents look kind, with hair that matches Sasha’s and pale blue eyes like their son, but neither have ones that match their daughters.
I watch as they slowly grow older, their differences starting to shine as they figure out who they are as people. I look at a boy, permanently frozen in time, forever locked in memories and pictures. I see a girl, slowly fading into the background, the light in her eyes as a child growing distant the further we go down the hall.
She melts into the background, letting her brother shine in every photo, like she’s afraid of the spotlight.
There are about six photos of Jurian on the ice, and three more of him alone… but none of Sasha by herself.
“My room is just through here,” she tells me, completely unaware of how much attention I’m paying to everything.
I follow her past the kitchen and down a hall with even more photos before turning right into a forest green bedroom.
She collapses on the bed, watching me closely as I turn in a circle, examining her childhood bedroom.
There’s a four-poster bed in the centre of the back wall, directly across from the door. A small bay window to the left of her bed, and a small desk on the right wall. There’s hardly any posters or… anything in her room.
It’s the complete opposite of mine, and yet it still feels the same.
This one-story building has so much history inside of it, so many of her memories that she’s yet to share with me,but I sure as shit hope that one day I’ll get to hear every single one.
“So you grew up here, huh?” I say dumbly.
Obviously she grew up here, fucking idiot.
“Yeah,” she shrugs. “It’s not much, but my parents worked their butts off to give J and I everything we could ever want.” A sparkle brightens her eyes when she talks about her brother, but not the kind that means tears are a second from falling like the other night, it’s the kind that tells me she truly loved him with all her heart.
A beat of silence passes, the tension in my chest growing stronger by the second as I look at her. She breaks it a moment later with a smirk on her lips, “want to see my favourite part of this whole house?”
