Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
I dash off stage, push past startled people lingering, just off the curtain, and come out into the hallway. Except for a few stragglers, it’s empty. For a couple of seconds, I stand frozen, thinking that maybe I did imagine him. After all, he should be with the team. There’s a game tonight and he needs to be there for it. There’s no way he missed his game, missed his job—for me, no less—even though soccer really isn’t his thing.
Still, I make myself move and go in search of him even though I have absolutely no idea which direction he went in. But apparently, I picked the right one because a few steps in, I get yanked by the arm and pulled into the prop closet.
As soon as I hear the sharp thud of the door being closed, I come to stand on my tiptoes.
With anticipation.
With eagerness.
Even though for the first several seconds all there is, is darkness and silence punctuated by heavy breaths. In the back of my mind, I realize that maybe I should be screaming right now, struggling against the grip around my bicep.
What if it’s not him?
But I know it is.
I recognize him from the bite of his fingers on my flesh, how sharp it is.
How hot and stinging.
I know him from the way he breathes, all thick and noisy. I know him from the scent of the air that leaves his lungs, smoky and spicy, marshmallow-y.
And I’m proven right when he lets me go and pulls the dangling switch to the bulb, flooding the cold and damp closet with yellow light.
Before I know it, I’m taking him in.
I’m taking in little nuances of his face after weeks and weeks of just long-distance phone conversations. I’m taking him in without the screen between us. I’m gorging on his face, eating up his hard cheekbones and that clean-shaven jaw; biting the center of his pouty mouth and licking the stubborn line of his nose. I’m tracing his thick eyebrows, his chocolate brown hair that’s polished back. I even focus and try to count his countless forest-y eyelashes.
“What are you…” I whisper, trying to calm myself down. “What are you doing here?”
Up until I spoke, he was taking me in as well. Probably in the similar manner as I was, but at my words, he looks into my eyes. “I had to come.”
His voice is deep and growly, familiar, but there’s a quality to it that’s foreign.
Which is when I realize that he wasn’t looking at me like I was looking at him, no. His gaze, like his voice, has a different quality to it too. It was there when he was clapping back at the auditorium. I was so flustered at his sudden appearance that I couldn’t figure it out what it was.
I know now.
It’s awe.
He’s looking at me with awe.
Like he can’t believe I’m real.
And if I am, then he can’t believe that he gets to look at me.
“B-but you have a game tonight,” I remind him, my skin breaking out in goose bumps, not from the chill lingering in the closet but from his awe-filled heat.
“I had to see you.”
“You have a game in an hour,” I insist.
“I took the night off,” he says like an afterthought.
“You took the night off? You never do that. You… The game—”
“I need you to promise me something,” he cuts me off.
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll never let your dream go.”
My mouth parts on a breath. “What? I—”
“Just promise me,” he commands urgently. “Promise me that no matter what, you’ll always, fucking always, go for it. You’ll always seize your destiny.”
“You think this is my destiny?”
“Fuck yeah.”
I look at him for a few seconds, my body overcome with all these emotions before nodding. “I will.”
He lets out a breath of relief. “You were…”
When he doesn’t seem to pick up the trail he left, I ask, “I was what?”
He licks his lips. “Luminous.”
My heart thumps. “L-luminous.”
A frown furrows his brows. It’s light and it’s curious. “No, you were… I don’t…”
“You don’t what?” I prod when he trails off again.
He shakes his head slightly. “I’m trying to think of a word to describe you, but I can’t…” Another shake. “I can’t find it.”
My throat is going dry. “Luminous is good.”
“Luminous is not enough.”
“I—”
“Radiant. Dazzling. Scintillating. Resplendent. Incandescent. Luminiferous…” He licks his lips again. “I don’t… I can’t find words.”
He looks so lost then.
So lost and God, so adorable.
A word that I never thought I’d use to describe him. And without volition, my hand rises up and goes to his harsh cheek. I cup his angular jaw and whisper, “It’s okay. You just did. You used”—I count in my head—“seven words to describe me.”
The muscle on his cheek beats under my palm. “None of them are right.”
“I liked luminiferous.”
“Fuck luminiferous.”
“It wasn’t all me, though.”
“It was all you.”