Candy Baron
I want to exist only at night, when everything is calm.
2 min read

"What's up?" That's what you'd say to me every saturday morning. I'd tell you I was trying to wake up and you'd laugh a little. I'd sit up and ask how you were doing. You'd sigh and mumble a reply; you hadn't woken up either. I'd fall back into bed and you'd snuggle up against me while the sun struggled to peek in at us through the curtains. The day can wait, you used to say. We'd get up when we felt like it.

"What's the play?" That's what you'd ask after breakfast. I'd grin and gently pat the couch next to me. I always loved those quiet moments, where we'd sit and breathe for a while and forget the world existed. All I remember is your frequent chuckles as you flipped through your favourite book for the millionth time. There's dozens of pages of your smile in my sketchbooks. I never could capture that sparkle in your eyes.

"Wanna hear a bad joke?" That's what I'd say while you were brushing your hair. You'd groan and aim your hairbrush at me, but I could see you trying not to smile. I'd walk over and whisper the punchline in your ear. The little snickers you couldn't hold back were what I lived for.

"Do you think we'll always be like this?" That's what I'd ask as we strolled along the beach. You'd bump into me and say you hoped so. I'd bump you back and say I hoped so too. Back then, I thought we were forever. Back when the sun was warm and the beach was close. When we were young and in love, and everyday felt like saturday.

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