| Fan Fiction |
by heartsong
It’d been a few days since Hebe and I settled comfortably into the apartment her friend had rented us when we arrived here.
These few days without hearing his voice had been hell, but if I was going to stay here and miss the wedding, too, then I would have to learn to survive without allowing myself the luxury of communication with him.
Hebe had caught me once, trying to call back home to speak to him. I’d told her I was calling my parents, but I could tell she didn’t entirely buy it. She explained, sternly, that if I did not want him to come looking for me, I would have to bear with it.
I understood what she was trying to do. This was only what I wanted. Hebe was only helping.
If he came to find me, then their wedding would be ruined. Ariel’s heart would break.
I would not be the one who would cause that to happen. It was the last thing I wanted to happen.
Hebe was out at her day job. She was working at a bakery a street down from where we were currently hiding.
Hiding.
It was strange to think of it in that sense. Hiding made us sound like fugitives. It wasn’t really the most appropriate word, but it was close enough for me.
Hebe, being the caring best friend, had insisted that I stay home for at least a month to calm my emotions down before I went to look for a job.
But what emotions could I possibly have? It had been my decision to come to France, my decision to let Ariel have what I needed; simply because she wanted it.
I couldn’t tell Hebe that I didn’t feel; couldn’t feel; would not feel.
I refused to let my emotions take over my head.
But I wanted to hear his voice so badly.
I knew it was the one thing that could be my downfall, and my saving grace, altogether.
I inhaled; a strong, steady – and yet wavering breath.
And then I pressed my fingers to the numbers that would carry me a thousand miles to be beside him. Just something as simple as hearing his voice would bring both of us to another world altogether – and I wanted that so badly.
I didn’t give a damn about the phone bill, Hebe and I would fight it out if we had to.
I had to hear his voice. I had to hear it.
When his strong, husky voice came on the line, I sucked in another deep breath.
“Hello?” he repeated, his voice coming over the line as clear as a bell. I was silent. I breathed in again, just for measure.
I closed my eyes, and saw clear, beautiful waves of pure energy, surging through the lids of my eyes. I breathed in and caught the scent that was so truly him. So, I thought, this is what longing feels like.
Time was elastic when you were waiting for an outcome you could dread, or could look forward to. I did not know if he would hang up, or if he could tell – just by the way the air shivered slightly when he spoke, that it was me.
I heard his breath catch in his throat and felt hope swim through me, a silver fish just below my heart; ribbons tangled in the hollow of my belly, slipping through me.
He blew out a stream of air and I clutched the phone tighter, forcing myself to breathe.
And then he called my name.
It was a question, not a statement – his voice curled in at the ends, almost as if he was afraid to know if it was me or not.
“Chun,” I finally replied, and my whisper was hesitant, afraid.
“Oh, Ella,” he breathed, relief and joy pouring through his words to seep into my ears, “I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again,”
It was my undoing. He called my name again, and it was a sound that jolted my soul. I did not realise – until then – that I had been holding my breath.
And then I remembered – “Is…Is she there?”
“No,” he murmured; a sound that fell into the shell of my ear in a wave of deep, rich colour.
Then there was silence, a shimmering beacon of hope that he would say something – anything at all.
“When are you coming back?” He asked.
By this time, I had chaffed myself raw against the edges of Hebe’s protection; I’d broken all rules and thrown all caution to the wind.
“I don’t know,” I confessed, when what I so badly wanted to tell him was this: I don’t want to come back. I want you to come and look for me.
I wanted to tell him where I was; where exactly I was, and when and how to come for me. I wanted to tell him that as long as he’d come for me, I’d run with him – anywhere. But I knew that would make him fly over, immediately. I knew he would come, and I knew we’d let go of all inhibitions and run, anywhere at all – just to be together.
I could not risk my sister’s happiness.
I would say that I was being noble, but the truth was this: I knew he still loved my sister, as much as he loved me. And I did not know if I could bear the thought of having him with me, yet thinking of my sister. If I had him, I would want him all to myself. I would say that I was giving in to my sister, But I was just being selfish again.
“You’re coming for the wedding, aren’t you, Ella?”
The wedding. I took the rounded edges of his consonants, the sharp lengths of his words, and reshaped them into the words I so badly wanted to hear: I’m coming, I love you, Wait for me. There isn’t a wedding.
I waited, for anything – anything at all that would be my saving grace.
When he did not say anything; when he waited gently, unwaveringly, for my answer, I drew air into my lungs. I swallowed my own saliva and tasted the bittersweet aroma of jealousy, of regret.
“Yes,” I lied; a whisper. And I gently pressed the phone back into its cradle before I could cry.
Just like that – just by leaving, by hanging up, I had broken that delicate, spider-web thin connection we had established. I had gone one step to far; one step too hard, and I’d broken that bridge.
But wasn’t this what Ariel would have wanted?
All of a sudden I hated my sister with a vengeance that was so frightening, so foreign. The emotion, the anger, it was so raw; so fluid that I trembled with the weight of my own feelings.
Anger bloomed within me, and settled beneath my heart, in place of the sliver of hope. It was a stone, a weight, a burden to pull me down.
Anger swam in the very same veins that carried my blood, searing hot paths of fury in their wakes.
I bowed low, ashamed at the influx of red, unadulterated rage – and then I cried.
---
Chun felt numb.
Ella had called. And she had hung up on him.
He kept the receiver pressed close to his ear, and closed his eyes. He could still feel her lips on his, the imprint of her back on his hands as he held her close – his finger twitched.
She had sounded so torn – so afraid. He shouldn’t have asked about her coming back for their wedding.
She probably wasn’t ready to face that.
Maybe she’d change her mind and not come back after all – Chun couldn’t bear the thought of that.
---
Soft sheets were pressed up against my skin, as I stared up at the ceiling.
I could still taste the sour tang of acid bile on the back of my tongue.
My gaze rolled over to where the toilet door was, closed and quiet. I knew what was beyond the door.
The tiles were white and smooth, and cold in their spotlessness.
I had knelt upon them a few hours before, my fingers in the back of my throat and then against the white seat of the toilet bowl, my insides turned the wrong way out.
I had closed my eyes and rested my hot fore-head against the smooth tiles on the floor, noting with a certain degree of laziness that they were impossibly clean and felt deliciously cold against my cheeks.
A few hours before, I’d reverted back into that old Ella I thought I wouldn’t see again. I thought I’d let go of that dark habit I’d used as a replacement of happiness, but I hadn’t.
It turned out that whether Chun cared about me or not was no longer a deciding factor.
My last coherent thought as I floated into the mist of sleep was of how this was, possibly, the only form of comfort I had left – and as morbid and dark as it might be; I would not be letting go.
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I LOVED THIS CHAPTER HEEHEE. I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT TOOOOOO.