it’s been a hot minute since i’ve been here. let me share something i wrote and never finished three years ago :) p.s. this is about calum
He brought the fresh cigarette to his lips while his other hand fumbled for the lighter in the right pocket of his leather jacket. It was his favorite lighter, a Bic adorning a sad shade of blue. He didn’t have an explanation for why he liked it. He inhaled after lighting, allowing his stress and anxiety to lift from his chest as if it had never been there at all.
Calum missed his old life sometimes. He missed the idea of a promising career. He missed his happiness. College hadn’t fit, and after that, it felt as though nothing would fit. He couldn’t keep a single relationship without fucking something up, so when the tables were turned, he spiraled. His feet took him to the city by his hometown. Even home didn’t feel like home.
His ears were deceiving him—he hoped they were. Soft sniffs sounded from down the sidewalk, and he noticed the hunched figure through the frosted glass of the bus stop shelter. He would have ignored it if it weren’t for the fact that it was his bus stop too.
“Sorry,” Calum mumbled as he joined the figure. He didn’t even give them a quick glance, nor another apology for smoking around them when they were clearly upset. He didn’t care about anyone else’s feelings except for his own. At least not yet.
“’S’fine, don’t—” The person cut themselves off, and for a second, he didn’t want to figure out why. “Calum?”
He gazed over for a second, then away, and then back over again. Your name fell from his lips.
You were hugging yourself, your arms covered in a thin sweater while your bare legs were crossed over each other to hide from the cold. While a weak smile had stretched on your lips, your cheeks were flushed, chapped, and slick from tears.
“Crazy,” he breathed out. “I just—um, I just saw Chris tonight.”
You furrowed your eyebrows together, lips falling into a frown.
“From History.”
“From History!” you exclaimed, your voice dry and hoarse. “How’s he?”
Calum nodded and flicked some ash from his cigarette. “Good. Engaged.”
Your eyes had locked onto his cigarette, and you had lost your smile once again. “You smoke?”
He smoked. He smoked every damn day, and he knew you wouldn’t have suspected. Looking down at the nearly finished cigarette, he muttered out, “I’m a social smoker.”
“It’s—” You chuckled softly. “It’s just us, Calum.”
“Yeah,” he replied with a nod. Caught red-handed. “Just—"
You turned your body towards him, eager and happy to see him after all those years.
“Why are you out here?” he asked suddenly. “Alone?” He was tired of seeing your grin rise and fall, but he wanted to know. He remembered the bubbly spirit you were in high school, and now, you were no longer recognizable. And he wondered if you felt the same.
You shrugged, steadily breathing in, shakily breathing out. “Partner kicked me out,” you whispered. You were trying to smile again but failed. “Two years of my life. Wasted.” The tears had long since dried, and your voice no longer wavered.
Calum already felt like he understood you. After many years, you were sitting together under a random bus shelter, a mess of emotions fluttering around in your brains. But, then it hit him. “You—do you not have anywhere to stay?”
“I mean—” you began, once again trying to calm your breath. “I can call a friend.”
He nodded.
“But I don’t really have many friends.”
“Jesus,” Calum muttered. He had forgotten about his cigarette for a little too long. With a sigh, he tossed it to the ground and ground it into the cement. He believed in fate, and he often followed whatever gut intuition called him at the time. Now, all he could think about was you being homeless for the night. He wanted to help you; he used to practically be in love with you. “I have a couch. It’s not the prettiest couch, but it’s decent.”
“Are you offering me to stay with you?” you asked. Your teeth were starting to chatter, and your lips were a dark purple.
He nodded. He needed you to agree faster. He needed you to agree now.
“That’s very nice of you.” Your voice was hushed, almost as if you were trying to tiptoe around your own words. “If it’s not t-too much.”
Calum cracked a smile. “Not too much for you.”
It was dark in his apartment. The only light that emitted through the pitch darkness was the clock on his stove, which could be seen from the entrance. In fact, everything in his place but the bathroom could be seen from the front door.
“S’not much,” he grumbled sleepily, “but I s’pose it’s home f’now.” The lights turned on and it took both of you a moment to adjust.
You wandered in after him, your eyes gazing curiously around the room, taking in its entirety. His metal bed frame in the corner housed a mattress, one pillow, and a dark comforter. A cardboard box with the words “books and shoes” written on the side made a nice alternative for a bedside table. A plastic candle sat beside a stray phone charger that dangled over the edge of the cardboard. And finally, aside from the messy kitchen with bowls and plates stacked to the rafters in the sink, you took a glance at your bed.
It wasn’t a pretty couch, just like he said, but it was a couch nevertheless. The material appeared scratchy, and the arms were blocks of scratched-up wood. The throw pillow by the window would suffice, and the lack of a blanket did not deter you. It was better than the streets, so you were thankful.
“Thank you,” you said through the silence, “for letting me stay here. You have no idea how—”
“I’ve been in your shoes before,” he spoke. “Least I could do. Few rules though.”
“Of course.”
He smiled at you, and it was the most genuine smile he had given anyone in a long time. “Never, ever apologize for anything.”
“What?”
“And,” he continued, tossing his jacket and keys on the counter of the kitchen before making his way over to the small television by the couch, “never think you’re overstaying your welcome.” He pressed the power button, but the screen turned to fuzz for a solid minute before it was brought to life on the Discovery Channel.
“Why are you treating me like this?” The question seemed accusatory, defensive even, but it was harmless all the while.
Calum decided that transparency, for the night, was his only solution. “I liked you once,” he said, desperately craving another cigarette to help him through this. “It was nice. And then, I hit you in the head with a football in gym class. Consider this repayment.”
“Repayment,” you whispered to yourself. “We were like, eighteen.”
He nodded. He was somewhat relieved you chose not to mention his confession. “I know. But I thought I killed you.”
You laughed.
“Didn’t know what I would do without ya,” Calum admitted with a shrug. He began to gather a few items of clothing from the bottom drawer of the dresser that held the TV.
It took you a few moments to answer, so when the silence crept back in, he handed you the articles of clothing he assembled. “What’s this?” you asked.
“Ya might feel comfortable sleeping in something more... comfortable,” he said. “Sweats and a shirt. Need underwear, too?”
You were amused, he could tell. “I have a feeling you’ve done this before.”
But that was where you were wrong. Calum had never done this before. He hardly had anyone over to his apartment in the first place. It was a dumpster fire, and he hated people knowing how rough he had it. Around you, he felt hospitable. Around you, he felt the need to make up for the years he never tried.
He didn’t say any of that. Really, he didn’t say anything at all. He showed you the workings of the shower, gave you the spare toothbrush that the dentist gave him for free six months ago, and even let you snack on his favorite popcorn when your stomach grumbled. He was being nicer than he had ever been in his whole life.
It felt natural, especially when you asked him if he still played soccer.
“What?” His brows furrowed.
“Did you actually not hear the question, or—”
He hummed, shaking his head. “I just—” Calum laughed at himself. “Don’t play football anymore.”
“Football,” you mumbled and imitated his accent. “Fuck. Why not?”
He shrugged. He wanted to be honest, like really honest, but not just yet. Not after the years gone by. You were still strangers.
“You were so good,” you whispered. “Even though you clonked me in the head.”
He beamed. “Thanks, darling. I appreciate it.” He wanted to say that he appreciated you.
Three weeks. Three weeks of you in his life again. Three weeks of coming home to find you curled up on your makeshift bed while watching reruns of Seinfeld. Three weeks of cute notes on the fridge to let him know you ran out to get more milk even though he was the only one that drank it. Three weeks of getting to see you smile again.
Calum had gotten your belongings a few days after the first night. Truly, the night was a blur. He had to restrain himself from putting his ringed knuckles into the eyes of your ex. Somehow, he managed to leave with your things, him and your fucking ex unharmed. You sat a mile away in Calum’s car crying.
After that, things were looking up. The two of you had wage jobs, and your schedules never matched up most of the time. That was when the notes began, and Calum couldn’t stop his heart from beating out of his chest. He was letting himself go down the same path he had in high school. He was letting himself get lost in every little thing you did.
But, similar to before, he had no way of showing it. All he could do was stare at your hands and wonder what the butterflies in his stomach would do if he slid his fingers in between yours. It was all he knew how to do.
“I never really understood soccer,” you said, taking a sip of your glass of water, and meanwhile, beside you, Calum was trying to decide on whether or not he wanted a beer. “Maybe I would’ve if I had been able to play in the tournament our class had.”
He rolled his eyes as he slung his arm around the back of the couch. His hand brushed your hair slightly. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Don’t bring it up every damn second or I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Sorry,” you replied, bashfully at that.
“No apologizing.” He caught your eye out of the corner of his, so he looked back towards the television. A match between Man City and Watford was playing.
“You know that just makes me want to apologize even more.”
He shrugged. “Not sorry ‘bout it.”
“God,” you muttered, but he could see your smile.
“And...” he continued, sliding a tiny bit closer to you on the couch. His hand was now centimeters away from your shoulder. “It’s football.”
“Shut up,” you groaned. You laughed anyway. “Soccer.”
“Football.”
“Soccer, dummy.”
“I still think it’s football.”
“Sorry, but—”
He raised an eyebrow at you.
“Fine,” you said. “Not sorry, but it’s soccer.”
“Football, and you’re impossible.” He inched closer, and somehow, you didn’t notice. He could count your freckles if he wanted to.
You winked. “Soccer, and you snore.”
“Don’t care.” Calum could see the many colors in your eyes now. “Football.”
“Soccer.”
“Football.”
“Soc—”
Calum leaned in, pressing his lips to yours before pulling away as quickly as he went in. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, and it wouldn’t surprise him if the entire neighborhood could hear it as well.
“—cer,” you finished, your voice coming out as a barely coherent whisper. Your eyes fell wide, and your lips parted.
“Sorry,” he croaked, standing abruptly before reaching for his jacket. He could feel his lighter in its usual place. He didn’t say anything else as he grabbed his keys and shut the front door behind him.
