superpcsitionsā:
Ā Ā Ā IF YOU ASKED why provence, a place that has nestled its personality deep in arlo, dug its feet into the foundation of his being, has since been a name that tastes bitter in his mouth, arlo would give you one of two answers: itās due to the less-than-ideal business-resemblant relationship he had with his parents, or his first heartache. and itās no surprise that arlo has dated around. for the past four years of his life, heās been with countless individualsā be it for one night or a few months, just for sex or meaningful relationships. his heart is so big and he has this endless amount of love to give and a yearn for love to be reciprocated, to the point that heās never quite satisfied, and he can sum it down to one person.
which, you know, isnāt all that fair but arlo was young: eighteen years old, stars in his eyes and an obsession with a girl in his art class. with rose-tinted glasses and a matching romantic interior for a mind, arlo had put all of his eggs in one basket with brianna. he was infatuated, and it happened quick. he was too naive to see how they were destined for failure and though itās been so long since then, sheās a constant little hum in the back of his head. he canāt go long without thinking of her. like, so much reminds him of her and the heartache he was left with after her still feels like tar in his lungs at times.
it was brianna that got arlo into living like a nomad. it was brianna whose whimsical way of life inspired him so much. it was brianna that broke his heart and lead him to believe the same thing she did: that the best thing to do when things were getting serious was to leave.
heās walking around with a bag of pastries to bring back to the b&b when he doesnāt even realize that heās hearing the familiar song from when he was younger. a french song, one his mother would sing around the house. he hasnāt heard it in so long and only realizes that when he notices heās whistling along to it. he laughs to himself and grins, but slows his pace when he stops the whistling and hears the guitar being strummed to the same tune not far from where he is. brows crease and he walks towards it, swinging the bag in his hand.
his mouth goes dry.
he hears her voice.
his toes wiggle in his shoes. he cracks his neck. chews on the inside of his cheek. taps his thigh with the bag of pastries. anything to ground himself.
with a racing heart, arlo turns the corner and continues walking, trying not to show too much trepidation while he steps forward. and there she is, right along the beach with a guitar in her hands and she sees him just as he sees her. he doesnāt even know what to say, what couldĀ he even say? instead, just one word leaves his lips in a cracked voice:Ā ābrianna?ā
Brianna tried not to have regrets. She tried not to really think about her life behind her at all. She kept moving, never settling in one place long enough to face it. But it seemed her past was catching up to her, ready or not. Arlo, one of her only big regrets, standing before her.
She put the guitar down beside her. She wondered if he remembered the scrawled poetry on the back of it from one of their dates. Permanent marker among the other memories on this old thing. His cracking voice seemed to indicate that he probably did.
ā...Hi.ā
Fuck. She wasnāt ready for this. She didnāt want to explain herself to him. Brianna had spent the last seven years running, she didnāt want to face anything sheād left in her wake.
