another colour piece with everyone's favourite guy.
and since you are all equally impatient bitches here is yellow with dima - thank you to my babe @vxlentinehood for the softest rebranded idea.
fun fact: I almost used my book title for this piece but had a change of heart. also fun fact two, this is from my old blog as I knew it would be perfect so i’ve edited it and reworded it accordingly.
brief summary: dima had been sending you sunflowers for months in his absence, but their vivid colour couldn’t rise your dampened spirits.
They were the biggest contrast in my life. They were full of colour, screamed about life and excitement whilst I lacked both.
At this point the majority of my salary is spent on maintaining them, ensuring their precious petals are secure. Sometimes I place odd ones into empty wine bottles knowing he has no idea how many of them there are at this point. It doesn’t matter how many bottles are empty, as there are always more flowers to find a home for.
Walking into my living room they line the windows, the coffee table and one sits alone on my shelf, admiring the sea of yellow in the room. For something connoted with delicate, they are far from it, at this point they have more strength and life than I do.
I know I have to keep them alive, keep them strong for him. All he wants is to come home to a bright happy environment, and maybe, just maybe the flowers will drown me out.
Every few days, sometimes weeks a new bunch arrived at my door. They’d patiently wait for me, all perked up and full of life. They emit joy whilst I radiate despair but he doesn’t know that I’ve gotten good at my fake smiles. At this point, I’m unsure if I’m happy or merely faking it.
Along with the flowers I receive a handwritten note, a quick scribble with a single kiss ‘be home soon, I miss you x’ that sort of note. At first, they touched me, I reflected over how heartfelt they seemed but now they all appear generic, that’s not his fault, I blame my empty soul.
Taking yet another withered bunch of flowers out of one vase, the one decorated with paint splats that my nephew did for me as a Christmas present I replace them with fresh, younger life. Take the old and replace it with the new, it’s easy, too easy. Focusing on the petals that linger on the surface as the body is now buried in the bin, along with other crap in my life I carefully pick the petals up, comparing the shades against the sunshine.
What category can I place myself in whilst being surrounded by life?
Snapping out of my thoughts I wondered where he was exactly. Was he working? Possibly. Was he enjoying a two month trip to LA? Most definitely. How was I in the midst of this? I’m past having a response.
Picking up my phone the background lights up my eyes, causing me to squint at the cliché couple’s picture of us. Me, doing a bearing all teeth smile as I wear my yellow raincoat- the reason this began. Whilst during the dull day his eyes shone, they contrasted like my personality to these flowers. They illuminated through the heavy grey clouds of my mind, always finding a way through to show the light.
My fingertip hovers above the call button, already I can hear him voicing his concerns as his voice would grow louder as he parted from his friends, the ones I’d met various times but still felt estranged from. I can hear him laughing and it echoing in the silence of the flat, my only company slowly dying on me. Lifting my hand away I hold my fist close to my chest, my own breathing sounding too dense, too much noise breaking the silence that rests around me.
Walking out of the room I sit in the hallway, away from the colour, the life, the death, from the reminder that he isn’t here. I want to scream the sort of scream that leaves your throat raw, the one when you feel your body empty the toxins and are left feeling exhilarated. But that doesn’t happen when you scream, instead, you have neighbours who aren’t deaf or plugged into the internet knock on your door with concerns which are always short lived. No one wants to be nosey in person, we all do it in private instead.
I stare at the white wall that has been accidentally decorated with scrapes from our furniture when we moved in, the marks of alcohol from him dragging Ilya in during drunken events. We both fretted about that those stains to begin with, but the more marks that got added the less we both cared. Do we even care anymore about anything? Who knows.
Standing up I can see the colour out of the corner of my eye, the vibrancy requires sunglasses sometimes, especially at 5am when the morning sun breaks through the tainted glass. Stepping forward I hesitate to go back in there, the faint sound of laughter hangs heavy there sometimes, the forgotten memories.
Turning away I can almost hear him muttering my name, the sweet voice etched with exhaustion. Closing my eyes I whisper his in return, only to be greeted by the gentle lock of our door. Quick to face the door a large bag perched next to those scruffy shoes, my eyes dart up to see him. The actual him. Not a pixilated glitched version I’d admire through the screen or hear every few days through others conversations.
Standing my ground the variation of aged life stood between us. His stubble had grown into more of a beard whilst his hair was perfectly styled by simply being left alone. He wore that small uneasy smile, sensing my own attitude as my arms remain together.
A gradient of colours leading to his black attire whilst I matched, how cliché. Analysing him I wasn’t sure what to do, physical contact - something I haven’t faced in shy of two months.
Can I merely glue the pieces back together as always, pick up the flower petals and discard them like they were never there? Somehow I do this every time, but how much longer can I force myself in this game?
“Hi.” I shyly wave, as if we were strangers meeting for the first time.
To him I may as well be a stranger, usually, when he is gone for a long time I often lose myself. Who I’m meant to be that is. When I know he’s coming back I prepare myself, get back to the look that he knows and loves as opposed to a tired mess who cannot understand social interactions.
“Hey.” He said through a sigh. I tried finding his eyes but they remained out of view. “I didn’t realise how many I’d sent.” Motioning to the flowers that covered every available surface I let out a dry laugh.
“This is a third of what was.” Muttering to myself I forget how the quietest of words can be easily heard in a space like this.
Stepping forward the floorboards creaked as he etched closer, past the bright flowers and nearer the darker, the more flaccid of the bunch. His hand reached out cautiously towards mine, yet I stared at it like it were an alien. As my hands remained to my sides he quickly retracted his hand back to his side, a gentle blush crossing his cheeks. A new colour. Pink. Not yellow. Not black. Not white. But pink. The colour of love, the pure kind. Not passionate, not sexy, not dangerous. Innocent.
“Funny, isn’t it?” I spoke up, he didn’t react. “How yellow is supposed to be a happy colour?” More rhetorical questions followed by silence, as expected. “Yet it’s been claimed to be a depressing colour.” A dry laugh sounds from him, making a small smile form on my face.
“And here you are, surrounded by nothing but it.” He lifted his head, at last, the deep blue that shone through the clouds and darkness.
The blue, the pink, the grey all contrasting against the sunflowers. “It’s about time for a change.” Placing my hand on his I felt the easiness return. The innocent pink cross my own cheeks. “Welcome home, Dima.”
