Pairing: David Cliff (The High Note) x Black Fem OC (Sybelle Selene Jackson)
Summary: A wife yearns deeply for her husband in a way she'd never done before.
Warnings: Painful yearning.
WC: 943
AN: Love the High Note. Love Kelvin's face. Love Weruche's face. Voila. This is one of my new favorite pieces. I truly hope you enjoyed. Please let me know your thoughts!
Remember: likes are nice, but reblogs and comments are encouraged!
Quiet. It was disturbingly quiet. The type of silence that was so disruptive that it would hinder her sleep. The kind that made her hyperaware of his absence. No heavy footsteps to detect what room he walked out of, and the next he entered.
The bedroom felt hollow. Empty. The bed was too big, the windows were too small, and the atmosphere was like a gloomy February morning where hovering nimbus clouds signified an impending doom of their home being attacked by heavy droplets of rain. Her body shifted as if making space for him on the king-sized mattress that seemed to swallow her whole.
A strong and unwavering frown settled upon her lips. Her long arms stretched across the bed as she ran her fingertips over the crinkles and wrinkles of the white cotton, rough and empty beneath her touch. With a soft grunt, she fell backward and turned her head to the right, her nose buried in his pillow. She inhaled deeply, relishing the last traces of his faded cologne.
It was husky and warm, like him. The perfect balance of musk and sweetness made her eyes roll every time the delicious scent passed her nose. She exhaled sharply, trying to return to center after orbiting the universe with her lover who had skyrocketed to another galaxy.
His voice, low and full of kindness, replayed in her mind like a broken record. Her body shuddered as she felt the ghost of his lips against the shell of her ear, his tongue tracing the inner lobe as he whispered “I love you” as they made love into the early hours of the morning.
She missed him. The weight of her yearning sat deep in her chest—unrelenting. She didn’t think she was capable of feeling it. She didn't know her heart was wired to produce such a deep desire to be at one with someone else.
Her eyelids fluttered as she fought to keep the growing tears tucked behind an eyeliner-clad waterline.
Everywhere she turned, he was there—the journal on the nightstand, an intention gift from him. It was wrapped in a beautiful satin bow, with her initials pressed into the leather in strong gold lettering. SSJC. A new era deserves a fresh start, baby, he told her when she looked at him with glassy eyes, questioning what the gift was for. So intentional, he was, having incorporated a pack of stainless steel pens in gold to match. A songwriter needs the right tools, and these felt like you. Her fingertip traced the notebook, flipping it open to see the small note he left on the inside. Write without fear, beloved.
Her fingers twisted her—his—shirt. She brought the collar to her nose and inhaled. She fell asleep in it without thinking, swaddled in the presence of him. Music played softly in the background, but with every riff and cry of the guitar string, it was him—the soft hum of his voice and rumble of his tenor.
Her body remembered him; his warmth pressed into her back as he pressed her into the mattress. The slow, lazy way he’d brush his lips along her shoulder to wake her up in the morning before pulling her closer.
Again, her hands clawed at the bed to grab cold sheets. He wasn’t here. The loneliness was palpable, suffocating. She felt like she was stuck in an elevator with inoperable doors. Stuck by herself with no one around.
She wanted to call. She needed to hear his voice, even if it was just for a moment. But if she did, she might break. Go into a frenzy of packing a bag and hopping on the earliest red eye she could catch. But she knew she shouldn’t. It was his moment. He deserved to experience it fully. She’d be at home waiting. At home. Waiting.
The dam burst. Tears rushed down her face like a waterfall. Frustration filled her body like a disease—frustration for becoming so used to being in his presence that becoming independent of him was an overwhelming experience. A longing so deep that it threatened to pull her under. Pull her deep into an abyss she was willing to drown in. Drown in him, she’d do it, she indeed would.
She sang under her breath, an old song. Their song. The same way he used to hum when he thought she wasn’t listening. The same hum that lulled her to sleep during the longest of nights and most treacherous days. The same hum that captured her attention all that time ago in the studio. The same hum that stilled her mind and silenced the storm inside of her soul.
She grabbed her phone, hands shaking, thumbs hovering over his content. She didn’t press call. Her thumbs rushed to type I miss you. She stared at it. Deleted it. Rewrote it. Deleted it again. Smaestro with a pen, an expert at her craft—yet, words had escaped her like a bandit feeling the scene.
Only one message seemed fitting. His name. David.
When he responded immediately—“I know, baby. I miss you too.”—she felt the first bit of air return to her lungs after having been breathless for what seemed to be a lifetime.
She aggressively wiped her tears away, almost angry with herself for feeling his absence so profoundly. But, wasn’t that love? The kind that made you ache, even when you knew they’d come back? Her husband, lover, and friend wouldn’t return for six weeks. Her heart yearned to be with him again.
He sent another message. Smile, Sybelle. I’ll be home soon. I love you forever, baby.
Even Rosamund agrees that if women were given power it would be nothing like what it is now. I like that Roxane Gay mentioned in an interview that her definition of feminism is that power is shared.
I also appreciate another person pointing out that the story had a special goal: it is Damien's journey.
PS: The screenshots were taken from responses to Rosamund's Post
