Post by Taurus Tash on Aug 17, 2007 16:15:10 GMT -5
~NOTICE~
Just a warning, this story contains GAY sensual and sexual scenes!
IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, DON'T READ IT!!!
Please don't turn this story thread into a political discussion about gay rights...please? Pretty please with a cherry on top??
Thank you!
!TASH!
Track 1: A Long Forgotten Feeling
He was the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time.
He rested there in the light of the television, having not been turned off by Kyle and Roger, who were entangled in the wires of the videogame controllers and snoring as the television screamed ‘Game Over’ in the language of flashing lights- what’s to be expected after a Tuesday night gig at the club (actually, that could happen any night since all of the band members shared an apartment…). He was sleeping on the couch; his legs hidden by a blanket. Unlike the rest of Accursed Kumquat, who were asleep on the floor of the living room and still clad in their day clothes, the boy who caught my eye was in his pajamas. When he slept, he looked like a little kid as opposed to the nineteen year old guy of which we all knew. In fact, he acted like a little kid too.
I found myself approaching him cautiously, as if waking him would be the worst thing in the world. I got a weird feeling in my stomach every time I took a step closer to him.
Finally, I found a perch at the armrest of the couch. That was as far as I would go; actually, that was as far as I could go without waking him. He was indescribably, dare I say…cute when he slept.
I felt the great urge to touch him. I wanted to run my fingers through his hair. I let my hand hover over to his head, but I brought it back. What if he woke up? What would happen then? Would he ask me why I was touching his hair? Questions popped up in my mind one by one, their pace going up at an alarming rate. But I forcefully pushed them out by looking at his sleeping form. It seemed as though all of my thoughts disappeared when I looked at him. His stomach moved effortlessly as he inhaled and sunk back down in the blanket when he exhaled. His mouth was slightly open. The image was so rare…so beautiful…that I touched his hair without any second thoughts. I slowly ran my fingers through his wavy blonde hair. It felt like I was touching a cloud it was so light. John would never let me do that to him. I was only allowed to touch his body.
It was only until five seconds later when he giggled in his sleep, whereas I had snapped my hand back the moment I heard any form of disturbance. But I didn’t wake him; I just contributed to his dream sequence. I compared the boy to my past ‘exclusive’ lover, the man I met in the town where we last stayed…John.
John, whose heart I still want to capture, would never let me touch him unless we were in bed together. With the boy, I could touch him, play-punch him, hug him, do whatever I want and he wouldn’t care- he’d just laugh along with me. John never looked younger when he slept; in fact, he looked angrier than he is when he’s awake because he was plagued by nightmares that I could do nothing about. And he never giggled in his sleep or when he was awake. That was one of the many juvenile behaviors that he wouldn’t be caught dead committing.
I glanced at the boy again, his form unaltered. I whispered the boy’s name as it rolled off of my tongue gracefully. “Max…”
Max stirred and his sapphire eyes fluttered open slowly. I felt like running away, but when he glanced at me, I knew I was trapped.
“Greg?” he asked as if he didn’t recognize me. He yawned and looked at his watch, saying sleepily: “It’s three in the morning. What’re you doing up?”
I felt like laughing to myself- he still used the Pacific time zone. “N-Nothing. I was just going to get a drink.” In a pathetic attempt to make my lie seem true, I started to walk over to the kitchen. But thankfully, Max has always been gullible.
His soft voice stopped me in my tracks. “Greg?”
“Yeah?” I asked, turning around.
“I had a dream that someone called out my name. Was it you?”
I swallowed hard and forced out a single-word answer that I said in a definite tone of voice, almost a dark one. “No.”
But when I spoke, it triggered a shocking realization that I sounded so much like John. His voice was always cold…always bitter, with an attitude to match. It never softened- not even around me, his supposed ‘boyfriend’. When I remembered how much it hurt me when he spoke to me that way, I quickly corrected myself.
“N-No…no, it wasn’t me.”
Max shrugged. “Okay. Good night.”
And sure enough, he was fast asleep on the couch once again.
I stared for the longest time before saying: “Good night, Max.”
*
Having earned the title of ‘Last to go to sleep the night before’ (one of our many meaningless challenges we throw at each other), I was also the one to wake up the earliest out of all the residents of apartment 17B, 2nd floor. By the time everyone else woke up, I had already made myself some coffee and before that, completed my morning martial arts training. In addition to the training, I was reluctantly becoming the stereotypical Chinese guy- I did martial arts and I played a musical instrument, dead serious about mastering both.
By eight o’ clock (or if you’re going by Max’s watch, nine), Kyle and Roger were moving like zombies, crashing into the fridge and missing the cereal bowl when they poured the past-sell-by-date-milk. Instead of cleaning it up, they muttered an inaudible apology and let the liquid on the table evaporate on its own. In sympathy, I made waffles for them while they slowly awakened from their half-slumber. We didn’t have enough cash for our own waffle iron, so we usually borrowed the neighbor’s.
I loved to cook, and I was usually the one who made the meals…when we had enough money for a variety of food. The loud sound of the waffle iron woke Kyle and Roger up, but after about five seconds, that quickly subsided.
Max, however, was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as he was every morning. He practically flew to the fridge and pulled out some bread, then without words, handed the loaf to me. I sighed as I took it from him and dropped two pieces of Wonder Bread into the toaster.
Max couldn’t cook anything to save his life, and that includes toasting bread. It became a proven fact that Max couldn’t be trusted with electrical kitchen appliances after ‘The Microwave Incident’, as we so named it, which involved Max putting Jiffy Pop in the microwave, thus nearly burning the apartment down. As a result, we all agreed that Max could no longer take such an action without supervision.
He got the butter out of the fridge and I was about to hand him a knife, but then I remembered the microwave story and hesitated.
When he realized that I wasn’t about to trust him with a knife, a plastic butter knife at that, he pouted. “Come on, Greg! I’m not Emo!”
His face was so flawlessly childlike that I was just lost in the moment, off guard. Before I even realized it, he grabbed the knife out of my hands and dashed to the table to frantically butter his toast. But when he looked back, he saw my day-dreamy expression and knew that something wasn’t quite right.
“You okay, Greg?”
I snapped back into reality at light speed. “Y-Yeah…why?”
He shrugged, not unlike what he did last night. “Well, because you’re acting weird. You never get caught giving an opening for an attack. Hell, you’re a martial artist!”
Max was absolutely right. I was always on my guard for at least the physical aspect of everyday life (after John used me as his little, temporary sex toy, I couldn’t say I was mentally on guard as well…) although, how I was reacting to Max’s words and expressions seemed vaguely familiar. I spaced out again, wondering what was wrong with me. I was thinking, yet I didn’t know what I was thinking specifically.
“Greg?”
I didn’t even realize that he said my name twice before, but on the third time, I got out of that black sea of thoughts and emotions.
“W-What?” My voice was practically spewing ‘dazed and confused’.
His face appeared innocent and blank, even though I could tell he was genuinely concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine. Really.”
My voice still contained a few bits of uneasiness, but as stated earlier, Max was amazingly gullible. He never got any hints or clues either- everything always had to be spelled out for him.
“Okay!” he said, beaming.
I forced out a pretty believable smile back, and Max, pleased with himself now that he supposedly made me ‘feel better’, continued to butter his toast. As he spread the fatty oil over the crisp, enriched grain, I started to think about those feelings I had last night and a moment ago.
“Where did these feelings come from?” I thought. “And when have I felt them before?”
What kept me from going too deep into my thought was the realization that Roger and Kyle’s daily argument was about to start. It always happened between 8:15 and 8:23 precisely, never going under or over those particular times. Though the timing may be limited, the subjects sure weren’t- they could literally fight over anything, whether it be who cleans the bathroom this month, who won Go Fish the previous night or even who would win in a battle between Batman and Spiderman (personally, I have to say Batman because he’s more experienced and he has a million gadgets).
This argument, however, began when Kyle started to eat Roger’s waffles. Roger was following the TAB to our newest song, ‘I’m the Defect’, while Kyle stuffed his face.
“When people look at me, they don’t know what to say…playing children scream and run awa- hey! Kyle! Those are my waffles, man!”
Kyle was not fazed by Roger’s shouting, however, as he shoved another bite of waffle in his mouth. “You snooze, you lose.”
This just angered Roger further as he tackled Kyle and knocked him off the chair. “Stop eating my breakfast, fat ass!”
“Hey, I’m the only reason we even have food!”
I coughed loudly and intentionally, hoping that Kyle got the hint.
He did, and once he did, he corrected himself almost immediately afterward. “I-I mean, Greg makes the food, but I’m the only reason we have the stuff to make the food!”
“So, you’re trying to tell me that just because you do the grocery shopping then that automatically gives you a right to eat other people’s breakfasts?!”
“Damn straight it does!”
And then the fight got physical, as it always did. Roger and Kyle started to wrestle, kicking up a dust cloud from the dirt on the floor.
Our apartment was filthy. With four guys barely in the legal drinking age sharing an apartment, it’s not going to be clean. There was dirt everywhere, as were soda cans and a couple of sweat shirts. Seriously, the only clean room in the apartment was the kitchen, but that was only because I was the cook and I was also gay.
Max walked over to me with a piece of toast in his mouth, not phased at all by Kyle and Roger’s brutal clash. “What time is it?”
I looked at the clock. “8:22. They’ll be done in a minute.”
“Good. I don’t know how they can stand it, fighting each other every single day…”
I shrugged. “Well, you know Kyle and Roger…they’ll kill each other before they surrender a fight, or when time butts in. Which will be right about…”
I looked at the seconds hand on the clock and watched it pass the 12 o’ clock mark. “…now!”
As if on cue, Kyle and Roger got off of each other and started to curse, until they ran out of colors for their language and walked off in opposite directions. Roger went into the bedroom (all four of us share a room, but not a bed) and Kyle walked into the kitchen with Max and I.
“That stupid douche! Who attacks someone for a f*cking waffle?!”
I kept silent while Max switched into his therapist mode. He does that to either Kyle or Roger (which ever one was closer) after every fight.
“Well, maybe because he was a little upset that you were eating his breakfast. You guys don’t exactly have the best of relationships in the morning.”
Max was absolutely right when he said ‘in the morning’. Roger and Kyle were only enemies when the sun came up, but by noon, they were the best of friends. Max and I have been trying to figure out this strange phenomenon for months, but we finally came to the conclusion that they just weren’t morning people (in other words, we gave up…)
“I don’t care how upset he was! He didn’t have to throw a tantrum!”
“Well, maybe he-“
“I’m going to work.” Kyle cut Max off. “I don’t want to deal with this shit.”
Kyle’s shift was in two hours. How he was going to spend his time waiting was beyond Max and I. When we heard the door slam, Roger emerged from the bedroom.
“Did he just storm off again?”
When Max nodded, Roger shook his head. “He’s such a baby.”
“Isn’t that a little hypocritical?” Max asked, shrinking back slightly. “I mean you’ve done the same thing…plenty of times.”
“Like when?” Roger demanded, glaring at Max.
“Well, like-“
“You know what?!” Roger screamed, jumping from his chair. “I’m done with this! I’m going to work early!”
Sure enough, Roger was out the door as well.
Max was silent for a long time before saying: “…just now…”
*
The neon blue lights of the nightclub shined in my eyes, but I avoided it by looking at the neck on my bass as I played. Even though I memorized all of the notes on the TAB, I felt the need to preserve my vision. Roger’s voice seemed to intertwine with my playing, as if his voice were another string on the electric bass. Roger had a nice voice- it was a little low and matured, but had a lot of energy.
When Roger’s voice ceased to ring out into the audience’s ears, Kyle started his solo. His fingers seemed to dance on the neck. To the audience, he could have looked like a master.
But the truth of the matter was that he would have never kept up the tempo or remembered the notes without Max’s drumming to keep him in beat. I glanced over at Max who, for once, was concentrating on what he was doing.
Max must have had a serious case of ADHD. Even when we were just casually sitting on the couch and playing a video game, Max would always get up and move around. And when someone finally got fed up and yelled at him (most likely Roger) he would sit down and squirm. That’s why he was usually the one who would get soda from the kitchen while we played.
It was only when he was playing the drums was he able to actually pay attention without getting distracted. I saw him hit the snare and the hi-hat, occasionally catching him flip his drumsticks in the air. It amused me to know that I was staring at him and he didn’t even know it.
Wait…staring?
I could feel my cheeks getting hotter and hotter, and I was positive that it wasn’t because of the lights.
I think I had a hunch to what those previous feelings were, and I regretted every single one.
Just a warning, this story contains GAY sensual and sexual scenes!
IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, DON'T READ IT!!!
Please don't turn this story thread into a political discussion about gay rights...please? Pretty please with a cherry on top??
Thank you!
!TASH!
Track 1: A Long Forgotten Feeling
He was the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time.
He rested there in the light of the television, having not been turned off by Kyle and Roger, who were entangled in the wires of the videogame controllers and snoring as the television screamed ‘Game Over’ in the language of flashing lights- what’s to be expected after a Tuesday night gig at the club (actually, that could happen any night since all of the band members shared an apartment…). He was sleeping on the couch; his legs hidden by a blanket. Unlike the rest of Accursed Kumquat, who were asleep on the floor of the living room and still clad in their day clothes, the boy who caught my eye was in his pajamas. When he slept, he looked like a little kid as opposed to the nineteen year old guy of which we all knew. In fact, he acted like a little kid too.
I found myself approaching him cautiously, as if waking him would be the worst thing in the world. I got a weird feeling in my stomach every time I took a step closer to him.
Finally, I found a perch at the armrest of the couch. That was as far as I would go; actually, that was as far as I could go without waking him. He was indescribably, dare I say…cute when he slept.
I felt the great urge to touch him. I wanted to run my fingers through his hair. I let my hand hover over to his head, but I brought it back. What if he woke up? What would happen then? Would he ask me why I was touching his hair? Questions popped up in my mind one by one, their pace going up at an alarming rate. But I forcefully pushed them out by looking at his sleeping form. It seemed as though all of my thoughts disappeared when I looked at him. His stomach moved effortlessly as he inhaled and sunk back down in the blanket when he exhaled. His mouth was slightly open. The image was so rare…so beautiful…that I touched his hair without any second thoughts. I slowly ran my fingers through his wavy blonde hair. It felt like I was touching a cloud it was so light. John would never let me do that to him. I was only allowed to touch his body.
It was only until five seconds later when he giggled in his sleep, whereas I had snapped my hand back the moment I heard any form of disturbance. But I didn’t wake him; I just contributed to his dream sequence. I compared the boy to my past ‘exclusive’ lover, the man I met in the town where we last stayed…John.
John, whose heart I still want to capture, would never let me touch him unless we were in bed together. With the boy, I could touch him, play-punch him, hug him, do whatever I want and he wouldn’t care- he’d just laugh along with me. John never looked younger when he slept; in fact, he looked angrier than he is when he’s awake because he was plagued by nightmares that I could do nothing about. And he never giggled in his sleep or when he was awake. That was one of the many juvenile behaviors that he wouldn’t be caught dead committing.
I glanced at the boy again, his form unaltered. I whispered the boy’s name as it rolled off of my tongue gracefully. “Max…”
Max stirred and his sapphire eyes fluttered open slowly. I felt like running away, but when he glanced at me, I knew I was trapped.
“Greg?” he asked as if he didn’t recognize me. He yawned and looked at his watch, saying sleepily: “It’s three in the morning. What’re you doing up?”
I felt like laughing to myself- he still used the Pacific time zone. “N-Nothing. I was just going to get a drink.” In a pathetic attempt to make my lie seem true, I started to walk over to the kitchen. But thankfully, Max has always been gullible.
His soft voice stopped me in my tracks. “Greg?”
“Yeah?” I asked, turning around.
“I had a dream that someone called out my name. Was it you?”
I swallowed hard and forced out a single-word answer that I said in a definite tone of voice, almost a dark one. “No.”
But when I spoke, it triggered a shocking realization that I sounded so much like John. His voice was always cold…always bitter, with an attitude to match. It never softened- not even around me, his supposed ‘boyfriend’. When I remembered how much it hurt me when he spoke to me that way, I quickly corrected myself.
“N-No…no, it wasn’t me.”
Max shrugged. “Okay. Good night.”
And sure enough, he was fast asleep on the couch once again.
I stared for the longest time before saying: “Good night, Max.”
*
Having earned the title of ‘Last to go to sleep the night before’ (one of our many meaningless challenges we throw at each other), I was also the one to wake up the earliest out of all the residents of apartment 17B, 2nd floor. By the time everyone else woke up, I had already made myself some coffee and before that, completed my morning martial arts training. In addition to the training, I was reluctantly becoming the stereotypical Chinese guy- I did martial arts and I played a musical instrument, dead serious about mastering both.
By eight o’ clock (or if you’re going by Max’s watch, nine), Kyle and Roger were moving like zombies, crashing into the fridge and missing the cereal bowl when they poured the past-sell-by-date-milk. Instead of cleaning it up, they muttered an inaudible apology and let the liquid on the table evaporate on its own. In sympathy, I made waffles for them while they slowly awakened from their half-slumber. We didn’t have enough cash for our own waffle iron, so we usually borrowed the neighbor’s.
I loved to cook, and I was usually the one who made the meals…when we had enough money for a variety of food. The loud sound of the waffle iron woke Kyle and Roger up, but after about five seconds, that quickly subsided.
Max, however, was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as he was every morning. He practically flew to the fridge and pulled out some bread, then without words, handed the loaf to me. I sighed as I took it from him and dropped two pieces of Wonder Bread into the toaster.
Max couldn’t cook anything to save his life, and that includes toasting bread. It became a proven fact that Max couldn’t be trusted with electrical kitchen appliances after ‘The Microwave Incident’, as we so named it, which involved Max putting Jiffy Pop in the microwave, thus nearly burning the apartment down. As a result, we all agreed that Max could no longer take such an action without supervision.
He got the butter out of the fridge and I was about to hand him a knife, but then I remembered the microwave story and hesitated.
When he realized that I wasn’t about to trust him with a knife, a plastic butter knife at that, he pouted. “Come on, Greg! I’m not Emo!”
His face was so flawlessly childlike that I was just lost in the moment, off guard. Before I even realized it, he grabbed the knife out of my hands and dashed to the table to frantically butter his toast. But when he looked back, he saw my day-dreamy expression and knew that something wasn’t quite right.
“You okay, Greg?”
I snapped back into reality at light speed. “Y-Yeah…why?”
He shrugged, not unlike what he did last night. “Well, because you’re acting weird. You never get caught giving an opening for an attack. Hell, you’re a martial artist!”
Max was absolutely right. I was always on my guard for at least the physical aspect of everyday life (after John used me as his little, temporary sex toy, I couldn’t say I was mentally on guard as well…) although, how I was reacting to Max’s words and expressions seemed vaguely familiar. I spaced out again, wondering what was wrong with me. I was thinking, yet I didn’t know what I was thinking specifically.
“Greg?”
I didn’t even realize that he said my name twice before, but on the third time, I got out of that black sea of thoughts and emotions.
“W-What?” My voice was practically spewing ‘dazed and confused’.
His face appeared innocent and blank, even though I could tell he was genuinely concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine. Really.”
My voice still contained a few bits of uneasiness, but as stated earlier, Max was amazingly gullible. He never got any hints or clues either- everything always had to be spelled out for him.
“Okay!” he said, beaming.
I forced out a pretty believable smile back, and Max, pleased with himself now that he supposedly made me ‘feel better’, continued to butter his toast. As he spread the fatty oil over the crisp, enriched grain, I started to think about those feelings I had last night and a moment ago.
“Where did these feelings come from?” I thought. “And when have I felt them before?”
What kept me from going too deep into my thought was the realization that Roger and Kyle’s daily argument was about to start. It always happened between 8:15 and 8:23 precisely, never going under or over those particular times. Though the timing may be limited, the subjects sure weren’t- they could literally fight over anything, whether it be who cleans the bathroom this month, who won Go Fish the previous night or even who would win in a battle between Batman and Spiderman (personally, I have to say Batman because he’s more experienced and he has a million gadgets).
This argument, however, began when Kyle started to eat Roger’s waffles. Roger was following the TAB to our newest song, ‘I’m the Defect’, while Kyle stuffed his face.
“When people look at me, they don’t know what to say…playing children scream and run awa- hey! Kyle! Those are my waffles, man!”
Kyle was not fazed by Roger’s shouting, however, as he shoved another bite of waffle in his mouth. “You snooze, you lose.”
This just angered Roger further as he tackled Kyle and knocked him off the chair. “Stop eating my breakfast, fat ass!”
“Hey, I’m the only reason we even have food!”
I coughed loudly and intentionally, hoping that Kyle got the hint.
He did, and once he did, he corrected himself almost immediately afterward. “I-I mean, Greg makes the food, but I’m the only reason we have the stuff to make the food!”
“So, you’re trying to tell me that just because you do the grocery shopping then that automatically gives you a right to eat other people’s breakfasts?!”
“Damn straight it does!”
And then the fight got physical, as it always did. Roger and Kyle started to wrestle, kicking up a dust cloud from the dirt on the floor.
Our apartment was filthy. With four guys barely in the legal drinking age sharing an apartment, it’s not going to be clean. There was dirt everywhere, as were soda cans and a couple of sweat shirts. Seriously, the only clean room in the apartment was the kitchen, but that was only because I was the cook and I was also gay.
Max walked over to me with a piece of toast in his mouth, not phased at all by Kyle and Roger’s brutal clash. “What time is it?”
I looked at the clock. “8:22. They’ll be done in a minute.”
“Good. I don’t know how they can stand it, fighting each other every single day…”
I shrugged. “Well, you know Kyle and Roger…they’ll kill each other before they surrender a fight, or when time butts in. Which will be right about…”
I looked at the seconds hand on the clock and watched it pass the 12 o’ clock mark. “…now!”
As if on cue, Kyle and Roger got off of each other and started to curse, until they ran out of colors for their language and walked off in opposite directions. Roger went into the bedroom (all four of us share a room, but not a bed) and Kyle walked into the kitchen with Max and I.
“That stupid douche! Who attacks someone for a f*cking waffle?!”
I kept silent while Max switched into his therapist mode. He does that to either Kyle or Roger (which ever one was closer) after every fight.
“Well, maybe because he was a little upset that you were eating his breakfast. You guys don’t exactly have the best of relationships in the morning.”
Max was absolutely right when he said ‘in the morning’. Roger and Kyle were only enemies when the sun came up, but by noon, they were the best of friends. Max and I have been trying to figure out this strange phenomenon for months, but we finally came to the conclusion that they just weren’t morning people (in other words, we gave up…)
“I don’t care how upset he was! He didn’t have to throw a tantrum!”
“Well, maybe he-“
“I’m going to work.” Kyle cut Max off. “I don’t want to deal with this shit.”
Kyle’s shift was in two hours. How he was going to spend his time waiting was beyond Max and I. When we heard the door slam, Roger emerged from the bedroom.
“Did he just storm off again?”
When Max nodded, Roger shook his head. “He’s such a baby.”
“Isn’t that a little hypocritical?” Max asked, shrinking back slightly. “I mean you’ve done the same thing…plenty of times.”
“Like when?” Roger demanded, glaring at Max.
“Well, like-“
“You know what?!” Roger screamed, jumping from his chair. “I’m done with this! I’m going to work early!”
Sure enough, Roger was out the door as well.
Max was silent for a long time before saying: “…just now…”
*
The neon blue lights of the nightclub shined in my eyes, but I avoided it by looking at the neck on my bass as I played. Even though I memorized all of the notes on the TAB, I felt the need to preserve my vision. Roger’s voice seemed to intertwine with my playing, as if his voice were another string on the electric bass. Roger had a nice voice- it was a little low and matured, but had a lot of energy.
When Roger’s voice ceased to ring out into the audience’s ears, Kyle started his solo. His fingers seemed to dance on the neck. To the audience, he could have looked like a master.
But the truth of the matter was that he would have never kept up the tempo or remembered the notes without Max’s drumming to keep him in beat. I glanced over at Max who, for once, was concentrating on what he was doing.
Max must have had a serious case of ADHD. Even when we were just casually sitting on the couch and playing a video game, Max would always get up and move around. And when someone finally got fed up and yelled at him (most likely Roger) he would sit down and squirm. That’s why he was usually the one who would get soda from the kitchen while we played.
It was only when he was playing the drums was he able to actually pay attention without getting distracted. I saw him hit the snare and the hi-hat, occasionally catching him flip his drumsticks in the air. It amused me to know that I was staring at him and he didn’t even know it.
Wait…staring?
I could feel my cheeks getting hotter and hotter, and I was positive that it wasn’t because of the lights.
I think I had a hunch to what those previous feelings were, and I regretted every single one.
