After Hours Love Letter

It would have been funny if it hadn't been so damn cliché. Cramming for finals shouldn't be like the movies—shouldn't have the libraries stuffed to capacity, desks and stacks full of zombified bodies running exclusively on caffeine and stress. Shouldn't have people falling asleep slumped over their textbooks because they'd been awake for fifty-two hours studying. Shouldn't have him waking up locked in the library after hours. He had glared at the blinking light of the alarm system as he dropped his hand from the lock and turned back around to go and find a seat. He would have turned on a lamp and kept studying, but the sudden frustration of finding himself locked in at midnight had him shifting and setting his head down on the table in front of him, attempting to figure out how he ended up in such a position. How he'd allowed himself to clock out the way he had, how the caretaking staff had missed him. Things like this weren't supposed to happen in real life, they happened in cheap B-rated romantic comedies and horror films. The token couple stuck in the library over night where they inevitably fall in love as they bond over some hidden interest, or the last one alive has their standoff with the killer in the abandoned library. That was laughable. He sat back in the chair he'd claimed and tipped his head back to stare at the darkened ceiling, sighing and thinking he hadn't been doing enough pleasure reading recently for his imagination to be so active. He considered going back to sleep to pass the hours until the library re-opened and he could get something to eat before hitting the books again, but he'd probably checked out for three or four hours before he'd woken up with a textbook page sticking to his cheek, and he was curiously awake despite the itchiness of his eyes. Thoughts of wandering the library piqued his interest, thinking it a good way to find a little inspiration. He'd been struggling with the last assignment for his writing class, unable to find the motivation to commit to anything he'd started. He'd begin a paragraph, get a hundred words deep, and then delete the new document, thinking the prose weak and unoriginal and wanting to eradicate its existence entirely. If writing was easy, everyone would do it. Still, he had two days to draft, edit, and polish the five hundred word minimum for the project, and he hadn't written two words since his most recent attempt four days before left him feeling raw and untalented. 

He passed an hour just walking the six flights of stairs a handful of times, thinking that getting his blood flowing would make it easier to sit and commit to the actual practice of writing, and when his thighs and calves started to burn with the exertion he sat down between a couple of shelves and started perusing the options there hoping for something to capture his attention. He'd ended up between a few shelves of poetry from the romantics, and he snorted quietly to himself as he reached for a volume of Shakespeare, thinking it a perfect way to start such a night. Such a cliché one. Time seemed to halt as he thumbed through the pages, eyes leaping over the iambic pentameter, attention fluttering away towards what he might have for breakfast as boredom started to sink in. He raised his right wrist to check the time—one-ten—and dropped his head back against his shoulders as he let out a groan and snapped the book shut. Damn it. He couldn't wrap his head around it, couldn't choke down the sentimentality of the verse, the weight of the emotion, couldn't understand where it came from. He'd never been in love. 

Final Assignment: Theme for the project is love—you may chose one of three following options. 

-Compose a series of poetry 

-Write a short story 

-Pen a letter

Minimum word count 500, a maximum of 3000. To be admitted upon the day of final examination to enter the testing room. 

How was he meant to write anything convincing if he didn't understand the emotion itself, if he couldn't grasp it. It was unreachable, unobtainable to him, and he was already lamenting how quickly his grades were about to slip if he didn't complete the project. He mused that he could always submit something half-assed, something unoriginal, take the dent in the assignment and just ace the final to repair the damage, and found that the perfectionist in him wouldn't allow for it. The joys of being a writer, or at least, attempting to be. Nothing was ever finished, ever felt complete no matter how hard he tried to tie up all the loose ends. He'd done as well as he could have hoped during the semester claiming a collection of A minuses and B pluses on his assignments, and couldn't help but think that anything less would feel like failure. This project made him feel like a failure. What was love other than a chemical concoction in the brain? A concept, an ideal, something that couldn't be quantified or measured with any sort of accuracy. Love had to be some form of lunacy. It was irrational at its core, made people do unreasonable things, and he wasn't sure how he was meant to tackle the monstrosity of it with any sort of tactfulness when he had never experienced it. He was left without any sort of direction as he wandered the fifth floor of the library, seeking out something to reach him, to give him something, anything to help him get through this ordeal. He ended up hovering near a set of windows to look out on the stretch of university campus unfolded before him, the mess hall just across the way with the external lights glowing a brassy yellow in the night, feeling bright and ugly against the soft quality of the moon. He stood trying to compose some form of verse or prose in his head, trying to string something together that could pass as romantic, and found his attention pulled towards a flicker of movement on the ground. A person. 

They looked to be male from what he could tell with them so far away. Tall and broad in the chest, one of the university hoodies stretched across their torso. Short hair was covered by some kind of ball cap, looking old and worn when he pressed his face to the library window to squint at it, ripped jeans, some kind of flat foot sneaker meant for skate boarding. The figure screamed drunk frat boy. He hadn't heard about any parties happening though, not with finals around the corner, and found himself fixated, watching them as they seemed to wander aimlessly, drifting across the grass and stone paved walkways as if coerced to move by the wind he could see rustling the trees. Without purpose or direction, moving just to move. This faded silhouette swaying in the breeze entrapped him with the fluidity of their movements, and he made an attempt to give the figure a past and found himself unable to with the distance between them, his face turned away and expression more than likely muddled by the darkness and rendering him unable to offer something so in-depth as backstory. He thought next to give them a present, purpose, a reason to exist in this place at this time. A secret rendezvous. The gentle illumination of the waning crescent moon offered a soft atmosphere, smoothed out the shadows cast across the grass, added to the perceived intimacy of the moment. He imagined further that he might be talking to himself as he waited for someone to arrive, his voice a whisper that dared not raise above the wind, the echo of it gentle in the amphitheater of the quad as he rehearsed whatever words were weighing on his tongue. Who was he meeting, how were they going to get there, when would they arrive, why meet in secret, why tonight? It painted a quaint scene in his head, and he started to make an attempt at smashing together some fleeting utterances of what he thought could be affectionate as he started writing out the beginnings of a short story in his head. He had nearly finished the first paragraph when he felt unhappy with it and scrapped it, eyes refocusing on the individual only to find them facing the library, face upturned towards the upper levels, as if able to see his shadowed figure in the window. They stepped closer, a hand raising and waving slowly, uncertainly, and he felt his breath stall in his chest, having undoubtedly been caught staring. It wasn't possible for whoever he was watching to figure out who he was, the idea as preposterous as he was finding his most recent attempt at writing this stupid project, and yet, found himself shifting. A hand raising and waving back. Their body language seemed to change, a certain kind of euphoria added to their stride as it shortened and turned a bit into what could be described as a skip—maybe a hop, that was almost more masculine—as they shifted closer, closing in on the building until they were brought into enough focus for him to see the next gesture more clearly. Both hands raised and beckoned him closer, some sort of smile on his face, and it turned out to be a silent request he yielded to too willingly as the intrigue and absurdity of the situation rolled through him with a dry sort of amusement, possessing him with something new and almost a little exciting. 

He slipped down the floors to the lobby and up close to the doors where the figure waited. Waited for him, for a chance to speak, a chance to meet. He'd been right, it was indeed a man standing across from him, his face warm and friendly as he called out. He couldn't hear him though. The reinforced glass worked well to capture the sound and erase it before it could touch his ears. He frowned when he didn't get a reply, a hand reaching and tugging impatiently on the door handle as he discovered it locked, then pressing flat against the glass, shifting frantically a few times as it tried to find someplace comfortable to rest as his mouth moved again, the words still unable to reach him. He frowned himself before shaking his head and reaching to touch at his ear as he tried to over enunciate his words, hoping the I can't hear you he mouthed was clear enough for the other man. Understanding slipped through the oddly luminescent amber of his eyes before his frown deepened, looking disappointed and somewhat upset. It confused him, forced him closer, out of the gentle shadows of the lobby and into the harsher light bleeding through the doors from the sconces mounted to the outside of the library entrance. Brassy yellow like the ones outside the mess hall. A tap at the glass drew his attention back to this stranger, to this seemingly over eager individual as some form of elation slipped over their features, as they let out a warm breath, the glass fogging in a wide patch before his finger slipped through the condensation, tracing out a few letters followed by a question mark. Name? He couldn't help the way a childish sort of mischief filled him, thinking this entire situation as cliché as the rest of the night. B-rated rom-com it was then. He stepped closer as the message disappeared and breathed on the glass himself, tracing out his name—Oleander—and watching as an impish smile bloomed across the other man's face, his eyes lighting up and glowing with their own sort of ethereal light as his lips cut upwards into a sharp grin—predatory in nature. When his message faded from sight, his opposite shifted a little and breathed on a new spot, fingers shifting quickly to write out a short message. Like the flower? He nodded as surprise slipped through him, not many people knew his name came from a flower. One that grew in the Mediterranean where his mother had grown up, pretty but poisonous. His grin pulled back further with the confirmation, and he was hurriedly breathing on a new spot, eyes crinkled with some form of pleasure as he wrote out a new message. I'm Foxglove. Fox. 

The night passed quickly with the short messages they scribbled across the glass, undoubtedly making trouble for the caretaking staff as they smudged and smeared their fingers and breath across the barrier stretched before them, as they tried to reach out to one another, attempted to connect in some way as the night crowded in on them, heavy and oppressive and frantic like the gathering of thunderheads before a storm. Strangely comforting as it closed in, wrapping them up in each other, waiting for it to break. Something he could only describe as giddy had risen up in his chest as the hours passed, as they talked, and relief washed through him as dawn broke and the sun peeked above the horizon, the first shift of staff showing up to let him out, laughs and apologies spilling out of them as he gathered his belongings and slipped out the doors. Fox was waiting for him, bouncing on his toes and looking eager. He stepped close and tried to offer a laugh as he hauled his book bag over his shoulder a little more securely, wanted to give him a proper greeting and introduction, a thank you for staying with him and distracting him from his predicament, and instead felt his face heat as a large hand reached to envelope his own, fingers tangling and slotting through his as he was offered a slightly nervous smile, amber eyes wavering and looking bashful. He felt his breath catch in his throat, his heart thump a little harder in his chest, felt the heat in his face spread further to reach his ears, to crawl down his neck as Fox shuffled closer, touching the toes of his sneakers against his. He was tall. Easily a head taller than him, and he was bowing it close to touch their foreheads together, his breath warm and smelling sweetly of cinnamon. 

"Do you believe in love at first sight Oleander?" His muscles tensed as an arm slipped around his waist, the gentle grip easing him until he felt too pliant as he leant into it, some sort of instinct in his chest forcing him closer as he reached to settle his free hand on Fox's shoulder, nudged his nose up against his, a slight shift enough to bring their mouths together. He must have gone mad through the night. Must have lost his mind to feel so warm in his chest with Fox looking at him so adoringly.

"I'm starting to." 

Foxglove, 

I've never written like this before, never wanted to pen something down like this, like I've gone and lost all my sensibilities—like they've flown off without me. Like my mind has run off and allowed my heart to pilot things. I don't know if I trust it, if I should be allowing something so utterly insane. I feel irrational. We weren't even supposed to meet. Weren't supposed to collide. I should have been at home, should have been studying, writing, working—but I was there. Stuck in that damn library, cursing everything and thinking I'd rather be anywhere else, trying to figure out how I'd let myself end up locked in. Then I saw you. Swaying on the quad like you were drunk, or maybe just free. I like that idea better. That you were shifting with the wind, letting it push and pull at you, letting it play with you the way it did the leaves. Then you were looking up at me, as if you could feel me watching, as if you could see me from so far away. I'm not really sure why I allowed you to pull me closer, to let you lure me from the safety of the fifth floor, from the sanity I'd basked in all my life. 

It has to be madness, right? For the grip of your hand to be so warm, so comfortable, the slide of your fingers through mine natural—like they belong together, locking into place like jigsaw pieces. Feels right for my face to heat when you smile, for me to blush like some love struck school boy. God, your smile. Like taking a deep breath after drowning. Like the relief of a cool breeze in the summer heat. Your eyes. I didn't know someone's eyes could be that color, could remind me so much of my mum's hot cider in winter. Amber. Warm and—titillating. My chest feels fuzzy as I'm trying to put all this down, light and fluttery and numb with how hard I'm trying to make you understand. 

You asked me if I believed in love at first sight. I've never been in love. I don't know what it's supposed to feel like, how I'm supposed to react. How I'm supposed to act. But this tightness in my chest, this frenzied flapping of wings inside me, the ghost of the wrap of your arm around my waist, the weight of your forehead against mine, the brush of your nose—the tease of your lips—is this it? Is this love? Did I fall in love with you over night? That's how it happens right? A fall? Was it because you smiled at me? How excited you looked when I told you my name? Or was it how warm your breath was when it touched me? 

Honestly, I don't think I care. Don't think I should care. I just know that—I want to keep falling, as long as you'll be there to catch me at the bottom. 

Yours, 

Oleander