|More from Fruipit||Friendship||G||None||No update page|
|Day the Third: Regret|
28th April, 2014
He was meditating.
Sitting in the centre of a small pavilion at the far end of the Royal Earth Palace gardens, he was trying to focus on nothing but his breath and the black behind his eyes. Everything around him was peaceful; the rising sun and running water of a small creek offered peaceful serenity that his own body refused him.
He couldn't get her smile from his mind, nor the feel of her skin off his. The way the smell of jasmine seemed to waft from her hair, wrapping him in a foggy cloud.
He shouldn't be outside, watching the sunset. He shouldn't be meditating on his actions, for hers had been only to help him. There shouldn't be a need for him to be here, not after her presence had calmed him.
Throughout the night, they hadn't spoken. He hadn't wanted to, and she hadn't been able to. To voice the words would have hurt the both of them, but as always, it was his actions that did the talking.
His head was in his hands now, all pretence of meditation forgotten as slowly, a small droplet of water trailed lazily down his cheek and onto his lap.
It was his actions that hurt because they hadn't at the time. At that moment, in that place, it had felt right. Having her there, holding him, it had been... bliss. But he was the farmer who killed the golden-egg-laying-gooseduck in a desperate bid to find the bigger prize. He couldn't be satisfied with the small affections she was giving him, when he really should have. She was not in the habit of doling out hugs and comfort, and yet when she did, it mattered; he should not have pressed her for more—he had no right—but he couldn't stop himself after the idea had taken hold, embedding itself deep. He couldn't be satisfied with her arms wrapped around him or her cheek touching his. He shouldn't have turned his head—he shouldn't have held her close. They were his undoing, and it was only seconds after his lips were placed over hers, so tenderly that it could have been nothing more than a ghost, that he was backing away, apologising.
He turned to the sky, bathed golden with the rising sun.
For the collective works of the author, go here.