ThatEnglishGirl111

I had always thought you moved too fast. I do too. Just not with you. (I froze us at three years ago and continuously moved past everyone else.) It’s as if you move not as fast as you can, but too fast for the moment, and then trip over your own feet making great, crashing noises, and lay there wondering who had been behind you and pushed.

This is where we’d differ, (if I hadn’t had frozen time). I’d move differently. I’d walk slowly, outwardly steady and inwardly shaking, trying to focus on nothing but my body’s reminder that I need. to. breathe. Then there would be no more angry green eyes to haunt your every move or painful shadows of what could have been sneaking up to tap you on the shoulder. This would be finality.

And you reach me, sort of this half lunge, find my hand and pull, once, enough to make me stop and half-turn back and I stare at your eyes and the line between your eyebrows and I want to ask you how you did it, how did you move so fast, I want to ask you if the first step is the hardest and if it gets easier from there, I want to ask if you managed to walk full circle back here, in this room, with me, and I want to ask if I had got it all wrong and you’d never moved at all? 

Instead, I don’t say anything. 

I wonder if you have that same feeling as me. That horrible, tight thing in your chest that’s both sickening and painful at the same time and you know… you know that if I finally move now, it would never go away. What would go away is that other feeling - the warm, heavy thing curling in your belly whenever frozen time catches up and it’s me and you and everything and nothing.

I wonder if one day I won’t half-turn back and I wonder if I’d be able to count my steps away in rhythm with my pulse… one, two, three, four…