Chapter Text
Streetlights; the warm, amber glow, bright, but not too bright. Bathed in starlight and moonlight and flickering neon lights, the pattering of rain on cobbled road, distant, indiscernible chatter from the occasional passerby.
She'd met him tonight. All she got was his name, Thomas, she thought, but it was a bit hard to remember, everything was a little hazy.
It was raining, and they were barely covered by the overhang of the twenty four convenience they were sat outside of on the pavement, half-sat in a puddle, water dripping from a pipe beside them.
She closed her eyes, tilted her head back, thought for a few seconds.
They were strangers. Only met a few hours ago. A drunken encounter, impulsive choice. Not sex - to run. She wasn't too sure what'd possessed her. A need to get away, to escape, she thought. A willing victim came with her, this stranger.
And they sat beneath this buzzing sign both of them dripping wet from the rain sharing a cigarette and a bottle of wine with this stranger.
"Tell me something you've never told me before."
The stranger, Thomas, said, after a while of sentence.
She shrugged. She'd never been good with vulnerability, with intimacy, with trust. She supposed he was a stranger, it didn't matter, and wracked her brain for a few brief moments.
"Uh, I don't believe in love."
She started, before taking a long drag from the cigarette, wispy smoke filling the damp air. She continued in a quiet voice, head tilted slightly to one side, wet hair clinging to her neck and flushed cheeks.
"Y'know. I just... I've been alive for a while. I never have felt it, don't think I ever will. I look for it in everything, romanticise every little stranger, every little experience. But I never find it, not really. The novelty wears off after a month, if that. I can't believe in love. Sometimes I believe that everyone who claims it's real and they have it are lying, that they just settled for what seemed right."
When she opened her eyes to glance at Thomas, she found that his piercing blue eyes were already focused on her, searing through her, studying, examining, putting her under a microscope. There was a distant, sorrowful intelligence to his expression, the quiet of a man who always knew what to say and just had to find the words.
"I see."
Was all he said after a minute or so. Then he opened his mouth, closed it. Opened it again.
"Do you want to be in love?"
She looked back at him, cheeks rosy from the cold, damp dress clinging to her skin.
"Yeah."
She whispered, as if it were a secret.
"Maybe. Maybe I just want to be understood. But, God, whenever I see a couple, no matter how much I love the people in the relationship, it's just this... searing, all-consuming jealousy. 'Cause I'll never get that. Maybe I'm broken."
She laughed bitterly, bringing her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, passing Thomas the cigarette, taking a swig of the cheap red wine. Thomas spoke again, that smooth British.
"Maybe."
He answered softly, gently, then spoke again after humming softly, contemplatively.
"You're lonely?"
She buried her face in her knees, thought for a few seconds. Her hands trembled.
"So lonely."
She whispered back.
"So, so lonely. I've never had anyone see me. I don't think anyone will. Not in the way I want to be seen, the way I want to be held. I want someone to see me naked and not pick me apart. I want someone to see me naked and not desire me. I want someone to see me naked and stroke my back and trace their fingers over my freckles and whisper poetic words in my ear."
Thomas watched her as she spoke. He frowned slightly, eyes flicking over her, as if searching for something.
"You'll find that person eventually."
He murmured, and he placed a reassuring hand over her's, and for a second, she could swear she felt stars burst in her veins. He spoke again, deep and low and soft.
"Solitude is only good for poets and addicts. I hope you find what you need in this lifetime."
She opened her eyes, rested her cheek atop her knees, and gazed over at him, brow creased, frown pulling at her lips. A humourless laugh slipped past her mouth. Spilling her guts out to a beautiful stranger, and for what? More self-pity to wallow in.
"Thanks. I'm definetely an addict, though. And I think myself a poet. Maybe I need the solitude after all."
Thomas gives a low, thoughtful hum, expression unreadable.
"Maybe. But nobody really deserves solitude."
He offers quietly, wise and soft words. She gives a small smile, bitterly amused.
"Even poets?"
"Even poets."