freedom
he couldn’t have been any more different than her; she knew that. she was pastel and big eyes and soft pink lips while he was black hair and black coffee and black leather jackets. at least, that’s what everyone else seemed to think. they were always there, asking her if he had ever done something to her, watching her adjust her skirt to get on his motorcycle with wary eyes, whispering ‘he’s no good for you’ when his head was turned. she knew what everyone else thought and she could honestly say that she gave absolutely zero fucks. she didn’t care what they all thought because they didn’t know him like she did. they didn’t know that he was great with kids or that he had a little sister that he loved more than anything in the world or that his smile made her feel like she was stepping into the first rays of sun after a very long winter. they didn’t know that he did, in fact, cry when they watched the fault in our stars (no matter what he tried to convince everyone) or that after long days he loved to go home and lay on the couch with the dog. they simply did not know the inner workings of him like she did, so she vowed to herself (and to him, when he asked) that she would never, ever listen to them.
and when people eyed his motorcycle with a look that would kill if it could, she felt like laughing in their faces. if only they knew what it was like to be riding one, to feel every curve of the road, to wrap your arms around the boy that you loved and just drive. her knees at his hips, her forearms rubbing against his leather jacket, her hands at his stomach, the wind whipping through her hair, her skirt - it felt like freedom. she wanted to feel this way forever, just she and him and the open road, driving to who-knows-where. it felt like they were the only ones in the world at night, the headlight shining, craning her neck to see the stars above, her chin resting on his shoulder with a gentle ‘look!’ and he would laugh at her in her awestruck wonder. not because he thought she was ridiculous, but because of how beautiful she was, with the moonlight filtering through her blond hair and her eyes reflecting the glow of the stars. he knew he should be watching the road, but at least if he died now, he would die happy and staring at the woman he loved. but then he would quickly remember that if they crashed, she would be hurt too, and he didn’t want that to happen, so he would train his eyes back on the tarmac, a smile playing on the corner of his lips. and then she’d smile because the one thing that they had in common was that freedom was their favorite color.
(avery kendall - june 9, 2017 - 7:19 pm)
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