an untitled story

hallo dearest readers, how are you on this fine day? happy [late] valentine’s to each of you! 

so.

guess what?

I DID A WRITING THING AHH YAYYYYYYYY

*deep breath*

[give me a moment]

okay, i’m good

but this is honestly so exciting, i have been pouring my soul into the book i’m writing at the moment, and i have no time to scribble short stories, which is what i really love to do, so this is big!
plus, i’ve been planning and outlining this story for a little while now, and i have big plans for it, so i hope it all works out! i’m hoping to have at least 14 [maybe 15?] chapters for this short, and it’s supposed to be a reflective, poetic-ish, thought-provoking piece that’s slightly based on my life. but it’s not about me. just mostly how i feel at times, and how i know we all feel, because hey! life can get us down! and that’s okay! 

so, brief summary:

Thalia Breslin is desperate. Each day is a monotonous round; she’s spent the last two years working every day, trying to support her family. Life seem predictable and purposeless and she doesn’t know if she wants to even continue.

Lucas Keats is lonely. He has travelled the world, seen incredible sights, climbed mountains, and been a part of different cultures. Life is just one adventure after another, but he wants to make genuine connections.

And in a chance encounter, an impromptu rant, and a sudden realization, the two have linked. What follows is a ramble of adventures, joy, and a value for the gift of life.

and i will get character bios up as soon as possible :) 

here goes!

✧✧✧

Flashing red numbers dance in front of my eyes.

12:00

I blink, running a finger over my chapped lips.

12:00

Dang, my alarm clock’s broken.

12:00

I jump up, tangling myself in the old t-shirt I’m wearing and stumble out of bed. Catching a glance of myself in the mirror, I twist my lips in a grimace.

“Good morning.”

It wasn’t, in fact.

Wasn’t a good morning, wasn’t a good night, wasn’t a good week. 

I ran a hand through my hair, wishing I had time for a quick shower, and padded through my flat to the kitchen. 

A piece of toast and coffee-burnt tongue later, I was out. Slamming down the metal stairs to the street and pushing my way through the thousands of people who had decided to go to live and work in New York City. I ended up at the convenience store near my home, running my tongue along my teeth to numb the pain of the burn. Grabbing a box from beside the back door, I started my day. Stacking, moving, emptying, filling—hundreds of cardboards boxes, each one identical to the other. I nod a hello to a customer as I head back out the door, my arms full of folded up cardboard, when I catch sight of him.

“Thalia,” the owner of this shop, and therefore my boss, crooks a finger at me. “Can I have a word?”

I heave the boxes to my hip, nodding.

He leads me to the back room, lifting an envelope off a desk. He glances at me, his eyes tired.

“You’re a good worker, and efficient, but due to cost rates and…”

His voice seems to drift over me until I hear the words: “let you go.”

Then I look up, reaching his eyes over the top of the boxes I’m holding to my chest.

“What?”

“Look,” he holds out the slip of paper, neatly folded and sealed. “That’s your pay for this month, as well as a letter of recommendation.”

I shake my head, processing. “So…so you’re going to fire me? Just like that?”

He leans forward, as though trying to reach me but unsure of how to do it. “It’s the best I can do for you right now.” He places the envelope next to me. “Thalia, you come in here every day and work for me. You work through holidays, weekends, and continue through summer. You’re what, twenty? Twenty one?”

“Twenty two,” I whisper.

“Exactly. When’s the last time you took a day off?”

“I don’t,” my teeth grind together, and I force myself to look at him, “I don’t take days off.”

He raises an eyebrow, nodding. “You should, it’d be good for you.”

I take the envelope and leave.

__

It'd be good for you. 

It'd be good for you.

It'd be good for you.

I scuff my shoe against the sidewalk, crushing the envelope in my fist.

How would he even know? What gives him the right to assume that I need a holiday more than I need a job?

I swallow hard. “I need a job.”

The whisper drags itself from between my teeth, finally glad to escape. I suddenly feel the weight settle in on me, making my heart pump overtime. 

What am I going to tell my dad when he asks for my monthly work money?

What am I going to tell my mother when she’s looking at me like her own daughter has betrayed her, whispering, “how are we going to support your Grandmother as well as our own family?”

I choke back the brick that has planted itself in my throat, dropping my head down. 

With my chin tucked into my collar bone, and my eyes blurring with tears, I almost don’t hear it. But for a split second, New York seems to freeze. Traffic pauses, and with it, the impatient horns and screeching of tires and the wind whooshing as cars pass by. In that narrow frame of time, the sound floats into my ear, pulling more tendrils of music along with it.

Music.

Not normal music, though. The instrument is slightly off-key, and the voice is husky, nothing like the auto-corrected sounds I’m used to. It sounds like coffee and melted butter and the honey-coloured beam of sunlight just caressing your cold skin. I have never heard music sound this way before and it takes me a while to figure out what makes it different.

There is hidden laughter beneath the melody, and the fingers are strumming with energy.

It’s joyful.

My head jerks up, causing me to stop and collide with the person behind me. They hardly notice, just pause long enough to throw me a glare and tighten their hold on the briefcase in their hand. I’m seeking, trying to discover the source of the music before it stops.

There.

I see it. 

On the low brick step of a shop across the street sits a man, fingers brushing a guitar as the sun smiles and reaches down to bask him in her beauty.

The scene is almost too picturesque, too perfect to be real, that my eyes keep scanning a moment after they’ve seen him. But then the music stops and I drag myself back, seeing his hands slow to a stop on the strings. My eyes skid upward to the sign above his store—Roger’s Music Emporium: Strike a Chord—and then down to another, smaller sign in the window—Now Hiring.

I hold back a disbelieving laugh, looking again.

Yes, it’s real.

My feet can hardly keep from pelting forward across the busy street, but I manage to hold myself back and wait for the traffic light to guide me forward. Then I’m standing in front of him, almost too soon for me to breathe, and wordlessly pointing to the sign. My tongue untangles itself and everything comes out in a rush.

“Hello, I’m Thalia Breslin and I just saw this sign in your window and was wondering—”

The man laughs, holding up a hand to stop me and leaning forward slightly.

“Wait, Breslin? Like the actress?” He smiled, offering a hand. “I’m Lucas Keats, glad to meet you.”

I frowned, momentarily surprised by his accent—British? Bajan? I reach out to shake his hand. “Keats? Like the poet?”

The man laughed. “Quite. But of course, we can have an interview right now if you’d like. It’s not very formal, and I’ve got time.”

“Oh, um.” I panicked, I hadn’t prepared for right now! “Sure. Why not?”

|| wale, dere you go den!

~soleil