A cold wind wrapped around my body as I sat outside. Sleep did not find me, and my hands itched to draw. It was the middle of the night, and the stars shone in the dark sky like diamonds.
Closing my eyes, I inhaled. I loved breathing in the night air. I loved being outside. I simply loved the peace.
Sitting back on the lawn chair, I reached for the three quarter full sketchpad lying on the grass. Opening the bound book, I flicked past the first few pages; pictures of leaves, birds and trees. I skipped past the pages of a young girl in a meadow, smiling up at the large sun. Four young sisters walking hand in hand—three dark haired? one bright blond—still innocent and untouched.
Then as I turned the next page, I stopped, hands freezing, as a familiar set of midnight eyes stared up at me from the page, as though they were real and shining in the moonlight beneath my window.
With a timid finger, I traced the edge of those eyes and wished that I were able to touch him in reality. I held my right hand in the air, and with my left hand, intertwined the fingers just to imagine how it might feel.
A hand holding mine.
One simple touch.
A touch that said so much.
A slice of pain hit my chest, and I sighed deeply in sadness. Because since meeting Flame, my thoughts had changed so much.
In commune, I used to dream that I was a butterfly. That I would spread my colorful wings and fly away from all the pain. But now, when Flame was near, I dreamed anew. I dreamed that one day I would know what his hand felt like holding mine.
My heart sank at this impossibility. Dropping my hands, I let my fingers loosen and break their hold.
Suddenly, my attention was pulled by the sound of rustling trees. I sat bolt upright in the chair and stared at the dark line of the forest. My heart slammed against my ribcage, when a figure emerged from the heavy foliage.
My breathing paused, fear taking hold, then a familiar pair of leather boots and trousers entered the moonlit lawn. Blades hung from his belt, and his torso was naked under the heavy leather cut.
Flame.
My heart, that was already racing, seemed to beat at an impossible speed. And then Flame lifted his head, and it ceased to beat at all.
The frown that was on his face instantly blanked. His lips mumbling something under his breath, stilling mid-speech.
I clutched the blanket lying over my knees to my chest. I remained frozen, as did Flame. I had not expected him to come tonight, his friends had taken him back to his home. I could see from my window how exhausted he had been. I could see, even in the haze of moonlight, how tired he was still.
Flame’s hands tensed at his sides. His chest heaved with movement that was too quick, then he abruptly turned on his heel, and with a rigid back, he headed back into the forest.
My stomach sank as he turned to leave, and without conscious thought, I slammed my sketchpad shut, shuffled to the edge of the seat and called out, “Wait! Do not go!”
Flame stopped dead.
As did I.
Swallowing back my nerves, my shock at what I had just done, I said, “Please, Flame. Do not go… I… I am glad you are here.”
Flame’s fingers curled and uncurled, then straightening his shoulders, he slowly turned. His large frame was rigid as he faced me once more. Then he just stood. Stood at the end of the forest, his attention fixed forward.
But I wanted him closer.
Still perched on the edge of my seat, I asked, “Would you like to come closer? I… I have been sitting out here alone as I could not sleep. It…” I took a deep breath, fighting my natural instinct to flee, and continued. “It would be nice to have some company.”
Flame remained still, his rigid body convincing me that he would not come any nearer. Then, to my surprise, he began walking, his powerful legs bringing him closer to where I sat.