#1. The Ronettes - Be My Baby (1963)

Writer A.U || t.h

Summary: In which a girl learns to love a fleeting writer

Words: 1387

Warnings: None

Comments: So, this was supposed to be fluff, but I started writing and it went in a totally different direction so that’s why the summary’s a little different now… Hope you guys like it anyways :)))

************

He could write paragraphs - trilogies, sagas, novels completed with prologues and epilogues alike - just about how you made him feel everyday.

He hasn’t quite met you yet - just a black rimmed stranger at the back of the campus cafe - but he felt something different in your curled lips and bright eyes. He sees you everyday, silently nodding your head to music no one else heard, watching as your pencil moved in strokes across your page.

You’re a poem he’s yet to discover. Just so perplexed and complicated in its whole, that he’d had to break it up into pieces just to understand why you came to this exact cafe everyday or why you never seem sad, even when the clouds are gray and raging above you. No matter what, you sat with a fond smile, not a care in the world for what happened in the skies outside.

So, nice weather we’re having, huh?

Oh… I didn’t even notice.

You’re a piece just waiting to be read, so unknown and beautiful in ways he wants to the world to understand.

He doesn’t know how to approach you.

But he assumes he’ll take his chances.

~~

“What are you listening to?”

He caught you - and himself, if he’s being completely honest - by surprise. It’s been a few months since he first saw you, barely being able to get a sentence out on the page in front of him with you still in his vision. He never thought he’d scavenge enough courage to walk up to you, shy and awkward in his own way, but on one Thursday afternoon, he was tired of watching you like a book through a shop window. He was ready to meet you. Not just the image he wrote up in his mind.

“Oh, um…” Your words get caught in your throat, barely being able to make eye contact with the boy staring down at you. “I’m actually listening to M-Mounika. Her uh music… helps me relax.”

You smile, shifting the sketchbook in front of you closed. Your hands waves to the seat across from you, inviting the boy you’ve admired for months on end to sit with you. Your heart is thumping in your ears as he drops a small thank you from his lips, shifting awkwardly in his seat.

“Do you think… I could have a listen?”

You nod vigorously, calming yourself before carefully laying the white earbuds in his hands. He takes the music and stuffs them in his ears, moving to the sound booming through his veins. You laugh, watching him swaying to soft the ticks now ringing in his mind, soft words staining his skin.

“I’m assuming you like it?”

“I love it!” He’s smiling so bright that his cheeks hurt, shifting the buds back into your hands. “I-I’m Tom.”

He’s scratching the back his neck, smiling as your name lands on his ears.

“It’s an absolute honour to meet you.”

~~

You didn’t know what you were expecting when you fell in love with a writer.

He was always searching for something. Words in a language he couldn’t read, metaphors hidden in the crevices of your skin. He’d write for hours on end, eyebrows knit together atop his eyes, glasses laying neatly on the edge of his nose. He’d write for hours, but end up erasing it all within a minute because of course, it wasn’t enough, it was never enough.

You’d stare at him from your spot on the couch, gaze lingering on the bags shadowed under his eyes. His eyes are glued to the screen, watching words he’d just written disappear with a simply flick of his mouse, sighing at the one word left staring back at him.

Love.

Oh, how was he supposed to describe this to someone who’s never felt it? How was he supposed to describe your eyes, so dark, alluring, bright. Like some paradox that didn’t make sense, shouldn’t make sense, but did. How was he supposed to explain the way your fingers slid down his arm, pressing your skin against his, feeling every inch of you no one else did. He’d try to stretch words together; make them understand just what he felt every time he woke up to your lips a mere centimetre away, nose touching, eyes staring.

You were more than stories of aimless dreamers with their nose stuck in books, pondering their could be. He couldn’t explain how love was never a could be. It was a meant to be, cross stitched together, ugly, beautiful, loud, quiet, calming, hectic, amazing, wonderful, alive.

It was living, breathing, moving.

It smudged the ink of perfectly crafted words, broke apart once upon a dream and made them happily ever after. Love was all metaphors and things you couldn’t understand but god, you tried, you tried.

You both did and Tom still can’t find the words to describe something wrapped around his fingertips, something so infinitely beautiful.

You watch on, listening to his small rambles. He’s scrambling, he’s messing about, he’s writing, but he can’t find the words and you can’t help him.

Love.

Why was it so hard to describe something so real.

~~

He understands now.

He understands why he couldn’t describe the feel of your skin. Perhaps it was merely a ghost, a high that simply fluttered about only to leave him broken afterwards. What do you expect when you love a writer.

Do you expect love letters? Do you expect symphonies sung onto your lips, choruses painted on your eyelids. Do you expect heartbreak? Do you expect forever.

You think you did. Both of you did.

Love.

What is it to him now? Is the words you left behind in meshes too fast - can’t… not anymore - Is it in the clothes you left behind, in the smell that poisons his system - I have to go… sorry - is it in the bed you left half empty, is it in the poems you left him. The ones in pieces, the one of hints.

You surely couldn’t love words. You surely couldn’t love a metaphor. He should’ve known as much, he should’ve known he was too complicated to love someone so, so simple in the most beautiful way.

He was too much of a mess, he was too much of a worker, he was too much, too much.

You didn’t know how to love him, and he didn’t know how to keep you.

Perhaps, that was how it was meant to be.

An almost.

~~

He’s finished his piece.

Love.

He stares at it for the last time, seeing the flash of your eyes before you turned away from him - I tried - embedded in every word. He almost laughs at how ironic it all is.

How he describes your touch perfectly - it was fleeting, but infinite. Smooth and innocent. Electricity burning through every inch of your veins - how he described your eyes, your heart beat in sync against his as you laid together through silent nights.

He hates how he knows what love is in words when it already left his life in burning crisps.

He writes like he’s in love; like you never left, like he didn’t feel his heart crack after you stepped on it with your flying steps. He writes like a reader, like the dreamers he used to laugh at, the ones who looked for love in the words that were never meant for them.

Perhaps you were the writer the whole time.

You wrote words in his eyelashes, painting your own paradox in his hands. You read and edited him with every look, with every smile, with every goddamn kiss. Maybe you didn’t know how to love him, so you tried to be him and only ended up losing yourself in the process.

No longer the girl he met in the cafe so many months ago, watching with pink cheeks as you talked for hours. No longer the boy who slipped a note into your bag everyday before you left - if I could talk of perfect, it would my name coming off your lips. No longer the bustling writer who fell in love too fast, too soon, too late.

Love.

He sends away your relationship in beautiful words, in the only things he can piece together when he thinks of your voice.

My could’ve been.

My almost was.

My never again.

10/10 would recommend to anyone who wants their heart ripped outta their chest :'-)

you know i didn’t expect that.

WHAT THE SHIT IS THIS BLACK MARKET KNOCK OFF MONStROSITY HOLY FUCKING SHIT

Me as an object.

Full Lip Sync Battle Episode

i’m glad 100k+ people think this is the mood too

Where has this been all my life

💛if you’re feeling anxious💛

i, like many other people, struggle with anxiety on a daily basis. while i have my own methods of dealing with it, my way doesn’t necessarily help with everyone. here are some sites that might be beneficial to you if you have anxiety!

(this will be in my bio if you ever need to refer to it)

here are some calming websites to use:

if you prefer to write your thoughts down - the thoughts room

if you need a quiet place - the quiet place

if you find rain/thunder comforting - rainy mood

if draw your own shapes and patterns calm you - weave silk

if you need to read some nice words - the nicest place on the internet

if watching animal videos makes you feel better - cute roulette 

if writing short stories helps distract you - writing prompts

if nature sounds help you relax - nature sounds for me

if you need people to talk to you about your stress - interactive stress analyst 

if you need to hear something nice about yourself - automatic flatterer

I was in a pretty low place when I came across this and I just wanted to thank you for sharing these websites because I really needed this today.

I’m gonna take like a week off from this place. See how I feel.

Mk sweetie :) take as much time as you need, I hope you're feeling better soon

Hey, so my sister is 11 and has recently been really struggling with taking her medicine (for Anxiety, ADHD, and Depression) because it makes her feel like she’s weird. If you could do me a favor and reblog this if you take meds OR have someone you love who takes meds. I want to show her that she is not the only one, and certainly not weird.