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“You meet for the first time in the parking lot of a supermarket.
You push the shopping cart with one hand, the other holding your phone as you check your shopping list, completely unaware of the woman walking in front of you.
You hit her with the cart. Hard.
So hard that she falls to the ground, making you drop your phone and run to her side. You look so sorry, eyes wide and eyebrows raised in worry.
She, on the other hand, looks very mad.
You’ll soon realize that this is her neutral face. In fact, she’s simply admiring the intense blue of your eyes and the light curve of your lips.
_
You meet again at the same store, a few weeks later. You’re on your tip toes trying to reach a box of cereals on top of a shelf. Your shirt is slightly lifted, showing a glimpse of the soft skin above your hip. Suddenly, slim fingers grab the box and put it into your cart. You turn your head and gasp when you recognize the owner of the hand, her big green eyes – you could swear they were grey the last time you saw her – glowing with faint amusement.
She’s smiling. It’s a tiny, shy little smile, but it’s there and it makes you heart flutter.
You spend the next hour shopping with each other, throwing merchandise in each other’s cart. You mock her love for organic food and she scolds you when she sees how many fattening products you’ve bought.
_
You quickly become friends. You get coffee every Monday and have movie nights on Fridays, and it feels so easy. It’s like you’ve known each other for a really long time.
You’re both so similar, and yet so, so different.
You have a constant smile on your face, and you’re glowing like the sun. She’s cold and hard as a stone, keeping quiet as you talk about everything that makes you happy.
You’re the warmth that keeps her from freezing and she’s the cold you need to stop burning.
You balance each other.
You’re also her only friend, and it’s so new and odd for her.
_
She admires you. She loves the way your eyes seem to shine when you talk about art, when you describe the feeling you get when your brush touches a new canvas for the first time. She loves when you describe the house you grew up in, the colors of the damaged walls, the smell of flowers in the garden, the beautiful sound of the wind and the soft lapping of the lake in the afternoon.
She had only ever seen the world in black and white until you brought a new palette of colors into her life.
_
You bring her to the sea for a day, because she told you how much she loved the ocean.
You don’t see it, but when you park next to the desert cove sheltered from the wind, her eyes shine with unshed tears of happiness. She quickly brushes them away and leads you to the beach.
You brought picnic and eat in the shadow of your parasol. She makes sure to put extra tomatoes in your sandwich because “chicken and mayonnaise isn’t healthy, Clarke.” Later that day, you drag her to the waterside and splash her when she tells you she prefers keeping dry. She pretends to be mad, but finally gives in and you spend the entire day in the warm waves of the sea. She stares at you when you’re not looking, and her heart beats faster, thumping against her chest.
When the sun is down and the moon is shining, you lie in the sand. It’s getting chilly and you move closer to her, your shoulders brushing together, before looking up and gazing at the stars above you.
She wants to hold your hand, but she’s too scared to do anything.
It’s too romantic, too uncomfortable for her and she’s afraid her mask will fall and her emotions will show. So she starts talking about constellations, galaxies, nebulas and meteorites. She notices how you stop admiring the stars and look at her face instead, but she just keeps on rambling.
When you roll on top of her and gently kiss her, her breath catch in her throat and her eyes widen almost comically. She stays frozen in place for a few seconds and you grin, amused, softly caressing her cheekbone with the back of your knuckles. She blinks rapidly, eyes fixed on your lips. You can hear the quiet sound of waves crashing on the sand and the sweet singing of grasshoppers in the distance.
You kiss her again, and this time she kisses back.
_
She’s shy after that.
The days following your escapade to the sea, she doesn’t mention the kiss, but you see how her eyes remain on you a little longer every time you’re together.
When you catch her staring at your lips, you wait for her to make a move. You don’t want to pressure her into doing something she’s not comfortable with, so you talk about your day in a light hearted way, trying to break the tension.
You drop little hints every once in a while, playfully flirting with her and making up excuses to have physical contact with her. She notices your behavior; she’s just not brave enough yet.
During one of your movie nights, you offer to braid her hair, chuckling when you see how she tenses. She nods slightly, her eyes never leaving the movie playing in front of you.
(She has trouble breathing normally.)
She sits on the floor in front of you as you cross your legs on the couch.
You pass your fingers through her long locks of hair and smile as she shivers. She doesn’t say anything when you brush your hand against the back of her neck, but her heart beats so fast she fears she’s going to die.
When you’re done a few minutes later, you sit back, admiring the way her braid falls on the side of her neck. She’s playing with the edge of it, shyly looking at you above her shoulder. You grin and take her hand, turning your attention back to the television, but she kneels in front of you and detaches her fingers from the braid, putting them on your cheek. You look directly into her eyes and she closes the distance rather abruptly, your lips colliding together. She inhales deeply, taking scent of your perfume, making her dizzy. The angle is weird and your movements clumsy, but it’s sweet and passionate, and you both end up smiling into the kiss.
_
She falls asleep on the floor in front of you. Her hand is laid on the cushions of the couch you’re resting on, and you trace patterns into her palm. After a few minutes of silence, you sit up and move, lying next to her on the carpet. She stirs, her face crunching up, and looks at you through semi closed eyelids.
“What are you doing?” She mumbles.
“I was cold.” You answer, gluing your bodies together.
Both of your backs hurt, and you keep bumping your bodies into the coffee table as you move during the night.
You don’t regret it a bit.
_
You talk about him for the first time a few weeks later.
You’re snuggled together on the couch. She’s on top of you, sitting between your legs, drowned in her book. You smile at her furrowed brow and the way her lips form the words she’s reading.
Every few minutes, you lean across the coffee table to grab your glass of gin. You ask her if she wants some too, but she shakes her head. “I don’t drink much alcohol”, she says. You shrug and sit back on the couch, sipping your drink with a content sigh. After a few seconds, you notice that she stopped reading, her eyes shifting from you to the glass in your hand.
“What?” You ask.
“You shouldn’t drink that much.” She answers, fumbling with the corner of a page.
You freeze.
There it is.
You clench your jaw, pursing your lips.
“I’m just saying that because I care about you Clarke.” She adds, tilting her head to the side.
You remain silent, avoiding her eyes.
“You just… drink a lot, that’s all.”
You snap. “I need it, okay? I need it.”
She widens her eyes, taken aback by your reaction. You swallow what’s left of your gin and clench your eyes shut as it burns your throat. You don’t notice the lonely tear rolling along your cheek.
She does.
“Clarke…”
You tell her everything.
You tell her about your father, this highly respected marine who only came home for the holidays. You tell her about how much you admired him, from his big heart to his sense of duty, from his handsome dimpled smile to his reassuring bear hugs.
You tell her about that one time when your father didn’t come back during summer. You tell her that you never saw him again, just because of a war you had nothing to do with. You tell her about how you isolated yourself after his funeral, and how you started drowning your sorrow in alcohol. You were only sixteen.
“It’s the only thing that can ease the pain.” You say brokenly.
She puts her arms around you, her eyes filled with sadness and her heart broken.
She hopes she can ease your pain, too.
_
You’re so proud that she’s yours and you want to tell the world. You keep holding her hand in public, making sure everyone sees it. When you introduce her to your friends, you spend the entire evening kissing her cheek, your arm around her waist. They seem to like her, and she gradually relaxes as Raven engages in a conversation with her.
You don’t notice how she forces herself to smile.
She’s proud, too, of course. But she’s also confused. She doesn’t understand how someone like you can be with someone like her. It keeps her up at night, as she stares at your sleeping form for hours.
She’s always scared you’re going to leave when you realize that she’s not good enough.
_
You fight a lot.
“Talk to me, Lexa!” You yell one evening. She hasn’t smiled once today. It’s probably nothing. She’s in a bad mood, it happens and you know it. The thing is, she’s frustrating. She never talks about the way she feels. Things are always “fine” with her, even when her eyes betray her and displeasure is written all over her face.
“You never say anything, I never know if you’re okay or if you’re mad.” You shake your head. “Hell, I don’t know anything about you.”
She remains silent, eyes fixed on her lap.
“We’ve been dating for five months. Five months, Lexa!” You sigh, gripping the glass of wine in your hand. “Sometimes it feels like I barely know you.”
She straightens her back, clenching her jaw. “I’m sorry.”
“Cut the crap, Lexa.” You abruptly put your glass back on the counter and cross your arms over your chest. “You don’t get to get away like this again. Sorry doesn’t mean anything. I don’t want you to apologize; I want you to talk to me.”
You kneel in front of her and she avoids your eyes.
“I want to know you like you know me.” You murmur. “I want to know when you’re mad, when you’re happy, when you’re sad, and I want you to tell me why. I’m your girlfriend, Lexa. I’m supposed to be important.”
She looks at you. “You are important. I just don’t like talking about my feelings.”
She’s never talked about her emotions to anyone. Not to her parents, not to her sisters, not the only few friends she’s had in her life.
You slump your shoulders.
“What about me?” You breathe. “Can’t you make an effort for me?”
She squints. “You’re not the only one who wants things, Clarke.” She says, harsher this time. “But unlike you, I’m not whining when I can’t have them.”
You lean back on your knees. “What do you want then?”
She looks away, slightly shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“There you go again.” You scoff, standing up as you stare at her with wide eyes. “Unbelievable. What the fuck is wrong with you, Lexa? Just tell me!”
“You really want to know?” She snaps. “Fine.”
She gets on her feet and takes a step towards you.
“I want you to stop drinking.”
You turn very pale.
“I hate it.” She says, shaking her head. “I can’t bear seeing you drown yourself in alcohol all the fucking time. It changes you, it gives you mood swings and it scares me, okay? I hate it.”
You don’t say anything and stare at her.
“You know why I never said anything about it?” She asks coldly. “Because I love you, and I know you hate it when people mention your addiction. I shut my mouth and I fucking respect your wishes, even if it’s killing me. So you don’t get to be pissed off at me, Clarke.”
You swallow hard.
“You know I can’t stop.” You say with a broken voice.
She smiles bitterly, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Fuck you.” She grabs her keys on the counter. “I’m not going to force to stop drinking, but stop playing dumb. You can stop, you just don’t want to.”
She walks to the door. “I’m going out,” she says. “Don’t wait for me.”
_
The following week is filled with distant looks and an unbreakable tension. You only exchange a few words by necessity, but your flat mostly stays silent.
She’s still mad at you, and you know it.
But she’s also scared.
That, you don’t realize it.
She’s scared that you finally get the courage to get up and leave. You came into her life and shook everything up.
Now, she can’t ever let you go.
Her heart misses a beat each time you walk to the door, and she breathes in relief when you come back, sometimes carrying groceries or simply with your hands hidden in the pockets of your oversized hoodie.
She doesn’t tell you how she went to the window fourteen times during the twenty minutes you were gone to see if she could glimpse a shine of blonde hair on the street.
_
She doesn’t expect you to sit on the bed behind her one day while she’s at her desk, filling paper work.
She remains still, waiting for you to say something, her back turned to you as you stare at your lap. You take a big breath.
“Lex.”
She shuts her eyes, preparing herself for the worst, before regaining composure and spinning her chair to face you.
You raise your chin and stare at her. She allows herself to do the same, and you remain quiet as you look into each other’s eyes. For the first time in weeks, the tension between you disappears for a little while.
You cut the silence.
“I want to stop drinking.”
Her mouth opens slightly.
“You said it scared you.” You explain, swallowing hard. “And I’ve been thinking. I don’t want you to be scared. I want to get better. For you.”
She cuts you by kneeling in front of you and enveloping you in a tight hug, hiding her face in the crook of your neck.
She’s so proud. And so, so relieved.
You slowly put your arms around her waist, resting your chin on her bony shoulder.
“I can’t do it alone,” You breathe, voice quivering. “I’m not strong enough. I need you.”
“You’re more than strong, Clarke.” She whispers. “But I’ll be here with you anyway.” She stays silent for a few seconds before adding, her voice even more quiet: “I’m sorry for what I said the other day. I didn't mean to be this harsh.”
You shush her with a soft kiss.
“I’m not mad.” You say against her lips. “I’m thankful.”
You stay like this – on your knees, holding each other – for longer than you know.
_
You’re making progress every day.
You both got rid of all the alcohol in the house and told your friends that the two of you wouldn’t go out with them as much as you used to. You didn’t specifically tell them why. Most of them teased you, but Raven and Bellamy looked at you and nodded slightly, respectful and understanding.
It’s hard for you, she can see it. She knows how much you’re struggling. But you’re determined, and she’s so proud of you.
She makes sure to remind you of that every day.
She’s so invested in your wellbeing; it warms your heart and gives you more strength in the morning.
She had the idea to make smoothies every time you have the urge to drink. You both make sure to buy fruits every time you go to the grocery store, and now your fridge’s filled with bottles of mango and raspberry drinks. It helps you focus on something else than your body and mind asking for alcohol.
Every night, when you’re both lying in bed, her arm around your waist and your head resting above her heart, she asks how you’re feeling.
Sometimes, you tell her you’re fine and you both smile happily as she kisses your cheek, whispering loving words into your ear.
And sometimes, you let out a big shaky breath, unable to hold back the tears which have been threatening to shed all day long. She pulls you in a soft hug and caresses your back as you tell her about the frustration poisoning your chest. Then, without even realizing it, you talk about your father, your childhood, your mother, your friends.
You let it all out, and she listens quietly until you fall asleep.
_
Sundays are usually the worst.
Usually.
You’re two months sober, but it’s still so very hard.
You’re curved into a ball on the couch, staring blankly at the wall. She bites her lip and gets up, making her way to the kitchen. A few minutes later, she puts a fresh raspberry smoothie on the coffee table in front of you and settles herself back next to you. Your eyes remain fixed on the drink for a moment.
You suddenly sit up and turn to her, startling her.
“Marry me.”
Her mouth opens slightly. “What?”
“Marry me.”
You’re talking jerkily and your heart is beating really fast. It feels like you just woke up from the longest nap ever, and all of the energy you have needs to leave your body.
She looks taken aback. “I…”
“I love you.”
“It’s just a smoothie, Clarke.” She chuckles, her cheeks pink.
“It’s not just a smoothie. You’ve been helping me and taking care of me for longer than anyone else in my life. I want to marry you.”
She looks at you as you take a sip of your fruit drink.
“Okay.” She breathes.
You turn your head so violently you almost crack your neck, spilling raspberry juice all over your shirt. “What?”
“Okay. I’ll marry you.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” You nod repeatedly. “Okay.”
She observes you, smiling softly. Her face shows composure, but her heart is dancing frantically inside her chest.
“We should make more smoothies.” You declare, standing up and taking her by the hand. But she tugs your arm and you lose balance, falling into her embrace.
You just made a rainy Sunday the happiest day of her life.
She tells you how much –“
“Ma’am.”
Lexa jumped, startled, and closed her mouth.
“Visiting hours are over now.” The nurse said, standing in the doorframe. “I’m going to ask you to leave.”
“Of course.” Lexa smiled politely. “Thank you for letting me stay a little longer.”
“No problem, Ma’am.” She nodded. “Have a good night.”
“You too.”
Lexa turned her eyes back to the single bed in the room.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
She stared at the inanimate form lying on the slim mattress.
The former shine of her blonde hair was now replaced with a dull color, flat curls falling sadly on her shoulders. Her eyes, usually so blue, so electric, had been hidden by closed eyelids for so long that Lexa feared she would forget what they looked like. Healed scars marked the blonde’s face and arms, like tattoos made out of pain.
Next to her was the machine, Lexa’s new best friend, who reassured her by making that same noise over and over again.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Lexa gently put her hand on the blonde’s forehead.
“I have to go now. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
She pulled back, her throat clenching as glimpses of that night flashed behind her eyes.
“I drank a little. I’m so sorry, Lexa. I’m coming home now.”
Accident.
Sirens.
Phone calls.
Hospital.
Surgery.
Coma.
"You know, I was always scared you would leave me one day. But I never would have guessed that it would be like this."
She brushed her finger against the blonde's cheekbone.
“I’m not mad.” She swallowed hard, tears burning her eyes as she stared at Clarke’s peaceful face. “I’m not mad that you drank that night.”
“I miss you. I just… I just want you to wake up, now.” Lexa choked. She closed her eyes and took a deep shaky breath, mechanically toying with the ring on her finger. She wiped the tears off her cheeks and leaned over her fiancée, carefully placing a kiss on her forehead before taking a step back.
Beep.
“You need to wake up, Clarke.” She declared quietly. “The story isn’t over.”
Beep.
Beep.
“You need to wake up so we can continue it together.”