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I wish I knew, I wish I knew you wanted me.
I wish I knew, I wish I knew you wanted me.
Artem should stick to his routine more.
He has one. Had is probably more appropriate. He’d wake up early to work out and make breakfast before heading to work, where he’d bend over his desk painstakingly until it was lunchtime and do it again afterward before finishing up at the office. Then, he’d head home to relax and make some progress on his personal cases by himself. And at the end of the day, he’d tuck into his covers at 11:30 PM, on the dot. It’s clockwork.
It should be clockwork.
But you . . . Artem really shouldn’t be so partial to you. He feels like he’s ready to burst whenever you’re around, and for some inexplicable reason, you always seem to be around. One moment, you’re in the pantry, whispering to your coworkers about that new show that aired the other day, gushing over the male lead. And the next, you’re barging into his office as he readies for fieldwork, demanding that he drags you along with him no matter the danger. He can’t take a step without running into you, and while he knows that the two of you work together — meeting you often is frankly unavoidable — he can’t fathom to the extent he sees you compared to anyone else.
He supposes he does seek it out a bit. Quite a bit. You . . . make him feel giddy and young and confident, even if he doesn’t fully display it outwardly. He gets up earlier to prepare snacks for you in case you haven’t eaten in the morning, he extends his lunch breaks to dine with you when you refuse to leave your desk, he sits with you in his car for hours after the two of you spend an evening seeing a new film so you can gush about the cinematography.
Despite his complaints, he knows he allows you in. He knows.
What you, ooh, uh what you do?
Made a move, could've made a move . . .
If I knew I'd be with you.
Is it too late to pursue?
Artem should be great at controlling his emotions.
He is. Was is probably more appropriate. But he can’t stop his gaze from darkening when other men swarm you, when you’re just as receptive to their plans as you are to his. Marius von Hagen texts you to accompany him to gallery openings, often abandoning the written form altogether midway and video-calling you instead. Dr. Vyn Richter sends you soft voice messages in that soothing voice of his, wondering if you’ll come over after work to enjoy a new dessert he made with you in mind, decadent and all. Luke Pearce, with those puppy eyes and eager smile, invites you to newly-released escape rooms to puzzle over, which somehow always devolve to reminiscing about your childhood and taking comfort in each other’s nostalgia. It’s a daily routine.
It should not be a daily routine.
Artem feels more guilty each time it happens. He has no claim to you, he understands that. God, he understands that all too well. Yet, his hopes get higher whenever you greet him with flushed cheeks, smiling excitedly. Hopes that maybe you’re allowing him to make shifts in your life the way you do in his, hopes that maybe you’re aching for this small bud of affection between the two of you to grow as much as he is. And each time he feels like he has a chance, some other man interrupts and you give them that same electric look, the one that makes him stop for a second in wonder how someone could look like love.
You look like love to him. The very embodiment of it. And Artem can’t help but feel like he’s falling behind when you’re giggling with someone else, when you’re asking if you look nice with someone else. When you’re with someone else. He’s tried books and music and forums and people, chasing for a surefire solution, but you keep slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass and he’s falling, falling, falling.
Sometimes, you look at him like he’s the only one in the world. He wishes he was.
I bite my tongue.
It's a bad habit.
Artem should be happy for you.
He feels it. Felt is probably more appropriate. His ears had perked up when you told the others at the pantry you had someone you’re interested in, his eyes had widened when you watched him walk past. Eyes locked on his figure. Bright with an untold crush. He can sense the words in the air, the ones that he wishes he could say and ones you wish you could hear. It’s palpable.
Should it be palpable?
The memories scroll through his mind. When you were heavy with a fever and he held you tightly when you passed out. When you had tripped in the dark and he had softened your fall with his own body carefully. When you had enjoyed the fruits of fall and he tilted your chin to paint your skin with vivacious colors. Each point of contact glows hot now, each recollection confirming his resolution. It is now, the time is now.
“Artem,” you say softly as you slide into his office. The lack of formality melts any rationality in his mind — he is yours and you are his. There is no other matter. He asks what he can help you with, his fingers folding into a fist repeatedly, anxiously. You reply, “Can I take the afternoon off? I have . . . a date.”
Artem’s smile lingers far longer than it should, his eyes crinkling at the corners, as he asks who should have the pleasure of doing so. A sly smile in response, a farewell before parting. Footsteps down the hall, skipping with victory. Artem hangs his head in his palms, bending down in his seat as he takes a deep, resolute breath.
Datedatedatedatedatedatedatedatedatedatedatedate.
It must be later. The time must be later.
Kinda mad that I didn't take a stab at it.
Artem should listen to you more.
He does. Did is probably more appropriate. Your voice is a symphony, always full of life and worries and excitement and humanity. But as you churn your drink with a straw when indulging in a rare lunch with Artem, he can’t help but feel like your voice is eating at him slowly. So bright it erases his own. These last few months have been tolerable at the most — he’s regained his routine somewhat after repeated missed calls and dissolved plans. Now, he raises an eyebrow at you, unsure of what to say. This is so hard.
Why should it be so hard?
“Well,” you start, “I broke up with my boyfriend. I don’t know if it’s forever or not, but I just need a break.” The straw hits the glass as you trace another circle in your drink, a clear thump that matches the beat of Artem’s chest. He looks at you with incredulity, with clarity, with newfound sympathy, and yet, masks it all with hesitancy. He’s not sure how to comfort you — if he even has the right to with how your relationship is now — but he’s already extending an arm, deciding not to overthink it so much, and you accept it gratefully.
And it all falls back into place. Artem feels like he’s ready to burst whenever you’re around, and for some inexplicable reason, you always seem to be around. One moment, you’re in his office, drawing complicated mind maps on his tablet over a new case you both got assigned, hashing over the minute details in various testimonies. And the next, you’re walking out of the elevator as he steps in, holding a new set of flowers for your desk that you got delivered to the front office. He can’t take a step without running into you, and while he knows that the two of you work together — meeting you often is frankly unavoidable — he can’t fathom to the extent he sees you compared to anyone else.
But he can’t stop his gaze from darkening when other men swarm you, when you’re just as receptive to their plans as you are to his.