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It was as if your souls had touched- in a sort of catastrophic way. A cataclysmic way. Stardust and debris all blown up in your faces… A powdery explosion. Little bits of it dancing on your fluttering eyelashes. Fidgety hands rubbing specs of it out of tired eyes.
The moon tiptoes across the river before you. Mark speaks to the water, as if it’ll hold his secret (or confession rather) on the off chance you decide to rid yourself of it. Subconsciously preparing himself for rejection.
“I guess I’ve liked you for a while now,” Mark sighs. And his words are a bit slurred, as are the ones that sit ready upon your own lips. You’re barely able to make out his silhouette in the depth of the night. Barely able to ground yourself as you palm the grass beneath your hands.
You’ve both been drinking at this pseudo-picnic of yours on the riverbank. A last-minute suggestion from Mark; he needed to escape from the burdens of the sun’s wake. From the daytime. From himself. The two of you had gorged yourselves with convenience store snacks and soju.
And now especially, Mark’s infatuation with the sky seems fitting. He’s the sun and the moon. Orange and blushy. Silver and shifty. Light and dark. His smile when he’s on stage. His furrowed brows as he grows frustrated at a late-night dance practice. The way his laugh permeates his entire being. Feet dragging against pavement when he trudges into his apartment at two in the morning.
His shadowy figure beside you now, knees turned away from you as he awaits your response.
“Liked me? As in-”
“As in, I love you. Probably,” he says.
A scoff escapes you. There’s no bite to it. There’s no anything to it, really. Just air leaving your diaphragm. Then you’re shaking your head like you can’t believe what you’re hearing, because you can’t.
“Mark, I think you’re drunk,” you say, searching for his eyes. Searching for your sky.
Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Yeah, maybe a little bit.”
“Let’s get you home.” After he stands, you drape one of Mark’s arms across your back, his wrist in your hand. Your other hand grasps his waist. And though you’re drunk as well, legs wobbly and steps off-kilter, you giggle with him as the two of you hobble down the river and towards Mark’s apartment.
Then you’re searching again, trying to meet Mark’s eyes, and there’s stardust in them. Glassy with exhaustion and the weird elation that comes with getting something off your fucking chest. Even if there’s been no real response.
Quiet explosions with each step. Drawing nearer to a time in which you can’t avoid the something that’s between you. Hip to hip, the shell of Mark’s ear all folded up against you and red from the cold. Watching your breath plume in front of you like smoke.
You reach the steps of Mark’s apartment bitterly, not another word passed on the walk to it, and fish his keys out of his pocket. He topples over onto his couch, flopping like a thrown pile of laundry.
“You gonna be okay?” you ask.
Mark tugs the right side of his mouth into a smirk. Catastrophic. It’s muscle memory; you walking to his linen closet and grabbing a blanket to place gingerly over Mark’s sleep-laden body. You admire the rise and fall of his chest. The contentedness of his breaths. And for a second, you just stare.
Then suddenly, Mark stirs, and it takes everything in you to rip your eyes away from his peaceful face. “Are you watching me sleep?” he asks with his eyes still closed.
Shit. “You’re drunk,” you reply, stammering
“Whatever you say.”
You start to leave, but linger in the doorway, looking back and forth between Mark and the doorknob.
“Remember when you said that you love me ‘probably’?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.
And with his eyes still closed Mark says, “Yes…”
“Like, how probable was that ‘probably’?”
“It’s at about 98% right now. Lessening the longer you keep me awake,” he mumbles.
“Noted. We’ll circle back tomorrow.”
“Okay. Text me when you get home. Love you.”
Cataclysmic. A powdery explosion. Stardust in your eyes on the taxi ride home.