profile.18yo. Muslim. Daughter of Mhd Soif. Love's.
Some facts about the OWNER of the blog.
50 kg | 164 cm |
Your comments are highly appreciated :).
? A tribute to a Korean singer, Kim Feel.
? The cold yet serene breeze
? series of my #wickedthoughts
? Leo and Aquarius
? The story of me and my ex.
? The Ups and Downs
? "In his favorite black tshirt"
The wind blew softly against my face as I sat beside the dirty-glass windows, looking at those enormous trees across the road being cut down by several men. I was waiting for someone. I smiled, and continued to work on my super-hard Mathematics exercises. From afar, I heard footsteps that I really recognized. I didn’t know what makes those footsteps sounded so lovely to me, but it was. And there he was, with his heavy black bag hanging on his right shoulder, smiling at me at the front door. This man, he gave me the taste of sweetness of a teenager’s life. He was like a long-lost puzzle that completed me when I was 18 years old. He was here.
I waved back at him, replying his beaming smile he gave to me earlier. I straightened my back, watching him as he pulled a blue chair with his left hand towards me. He put his black bag on the other desk and he quickly sat on the chair and released an exhausting sigh. He was tired of carrying the bag from his room I guessed. We sat there, in front of each other without a word at first, because I knew he needed to catch his breath. He glanced at his watch, and said ‘I’m sorry, I was late’, with his voice as deep as the Atlantic sea. His black eyes darted in mine as he said those words. I brushed my thick brunette hair with my delicate fingers and said ‘it’s okay’ and again, he smiled. I called him ‘Mentos’, I just didn’t know why I called him that, and he seemed don’t mind it. He even answered when I asked my other friend for a Mentos, that chewy Mentos. He thought I called him.
He was fairer than me. He was fairer than most of the girls in my class, and the fairest among the guys. I always feel this feeling, kind of embarrassed when he played with my hands, when he touched my fingers and complimented them that they were so small compared to his. He always placed his heart-shaped face on my shoulder as he took a nap after class ended. I could feel his warm breath on my skin. I didn’t mind that, I knew he was tired. He was taller than me, my face would perfectly buried on his broad chest when he hugged me. His black eyes were almond-shaped and spaced evenly apart, sitting under his thick black eyebrows. He would place his long-round chin on my head as he held me from behind, and his strong, well build arms around me allowed me to feel his warmth.
His red lips showed that he didn’t smoke and would purse when he was concentrating, and I found that was attractive. He had black colored cropped hair. His face was clean from facial hair. Despite his well build body, he would always slouched when he sit. His clothes would be either black or grey and he wore hooded sweatshirt a lot. He loved to wear dark-colored cargo pants, he told me it was because crop pants didn’t suit him well. I laughed at that. Simply cladded in his favorite round-neck long-sleeve black T shirt and ash brown cargo pant, we would go and ride the bus to nowhere and have ice cream, watch people walk passed us and went home by train as the sun rose. I always love the way he interacted with people around him, how he make faces when we walked behind moms who were holding their babies until the babies giggled. I liked it when he shook hands with my dad every time he went to my house and how we would walk with our fingers intertwined and his left hand in his pocket. I just loved it, the roughness of his hands, makes me feel like I was holding my father’s hand. I felt safe whenever I was in his arms.
He was somewhat reserved, he didn’t like to be in the limelight, he was thoughtful, he cared for people he loved. I always love to smell his scent. He smelled so fresh, like a squeezed lemon, and at the same time he smelled masculine. Once I asked him what perfume he used, but he told me that it wasn’t perfume, it was his deodorant. I was dumbfounded, and I laughed again. He didn’t tell me the brand, and I was slightly disappointed. That Friday night, on December 12th, I was waiting for him to come to the café we always hang around. It was chilly and I wrapped myself with white hoodie that he gave to me. I was waiting for him for two hours and I felt like I just want to punch him when he got there. That was when I got a call from his mother, saying that he was in hospital. That was when I knew, all this time he had lung tumor. But he didn’t die because of that. He died while trying to save an injured-three-legged cat on the road.
I cried my lungs out after I got out from the room. I couldn’t help it, it was hard to breathe like my lungs couldn’t accept the oxygen. I watched him from outside of the glass door, he lied down so peacefully I felt like I want to smack him in the face so he would wake up and tell me that it was just a prank. Instead, he just laid there. Very still, yet very beautiful. On that cold black night I realized that after this, I couldn’t smell his scent, I couldn’t feel his warmth and I couldn’t feel the safety and comfort he could give me when he hold me in his arms. Day goes by and now, he’s not here.