English Short Stories, Lits/Sastra


“I dreamed of him last night,” that was the first thing she said when she noticed I was entering the room. She did not even bother to check who was coming. But she knew, it was me.

She was half lying on the single sofa she put in front of her desk, and rested her head on one side of the arm rest with both feet hanging on the other side. Her eyes were fixed to the window presenting the shadowy  afternoon. But she was not really looking. I knew her mind was somewhere else. Maybe around the dream she just had last night.

“Him? That boy?” I asked her just to make sure because it was almost couple months ago since the last time she talked about that man I only knew from her story. I thought she had forgotten him. And I told her exactly that.

“I also thought so,” she said. “But it’s just… I never really forgot him.”

I only made a grunt, not sure what to respond. I sat on the rocking chair near the window.

“It was silly that I never even talked that much with him. But, I just could not get rid that memory. The way he looked at me.” She said with a nostalgic tone.

I said nothing and just stared at her who still did not look at my direction.

She continued almost like talking to her self. “Those eyes… those haunting eyes.” And she closed her eyes as if wanting to recall something. She did that for few minutes. She looked so peaceful doing that. Her breath was slow. I could see her chest making an up and down motion in a very neat tempo. I nearly thought that she fell asleep. But she wasn’t because she spoke again. “It has been a year, and it always feels the same.”

I could only stare at her. Sometimes she was just so unreachable when drawn in her own thought.

She continued. “He stared at me like I was a painting.”

I remember where she quoted the sentence from. “Side Effects,” I mumble my guess.

She smiled and now was playing with her hair. “That explained how I felt about him. A lot.”

I kept silent not knowing what to say. Sometimes she is just too elaborate when it comes to her feeling.

“I meant, he really stared at me like I was a strange thing, like… art. And it never felt this way before. I meant, I don’t think I like to be stared at by any person. But the way he stared is just…” She closed her eyes once again. And now pressing her hand to her neck.

I could not even tell whether she cherished the memory or she was just tortured by it.

She opened her eyes again and looked at me. “Do you think eyes really can tell things without saying?”

“Yeah, sometimes.” I told her only that.

“I really wish  I could encript the message he was trying to show me,” said her.

“What if he didn’t have that particular message to show you?”

She directly looked right at my eyes and gazed for couple seconds–like she did not expect I was saying that.

“I meant, maybe he just adored you… Physically.”

She gave me the look of disapproval and shrugged.

I saw disagreement from the way she smiled, so hesitant. She kept looking at me. Thinking. Her eyebrows furrowed, and her eyes pinched.

“Or maybe, you’re just…” I was trying to figure out a word to properly describe her, and I came out with, “Strange. Like art.”

She stayed still and quite made me uncomfortable about it. Then, she just stopped looking at me to go back to her previous position. Another head hanging in one of the armrest, and two skinny legs at the other. She resumed gazing at the gloomy afternoon. And, she just stopped talking for a moment.

It was nearly a half hour that we were just busy with our own self. Our own thoughts. I was playing with my phone. News, social networks, games. And, I was in the middle of one stupid brain game when she called me.

“Isn’t it wicked?” She asked.

“What?” I asked her back.

“Me,” she said. “Am I wicked?”

It took me quite long to understand where she was heading. Until she explained, “This whole thing about this boy. And…”

“Alex?” I continued her sentence. I got it now.

She nodded.

“Do you love him? I meant, Alex.” I asked.

She didn’t answer straightly. She stared at the corner end of the window, as if it showed her answer to my question. Then she said, “Alex loves me.”

I waited. I knew she had not finished.

She resumed playing with her hair. Without looking at me, she carried on. “But…” It seemed so hard for her to continue what she was about saying. “Maybe, maybe… it’s just… I…”

I still held back saying any thing to push her. I kept silent, and waited. And, I almost thought of what she was really saying the next. She just…

“…wanna be adored.”


2 thoughts on “Adored

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