cocoa - snail's house

    When you remember Momo, it’s through a coffee coloured lens. Her warm smile, her milky brown hair, the way your heart used to pound as if you’d just drunk ten cups. And then there are the homey wooden tables and chairs of your cafe, your table. You remember the way sunshine flooded in through the wide windows and how clouds of wintery air hung around your ears and made them red. That was ages ago, when you were younger, waiting for the results of your finals to tell you where the two of you were headed next, when you both still drank coffees that were either too bitter or too sweet, because you never knew what the right amount of sugar was. That was a long time ago. Now that you’re an adult, you don't feel the need to pretend that you’re more grown-up than you really are. Just a hot cocoa is fine. 

    You can’t count the days you’ve gone back to the cafe alone. Sitting in your usual spot you warm your fingers with a hot cup of cocoa and you look out of the window wistfully. You wonder why you’ve never brought any of your friends here. Maybe it’s because you want to keep this place all to yourself, how selfish. 

    You remember how you were after Momo left. You both knew it was coming, but after you got back from dropping her off at the airport and came home to a half empty apartment it all hit you in the face and you just couldn’t help but cry. And then you stopped drinking coffee, because it reminded you too much of her. 

    Momo never called, even though she promised she would. 

    The chiming of the bell at the door always catches your attention. It’s never anyone you know, but maybe in the back of your mind you hope it’s Momo. And then, nursing the warm drink in your hands you laugh at yourself for being so childish. 

    One day the bell chimes and you look up, as usual. Suddenly you can’t breathe. Her hair isn’t that milky brown anymore, and she looks a little different, a little older, but you know it’s her. You can see her looking around the cafe and when she sees you, you feel your throat close up. Her eyes widen and she mouths your name. Your cocoa is hot in your hands but you feel cold all over.
“Momo,” the name feels like a ghost on your lips but she's there, she's real.

    She sits down in across from you, cheeks red from the cold and from being flustered. It’s a little awkward.
“I—I missed you,” she confesses.
You can’t find the words to say to her. Just tears.
Momo panics and she moves to sit next you. Shaky arms wrap themselves around you and you cling to her as you cry and she whispers apologies into your hair. But you’ve already forgiven her, haven’t you? You forgave her a long time ago.

    When your tears are dry she orders another hot cocoa for you, and one for herself. When she holds her hand out for you to take you feel like a bumbling seventeen year old again, especially with the way you blush as you take it. The two of you take a walk by the river. You find that she had meant to call, but she didn’t know if she could hear your voice and not want to come home immediately. Then you find out that she’s staying for good, and you want to scream in joy. In exchange you tell her that you’ve missed her everyday she’s been gone. When you ask her for the time she shows you her lock screen so you can read it for yourself. You both blush when you realise that her wallpaper is still that photo of the two of you from ages ago, when she still had her chubby cheeks and you still had your long red hair. She tries to stammer out an explanation, looking up at the sky, as if she’s searching for an answer in the clouds.

    You don’t tell her you still love her though. You think it’s still a bit early.

    She takes you out for dinner and then walks you home. The two of you walk slowly, unwilling to let the night end.
“Bye,” she whispers, tender and reluctant.
“See you,” you whisper back.
And then she leans in to kiss you and you feel your heart burst. It’s short, sweet, gentle—it’s just like when you were kids. Her lips are soft, they way they’ve always been in your memory. Well, maybe they’re not exactly the same; instead of tasting like coffee they taste like chocolate and you find yourself smiling. Momo smiles too. With her hands shoved into her coat pockets she smiles at you one more time and turns to go her own way. You lean against your door frame and watch as she strolls down the sidewalk and stops. Then she runs back to you.
“I still—can I have your number?” she asks, shyly, short of breath.
You laugh. She’s still the same Momo and you still love her.
With another goodbye kiss and your number safely in her phone, she’s off again, and you think of the next time you’ll see her. 

    Maybe that’s when you’ll tell her you love her. You’ve seen it in her eyes, those eyes that still sparkle like a nervous kid; she feels the same.

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im back w/disgusting fluff?? 
will anyone die the next time i update?? who tf knows tbh
anyway stay tuned for more gays