Guys & Guitars | A Short Story.


So.

Someone called me out on my wavering originality today. Guys & Guitars is a repercussion of my fierce sense of pride, and the simple fact that if I’m not original in what I do, I wouldn’t do it.

I didn’t even edit this one. I hope you like it.

Enjoy:

Some people just don’t realize it when they get hold of your heart. They don’t realize what they do to you, don’t understand that even a single gesture of theirs could send your heart in an unmatched frenzy. Some people, although extremely difficult to decipher themselves, suddenly provide you with all the answers to life’s questions.

He was one of them.

I first met him in class, Applied Physics 102 . Front row, second seat, wearing an army green t-shirt, jeans and the so-nerdy-they’re-actually-kind-of-cool glasses. He wasn’t very strikingly handsome in the generic Ken doll way, but there was a undeniable air of mystery to him, this sudden spark that made the hair at the nape of my neck rise in response.

And that smile didn’t help, either.

I’d be lying if I said he had me under his spell from the get-go. But there’s also the fact that I may or may not have sneaked a few glances in his direction during that one hour, while simultaneously trying to understand the grave phenomenon of interference of light.

This is how our First Meeting went. This is how it all began.

* * *

He was a musician. The Guy With The Guitar, as I now liked to think of him. He sang in class in a muffled voice, his singing often accompanied by drumming of fingers, or tapping of one foot, or both. I’d never seen him play, but from what I’d heard, he was really good at it. He knew what he was doing.

He just didn’t know what he was doing to me. And it’s not entirely incorrect to say that neither did I.

All my life, I’d had a strict no-musicians rule. Their worlds moves too fast, and burns too bright, was my excuse. And I was right, although now, it was too late.

I’d willingly fallen victim to the smile of the Guy With The Guitar, my heart not mine to call any longer. It was gone.

And so was he.

* * *

I don’t know where he is now. I never tried to reach out to him, either. All that he is now is a part of my memories, a photograph that I like to pull out of my diary and peer closely into, trying to check whether I still recognize the face I see there, whether those eyes still make me want to drown, whether or not his smile makes my own lips curl up.

I try to feel whether or not the echo of his voice makes my heart race.

And you know what?

It does.

Always has, always will.

——————————————————————

No, this does not bear any kind of resemblance to any person living or dead. I’m very annoyed at this point, and it’ll only annoy me more if you start to think that this is a secret message of sorts. Don’t apply Harry Potter/Hobbit/LOTR/any other cryptic stuff here. 😛

Tell me how you like it, if at all. I’d love to hear.

Peace.

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