(no subject)
The words are whispered subtly to you over the phone as you curl your toes into the carpet, watching them dig their way through the small fibres.
"Why--" You hesitate. Do you know this boy? Is this the same boy you've shared half a life with?
Yes, yes it was. The impulsive one who laughed before the end of a joke, the beautiful one who seemed almost magical.
"Do you want to go?" the boy asks you softly, always conscious of others, and you look above the mantelpiece. It's ten.
"Where are you?" you ask, wetting your lips and clutching the phone tighter. Already, you're imagining what kind of clothes you'd bring, if it'd be cold in Paris and if the Eiffel Tower is prettier than the photos.
He laughs, quick and easy. "Downstairs."
You laugh at his absurdity, but find it endearing at the same time. "Okay, come upstairs. Help me decide what to pack."
It's then that you turn from a knock at the door and open it to see him, phone still in his left hand and smile stitched to his face.
"Come on then," he says, and you follow.