If I Wake up Tomorrow, Will You Still Be Here?
Prologue.
The street lights grew eerily dim as he stepped underneath them, mists of fog exhaling from his mouth. He was already regretting this decision, however, he knew if he allowed himself to surrender to cowardice he would be haunted by the wonder of what could've happened. He wished himself there now, placing the envelope silently under the door and rushing to his hotel, hopeful that maybe, just maybe, she'd call soon.
It was false hope, he knew that, but he wasn't about to let her go and move on. He couldn't focus anymore on wrong and right, he could only focus on her. It was beyond painful. This, he knew, was his last option; the last glimmer of hope.
Her apartment block was grim, extraordinarily plain, haunting almost. He dashed up the few steps and reached the door. He knew by pressing her buzzer it would alert her to his presence. That was unneccesary. Instead he pressed the buzzer of Mr. Aldrin, her elderly widowed next-door-neighbour, who would always be up for a chat.
Sure enough the sound of Mr. Aldrin's voice broke out into the cold, gloomy night, "Who's that?" He had a thick Boston accent that she loved; sitting around for hours listening to his repetitive stories.
"Uh, its me, Mr. Aldrin. I just need to be buzzed in to drop of some of Zoe's things off."
"She asleep, is she?" Mr. Aldrin asked, slightly curious.
"Yeah, I'm sorry if I woke you up," his response was sincere.
"No I was just watching the History Channel. The new show is about the war. I remember when - "
"Sorry to interupt Mr. Aldrin, but its freezing out here. Can you buzz me in please?"
"Oh sorry! I completely forgot. Come on up, kiddo," Mr. Aldrin huffed as he pressed the buzzer, allowing the door to open and for him to step inside.
The staircase was warm and carpeted in a thick red shagpile. His shoes caused dents in the thick strands as he took the stairs two by two, attempting to get to her doorway faster. He was nervous, shaking and breathing heavily. Was it too late?
Her apartment was on level four. It was stupid really, seeing as she was deathly afraid of heights. He had whisked her back to her hometown of Sydney for her twenty-second birthday and paid for both him and her to embark on the Harbour Bridge Climb, which she had vehemently refused. He remembered her laughter as he had blindfolded her, and her sheer squeal of terror as she saw what had been planned.
"No!" she had squealed, "Absolutely not!"
He let out a chuckle at the memory. Before he knew it, his was standing in front of her door; 4C. He thought about knocking, but remained silent. He wondered what she was doing. Not sleeping, that was for sure. That came at about three in the morning. Her and her insomnia. This caused a small chuckle escape his lips once more. He bit his hand in order to stop. She couldn't come to the door and see him. That would be a disaster.
He knelt down, pressing one of his palms flat to the carpeted floor, his other silently slipping the envelope underneath her door. He heard the gentle woosh as it slid onto her wooden floors. He then turned, placing his back as silently as possible against the door. His breath stopped for a moment, his head buried neatly in his hands.
He missed her. Being so close to her home, and evidently her, all the memories came flooding back. Her house, not too small, yet not too big, filled with its modernity. Her bedroom was isolated from the rest of the world and managed to change with one's mood. The sun streamed through the tall glass windows in the morning, and let the pretty glitter of the stars in at night.
Late at night, when the rest of New York were tucked snugly in their beds, the two of them would step out onto her balcony, drinking and smoking, telling each other wicked stories of childhood and adolescence and work, and in his case, fame. The way she had stared at him in awe had magically taken him from reality into the world of unbelievabilty. He should've never been as lucky as he was to have a girl like her. She would constantly ask him to repeat words due to his thick British accent. She asked him to take her to England one day, to meet his family. He always said he would, but after three years it just didn't seem like a probability.
He felt a pang of anger at his stupidity. He stood up, angry at himself now, and began to march down the hallway; his footsteps louder than he assumed to be.
He heard her door open a crack, and her voice, soft and sweet, slightly husky from her nicotine addiction, "Rob? Is that you?"
It was false hope, he knew that, but he wasn't about to let her go and move on. He couldn't focus anymore on wrong and right, he could only focus on her. It was beyond painful. This, he knew, was his last option; the last glimmer of hope.
Her apartment block was grim, extraordinarily plain, haunting almost. He dashed up the few steps and reached the door. He knew by pressing her buzzer it would alert her to his presence. That was unneccesary. Instead he pressed the buzzer of Mr. Aldrin, her elderly widowed next-door-neighbour, who would always be up for a chat.
Sure enough the sound of Mr. Aldrin's voice broke out into the cold, gloomy night, "Who's that?" He had a thick Boston accent that she loved; sitting around for hours listening to his repetitive stories.
"Uh, its me, Mr. Aldrin. I just need to be buzzed in to drop of some of Zoe's things off."
"She asleep, is she?" Mr. Aldrin asked, slightly curious.
"Yeah, I'm sorry if I woke you up," his response was sincere.
"No I was just watching the History Channel. The new show is about the war. I remember when - "
"Sorry to interupt Mr. Aldrin, but its freezing out here. Can you buzz me in please?"
"Oh sorry! I completely forgot. Come on up, kiddo," Mr. Aldrin huffed as he pressed the buzzer, allowing the door to open and for him to step inside.
The staircase was warm and carpeted in a thick red shagpile. His shoes caused dents in the thick strands as he took the stairs two by two, attempting to get to her doorway faster. He was nervous, shaking and breathing heavily. Was it too late?
Her apartment was on level four. It was stupid really, seeing as she was deathly afraid of heights. He had whisked her back to her hometown of Sydney for her twenty-second birthday and paid for both him and her to embark on the Harbour Bridge Climb, which she had vehemently refused. He remembered her laughter as he had blindfolded her, and her sheer squeal of terror as she saw what had been planned.
"No!" she had squealed, "Absolutely not!"
He let out a chuckle at the memory. Before he knew it, his was standing in front of her door; 4C. He thought about knocking, but remained silent. He wondered what she was doing. Not sleeping, that was for sure. That came at about three in the morning. Her and her insomnia. This caused a small chuckle escape his lips once more. He bit his hand in order to stop. She couldn't come to the door and see him. That would be a disaster.
He knelt down, pressing one of his palms flat to the carpeted floor, his other silently slipping the envelope underneath her door. He heard the gentle woosh as it slid onto her wooden floors. He then turned, placing his back as silently as possible against the door. His breath stopped for a moment, his head buried neatly in his hands.
He missed her. Being so close to her home, and evidently her, all the memories came flooding back. Her house, not too small, yet not too big, filled with its modernity. Her bedroom was isolated from the rest of the world and managed to change with one's mood. The sun streamed through the tall glass windows in the morning, and let the pretty glitter of the stars in at night.
Late at night, when the rest of New York were tucked snugly in their beds, the two of them would step out onto her balcony, drinking and smoking, telling each other wicked stories of childhood and adolescence and work, and in his case, fame. The way she had stared at him in awe had magically taken him from reality into the world of unbelievabilty. He should've never been as lucky as he was to have a girl like her. She would constantly ask him to repeat words due to his thick British accent. She asked him to take her to England one day, to meet his family. He always said he would, but after three years it just didn't seem like a probability.
He felt a pang of anger at his stupidity. He stood up, angry at himself now, and began to march down the hallway; his footsteps louder than he assumed to be.
He heard her door open a crack, and her voice, soft and sweet, slightly husky from her nicotine addiction, "Rob? Is that you?"