N'oldu Be?!

Honestly? I don't think I know.
Pixi spends her days taking on responsibilities bigger than the length of her both vertically and horizontally put together. She genuinely laughs with the laughing, genuinely cries with the crying and just tries to be concerned with everyone other than herself. She swivels on her swivel chair. She sits about the office late after work hours with her friend, English-furi, laughing the ticks into tocks so they can eat and go home. She sits on the roof of the office when she has a moment to get away from all the work and tries to fill her mind with the last of the years clear sunlight- which is like water colour lemonade, and just barely warm enough.

The days get shorter. greyer. colder.

Not very far, and still ligth years away from her, the Island boy with his massive ego and temporarirly misplaced self worth, plays the same tunes on his guitar...over and over and over, senselessly: because there isn't a single other thing he'd rather be doing.

When he looks down, his lashes fall as if they were heavy with the due of early morning waking tears. His sadness is as loud as her's is inaudible; like a silent alarm signaling quake tremmors that no one notices, from deep within the earth.
His bitterness is all encompassing and directed at everyone, hers, inverted in a way that forgives everything to better blame herself.
They both seek to fill a deep, uncharted void, with a wisp of identity, a trustable reality, a place to belong, direction -she trying to salvage ill fitting pieces while he rejecting every one of them.
And in this way, they are different for all of the same reasons.

Time passes without giving a damn as if it has some agenda of its own.
At the moment that he glares scrutinisingly at the translucent film on the surface of his Assam tea, she has the vague feeling one of the guys in the office is blatantly flirting with her. So she puts on her 'one of the blokes' air; responds with her deepest possible voice and boyish non-chalance, and shruggs it off with the playfullness with which she chucks things back when she gets things chucked at her from across the room. And he puts down his tea cup with the distaste of artists for whom nothing seems to be going right. After all, who's feeling the pulse of this damn world any way? He resists having a cigarette, not out of any regard for the life he's been dealt- and what a shit hand it is, says his poker face- but out of some instinctive need to care for himself because he's convinced no one else does.

And just then something moves inside him. Something like a flinch; pain that's been shaken off the way kittens keep playing even though it sounded like that really hurt.
It reminds him of her; of her insistence to care, to worry, to let his sadness take deep serial-killer stabs into the centre of her, where her own sadness rested in a web of scar tissue. She did it the way mothers are ruthless, and he was damned if he knew why.