the box.

a little note -

this is part two of the box.

i never thought i’d write something like this,

but here i am, letting you in again.

i just hope i can deliver it in a way that stays with you and make your reading worth a while.

---

ever since the last ‘moment’ w the box, it stayed there — quiet, shiny

“taking care of you sure makes you look like a special box”

i say, arms crossed.

i look around and what use to be dirt and mess, now looks clean. fresh.

a home.

“i suppose im good at cleaning things”

i grab my keys and step out of the house, after a long while. one could say i’ve been on a hideout, yes —mostly from myself.

being in this village, far away from the city the people are quiet and soft eyed. keeping to themselves, never a bother to me but always welcoming. they sense a warmth in me that i quite never noticed before in the city.

i walk around the small village, the sun is its usual self, shining bright but the breeze feels soft and cold.

i reach the stall of vegetables, the old woman here adores me and i know it. i never asked her a ‘why’, i just simply got myself to believe her.

“ah look who decides to show up ? when does this girl ever need anything?”

her cracked, low voice carries. i can tell she’s annoyed and angry but it’s the kind that says “dont hide away, come to me”.

i scoff —

“has it been that long?”

giving her a sarcastic response makes me smile, i haven’t smiled in a long time.

“ oh it’s never been long enough”

she says handing me the greenest bunch, the ones she saved for me. i can tell.

“i promise you’ll see me often”

i say it softly, my hand placing over her wrinkly skin. a smile forming of her tired and saggy face.

she gives me that look — half trusting, half braced, knowing i only come out when im alright enough to be seen.

my walk feels short

home to the stall and stall to home.

i walk a bit slow, dragging my feet thru the ground, wanting a reason to stroll. looking around, hoping someone or something stops me, from going home. not that i hate my place, just that it’s lonely w myself and my thoughts and yeah of course —

the box .

the village seems busy today and no one seems to quite notice me, not that i want them to. but it’s just smthg abt not wanting to go home just yet.

i drift to a river, finding excuses that i might possibly need smthg before getting home. the river flows just as usual and normal. everything is the same, its just me who’s come out of the house after a long time and so even the normal seems new. w a feeling of having seen this before.

i stay there, kind of frozen if you must say. until the light begins to thin. i turn back but again my eyes, are wandering. looking for another reason to stay just a bit longer.

walking back telling myself there’s not another reason to stay out

and that’s when i see it — a small shop. not welcoming or warm yet smthg abt it pulls me in. it’s a glass making shop after all. how could it not intrigue me? i take a few small steps in, eyes lit w eagerness.

on opening the door, the sound makes my presence heard. i look around and there are these beautiful glass made pieces. the sun sets but the rays reflect thru the pieces, making it appear even more powerful.

“these are so pretty”

i whisper to myself. reaching.

i pick one up and feel its heaviness. heaviness that my weak fingers can’t hold, dropping the piece down, shattering into a thousand bright fragments. and now the heaviness is in my heart. my eyes turn watery, trying to look around to get someone.

there’s no one.

shaking off my tears, i kneel gathering the large shards w my bare hands.

a stupid stubborn instinct.

and a piece bites my index finger. deep. tears roll down my face. i couldn’t hold them anymore.

“you should never pick glass w bare hands”.

a voice says.

deeper,

heavier,

sharp.

a muscular figure appears in front of my eyes, blurry w tears.

“i’m so sorry i broke this”

my voice breaking and regretful.

“you don’t need to apologise”

his voice sharp yet soft. filled w concern which im not sure if its abt the glass or the piece stuck in my skin.

his bruised and scarred hands reach out to mine, he works slow, steady. easing the shard out of my finger.

blood spills, then runs. he’s calm. quiet. cleaning it and bandaging it. a tear rolls down my face.

i’m use to always rushing to fix my own wounds but this time

i let someone else do it. i feel a sharp pain of realisation, reflex to flee, into a hideout, yet again, in my own house.

i don’t remember the walk back home or maybe the details feel to unreal to process, i get inside and lock the front door w double locks, as if they could quiet my pulse. i look around and the house,

its empty

but overly clean

it smells fresh

my eyes goes straight to where i kept the box which is now —

a little open.

and i’ve only ever kept it closed.

---

TO BE CONTINUED.