How the fuck did I write this?

I must have been drinking a lot back then.


She had always wanted to touch the space between his eyelids. His eyelids were so deep and pronounced, so incredibly sexy in her eyes. She had always wanted to do that, but when they were alone, something else distracted her, or she plainly forgot this strange desire to run the tips of her fingers over his eyelids. She only remembered when they were out with friends. They rarely went out alone together, anyhow. It was weird, walking with him, talking with him without the company of friends. They started out from that group of friends, it was only natural to them to stick to that group of friends even though their friendship had evolved to another blissful, useful level. Yet, his eyelids remain out of reach to her - always there, always when she never remembered and hiding in obscurity when she did.
She was crazy about him - she thought of him even when he didn't think about her. In the shower, in her books, in her dreams, in her sleep she thought of him. She thought of his light brown eyes, his hair overgrown like bramble bush he always smoothed it back and would not allow her near his crowning glory. She was deeply infatuated with him. Infatuated, because she did not believe in love although she told him 'I love you' many times over and over. A lie comes in handy, was her principle. A lie makes people happy.
God knew he lied to her too. She knew. She knew when he told her that he'd wait for her, that he'd never fool around. She never trusted anyone, no matter how deeply infatuated she was with anybody. There was a part of her reserved, break glass in case of emergency, that sort of thing. She never trusts. No. She'd pretend she did, and when she did get disappointed or let down, she'd comfort herself by saying she never let herself fall so truly and deeply till she trusted the fella. No, she did not trust him when he said he loved her, when he said he'd gotten over his past loves whom he talks about with lights shining from his eyes. She didn't trust him when he said he won't fool around when he went away, when he said he'd be true. True's as true as a cat in heat, calling for any Tom passing by. True's as true as that. She was a cynic hoping to be uncynicsiced, if there's such a word. She invented her own words all the time. She felt she was going schizo.
He, on the other hand. He had not truly gotten over his past, one thing's for sure. He talked about them with a sickly zest, like a victory, not as humans who felt and hurt and knew what pain was. He talked about them as if they were nothing but flowers by the roadside, awaiting death swaying with every breeze a passing tyre breathes. Sure, he felt this really, strong, inexplicable attraction for this girl. He felt this strong, physical need to be with her, to bed her whenever she came over to his bachelor pad. Other than that, he did not know of what to talk to her about. She was strange, she had strange principles. She did not like to be held on the shoulder, although he never asked why. She did not like to be called 'darling' or 'babe' because of some unknown reason he did not bother to find out. Yet, there was a strong attraction he could not deny. Yes, call it love, lust, whichever moniker you'd prefer. He felt a strong attraction to her, and that was that. He acted on that attraction, he got the girl, he got the pleasure, he did not want to end it. Yet, anyway. Everybody knew that things like these, without substance or any substantial connection, things like these they do not last. No, he'd leave her soon, and they'd fall apart then. But for now, they were together. For now he was happy with things. He was happy being with her for the moment. Strange.
Perchance he did not want to admit that what they felt together, shared together, went deeper than just animal attraction. Perhaps he was scarred from those exes he did not, could not forget. Perhaps that was why he, too, was afraid to hope, to believe in her. So these two people who were so afraid of each other, they got together and did not try to change the way they saw the world. She was albeit a little more idealistic than him. He was a cynic through and through. No love for the handicapped, says he. He was blinded to the truth because he did not want to believe. He could not, for the love of God, see that there was a sliver of lining behind dark clouds.
That was all she could hope for. That there was something beyond lust, for him anyway. She knew what she felt. She just didn't want to fall too deep, that's all. Dear God, she already had.
It wasn't very nice. It wasn't very nice would be putting it in a very mild way. She got lung cancer which was initially liver cancer because she drunk so fucking much but it spread to her lungs because she smoked, for writers are known to smoke and to take drugs. She was on her deathbed. She did not know she had that killing disease till it was too late. He stood by her deathbed. He was ready for anything, but not this.
She said "Let me go. Let me go without tears and strife. Find a new life, all of you. Find someone who can fulfill you, a better daughter, a better lover. Thank gods I'm not yet a mother. Be merry and be happy." That was all she said before she got stuffed with morphine and died the following day. Dreadful, but yes, she died. And she never did get to touch the space between his eyelids.