“laughing with my feet on your lap, like you were my closest friend.”

https://open.spotify.com/track/199E1RRrVmVTQqBXih5qRC?si=b889394a4d214574

June, 2024.

Atlas came to Alexa’s place often.

Slowly, Alexa started to compare the differences between Atlas and Nicholas as she learned Atlas’ habit whenever he was around.

Being with Atlas was somehow… easy.

She did not need to help him finding excuses to stay the night, because he had no wife to begin with and they were not hiding from the world. Her pills were long forgotten inside her drawer, because the furthest Atlas had taken her was slow kisses and light touches that both maddening and comforting. She could talk about her feelings—even those she rarely shared because she did not want to acknowledge its existence—and he dove in the blue every time with her.

Being with Atlas felt like walking around freely without the need to tiptoe.

One day, Atlas would show up with a heap of groceries and new recipe he found on Tiktok, and they would cook too many portions they had to call Derian over. Some other day, they would just curl up on the couch, trying to finish a series from decade ago, and then Alexa would decide that Atlas was too tired from work so she switched up to play some songs instead and brought out her favorite wine. She would listen to his stories at work, sometimes she would ask about the meaning of few big finance words, and he would explain patiently. Atlas would pause in between conversation just to kiss her, and when she asked him why, he would say just because.

It’s all civil but so domestic that it made Alexa lost sight at which kind of lines she should draw between her and Atlas. As though they unlearned everything they knew about togetherness, and had a newfound meaning through each other.

If she remembered correctly this man still had a lover; and she was the mistress of someone who occasionally called her from time to time. She could feel that both of them were pulled in to see where this would take them, but at the same time, were also chained to the past they devoted themselves to.

They’re the same, Alexa always thought about her and Atlas that way. We’re doing all these because we’re basically the same.

Sometimes when the weather was nice on the weekend, he often picked her up to just sit around under the oak tree in a park near her apartment while lighting up cigarettes. He started to open up about his life—and just like leaves on the tree, Alexa waited until it’s the right season for them to fall on their own. She never forced him to open up, she wanted him to crack when he was ready.

He told her about his mother, about his sister, about the long-dreamt dream he had to bury soon because the person he dreamed about no longer shared the same vision. About what kind of house he wanted to have—as long as it had a spacious yard for their kids and dogs to play on, a tree to shade the house from the sun, but enough to let its ray in through the weaving leaves. He would prefer dark wood to stone, and a sun room.

Alexa also learned that his mother passed away from cancer. They didn’t have the money to treat her, and when Puspa and Kai offered, it’s already too late. The cancer had spread to her remaining healthy organs, and she surrendered to her sickness after Atlas promised that he would take care of his sister.

He was a strong fortress outside, but inside, he was a ruin. More of the same like how she had been. And he still haunted the house he once lived in, wondering if someone would come to find him.

She would hold his hand whenever he shared a part of his life, for more often than not, he was trembling more than he realized. Pain often acted like a predator, lurking in the corner, waiting until you let your guard down. When you felt like you had reached safety, it would come out in the open to remind you that there’s no such thing as safe; it would stay with you forever.

And yet he would try to finish his story anyway, as if he was determined to let Alexa in. Slowly.

Atlas’ presence gave her a taste of normalcy.