The Prelude of Ella and Micha (The Secret 0.5)

The revelation comes to me abruptly while I’m writing lyrics in my bedroom. At sixteen years old, the words pouring out of me are soul bearing, defining, and fucking startling, like a lightning bolt to the heart. And, the thing is, it’s not the first time I’ve written about Ella like this. My very first song was about her, too. At the time, it didn’t mean anything, but now I have to question what the cause is behind my emotional words dedicated to her.

The entire time I pen, all I’m thinking about is how I felt when I thought Ella had died. My hand actually begins to tremble, and my nerves only amplify when I reread my poetry. Where did these lyrics stem from? How the hell did I go from scribbling about desolation to writing about the person who means the world to me?

I’m so fucking scared.

And kind of excited.

“Are you okay?” Ella asks with concern from across the room.

It’s not like anything has visibly changed between us since last night. She still slept in the bed with me, fully dressed with a bit of space between our bodies, even though every one of my limbs craved to eliminate any amount of air between us. We woke up and had breakfast, chatted with my mother, then went back to my room to draw and write lyrics.

Her sketchbook is open on her lap while I strum my guitar and pencil down the rest of the mind-blowing lyrics. But the words only carry half my attention. The other half is on her, watching her uninjured hand move wildly across the paper, even as she stares at me with those big, beautiful green eyes of hers.

When did I realize her eyes are so beautiful? And how lean and long her legs are? How smooth her skin looks? How much I want to touch her smooth skin … kiss her lips … bite her flesh … watch her hand trace across my body …

Suddenly, that hand of hers stops, and she sets the pencil down. “Micha, what’s up?” She sits up in the beanbag chair. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I blink my attention from my dirty fantasies, my fingers halting on the guitar strings. “What?” Her concern is severely distracting to the point that I can barely focus. That’s the thing with Ella: she always cares about me enough to check on me, and when she’s staring at me with concern, like she is now, it’s difficult to even breathe.

Her forehead creases as she leans toward the bed, scrutinizing me. “Are you high?”

High on you.

Where do I come up with this shit?

I adjust the guitar in my lap. “No, why?”

She shrugs then relaxes back, tucking a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear. The movement causes my heartbeat to quicken and blood to roar in my eardrums.

“You just seem distracted,” she responds. “And you look kind of pale.”

“Being high doesn’t make me pale.” I cringe at the thickness in my voice. I’m never awkward around girls, and now I’m about as nervous as a debater with severe stage fright. “And I’m always a little distracted when I’m working on a song, especially when I’m about to finish one.” About my feelings for you.

“That’s awesome.” She smiles brightly. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. “Can I see what you have down so far?” She sets her sketchbook aside on the floor and kneels in front of me.

When she reaches for my notepad, I jerk back, tucking it behind me while dropping the guitar onto the bed.

“What the heck, Micha? Are you …?” She peers up at me with glossy eyes, like she’s about to cry. “Are you mad at me about something?”

“What!” I exclaim. “No, it’s just …” I think about the lyrics that just flowed out of me, as though my subconscious was speaking to me, whispering things I never realized until now. “I’m not mad, I just … don’t want you to read these until they’re finished.” It’s only when she starts to relax that I do, as well.

“Well, if you need to talk to me,” she says, sitting back on her heels, “I’m here for you. I know today’s a rough day.”

My brows knit as I set the notepad down on the mattress and scoot to the edge of the bed, planting my feet on the floor. “Why? What’s today?”

“Um, ten years since your dad left.” She folds her arms on top of my knees and looks up at me. The contact is almost unbearable, though in the best way possible.

Breathe, you dumb ass. It’s just a girl touching you, nothing more, nothing less.

Except the girl touching you remembered your father took off ten years ago today. The girl knows and cares about your past.

“I’m fine.” I wave her off then get to my feet. “But we should go do something fun.”

“Okay,” she easily agrees. Ella is usually up for fun, no matter the circumstances. She bounds to her feet and closes her sketchbook before reaching for her leather jacket. “What are you up for tonight? Racing? Dinner at the diner? We can go to that party downtown that people were talking about.”

I reach for my hoodie on my bedpost. “A party sounds kind of nice.” I glance down at her cast. “As long as you feel up to it.” Maybe the noise will drown out my freaking alarming thoughts and feelings.

“My arm feels fine.” She reaches for the doorknob but dithers. “But, if we go to the party, will you promise not to act like a weirdo like you did at the last one? Because it wigs me out.”

I slip on my jacket. “I never act like a weirdo at parties, do I?”

She stares me down from over her shoulder. “The last party we went to, you almost beat Jonny Moylton’s ass because he was”—she lets go of the doorknob to make air quotes—“dry humping me. Seriously, Micha. You’re starting to act like a jealous boyfriend.”

My frown deepens as I painfully realize how right she is. I was extremely pissed off watching Jonny touch her like that, and I acted crazy. I’ll do it again, too.

“Well, he was asking for it,” I tell her, unable to stop myself. “He shouldn’t have been touching you like that.”

“That’s not really for you to decide.” She turns for the door again. “Guys are allowed to touch me, Micha. In case you haven’t noticed, I am a girl.”

Oh, I’ve noticed. Boy, have I fucking noticed.

“It is too for me to decide who gets to touch you,” I mutter then cringe when I realize I said it aloud.

She fires a death glare at me. “What is your problem? I don’t get it. You’ve been acting really … weird and pouty the last few weeks.”