Star Crossed by Aashi Gurijala

Author:Aashi Gurijala [Gurijala, Aashi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9798889260608
Publisher: Manuscripts LLC
Published: 2024-01-04T20:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Weak

Axel

She walks out of the closet, as if in slow motion, drying her long black waves with a towel. I’m in shock. The dress she chose fits her perfectly, like it was made for her. It hugs her waist and flows comfortably around her in a soft, petal manner. Of all the dresses she could have chosen, she chose that one. The red dress I saw every week at the playground as a kid. The red dress that consoled and comforted me when I skinned a knee or had a nightmare. The red dress I stared at almost every day for the last ten years to fill the hole. The red dress. Mom’s favorite dress. And Jade chose it.

I stare at her shamelessly, taking in how stunning she looks and reveling in the irony of my past reaching its muddy fingers into my present. Her bottom lip pokes out and sort of quivers when she sees me, almost as if she’s… pouting. Holy crap. Jadelini Ishq is pouting at me. It’s making my head swim with unwanted and dangerous thoughts.

She stops drying her hair and allows it to fall gently along her neck like a wet curtain. “Sorry, should I pick something else?” she asks, tugging at the dress until more of her legs are covered.

I shake my head vigorously. “No, no,” I say with what little strength I can muster. “It looks… good on you.”

Her pupils twinkle and widen as they fall on my newly clenched fist.

I uncurl my fingers and wonder if she can see what’s happening to me. I wonder if I can see it myself. All I know is that the way she’s staring back at me, with her eyes downturned and rimmed by the light of the hallway, she looks beautiful, really beautiful.

She tucks a somewhat frizzy piece of hair behind her ear, “You’re not so bad yourself, when you’re not trying to look like a bad boy, anyway.”

“I don’t try to look like a bad boy. I like the color black,” I say defensively.

The right side of her lip curves up to form what I’ve come to recognize as her amused smile.

“Oh, and that’s all you own?” she rallies, folding her arms. Her hip juts out sharply like the edge of a table.

“Please, I’m shocked you’re wearing something that isn’t purple,” I say back, folding my arms and jutting my hip out too.

Her smile turns into a frown. “Purple is the color of royalty, creativity, magi—” she starts listing with her fingers.

I break out into a laugh before she can continue. “Blue, I’m kidding. I’ll take the compliment. I have a feeling I’m not about to get another.”

She holds her frown, which slowly morphs into a different kind of smile, one I can’t place. I notice how wide my own smile is, however foreign. It feels nice. This feels nice.

I have a sudden urge to be as close to her as possible yet as far away as I can manage. I turn away, cursing myself for this brilliant idea.

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