TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) by Matthew Turner

after so long, on my doorstep and having a go at Jon—"
    "I was hardly having—"
    "Dante, please. Just listen. I was angry at you for coming. I hated you for it, but then you came out with the... news... and, well, the anger disappeared. But I didn't want to let go of the anger, for without it, all I have is love. And I've tried to convince myself for so long that I don't love you. That I don't miss you. That I don't need you." She takes a deep breath. "I closed the door because I didn't know what else to do. As soon as I did, I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in there. Jon knocked and knocked and knocked, begging me to let him in.  
    "He was so worried. He loves me so much. But at that moment, I realised I didn't love him back. I'd spent months trying to love him, but in truth, I never did. Because I couldn't stop loving you. And I really did hate you then. For the first time ever, I honestly hated you. When you broke my heart, I didn't hate you. When you broke Jon's nose, I didn't hate you. But knowing I would always love you... I hated you for that. I hate you for the hold you have over me."
    Finally, she looks up. "I came out of the bathroom, told Jon some bullshit story, and tried to get on with my life. I know, horrible. I pushed everything deep, deep down, and carried on with life. Even though I knew what you were going through, I carried on. Even though I knew I didn't love Jon, I carried on. I tried, I honestly tried to forget. But how the hell can you?"
    Standing up, she sighs and pushes her hands through her hair. "I finally went to your parent’s house. Your mum cried the moment she saw me, and we hugged and sobbed and broke down in each other's arms. She told me you'd gone away, and I knew I had to come and find you. I couldn't allow us to end like that." She sighs again, this one heavier. "I can't stop loving you, Dante. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't let you go."
    Pinching the bridge of my nose between finger and thumb, I face the window once more. I bite my knuckles and ball my fists and stare outside... just gape... at nothing... at everything. "What happens now?" I ask, the warm light less delicious and soothing than it once was.
    "I don't know," she says, brushing her palm down my back. Her breath tickles my neck, and it makes everything stand on end. My body misses her and reaches for her; every inch of skin longing for her tips and lips.  
    "What about Jon?"
    "I left him. I told him everything... everything . I closed the door on him like I closed the door on you, and I feel terrible for it, but I can't think about him... not now."
    Turning to face her, she places her hands on my chest, moving them up and down ever so gently and slowly. She places her forehead on my chin, the aroma I thought I'd never taste again practically on my lips. I have so many questions and so much to say. Not now. Later. Right now, I need to kiss her.
    "I'm so sorry, Danii. Everything I put you—"
    "Don't."
    Cupping her chin, I edge her upward, wrapping my right arm around her back and pushing my left through that golden brown mane I've spent so many nights yearning for. Kissing her, I caress my tongue with hers. This was normal, once, but now it's a strange déjâ vu from long ago. Familiar, but not. A faint linger in a lifetime of wonder.

8 th November—Cologne:
    Recommended Listening:
    Sun Song—Laura Veirs
    She’s Always a Woman to Me—Fyfe Dangerfield
    Samson—Regina Spector
    Charlie Darwin—The Low Anthem

    Cologne isn't a city I've spent nights dreaming about, unlike some distant lands like the New York City skyline, Sydney Harbour, Uluru at sunrise, or the rolling hillsides of Switzerland. I've spent many a night fantasising about places far away, picturing those I've seen in magazines and on movie sets, wondering if they're as beautiful and fantastic as they seem.  
    Regrettably, Cologne wasn't part of this fantasy, but having arrived yesterday, it's snapped me out of my somber mood.
    I ache with burden