imagine knowing me :.: cal&klaus

On rainy afternoons in the winter I turned thirteen, my elder brother and I took to raiding the house for stories. Frequently, we found nothing - only the mostly-empty diaries of our impatient sister discarded in the least likely of places. Once, a large pile of handbooks on raising children – obviously hidden and most likely illegal - found their way into the locked top shelf of my father's room. A bound leather novel filled with poetry that didn't make sense found it's way into our eager hands, however it was quickly abandoned in favour of Hopper's own stories. Curled together in front of the fire, he endlessly wove fables that danced before my eyes, while I listened. "Klaus?" he whispered one evening as I warmed my frozen fingers. I nodded, silent and watchful. We had a routine. It never started with him whispering my name into my ear and looking thoughtful and inspired. "Tonight, you tell me a story." The idea was foreign, something I had never considered before. I screwed up my face, thinking. Once upon a time, the story began. But then it stopped.

That was all I knew - the start of something wonderful, and nothing more. No ideas leapt to the surface of my mind, and as I struggled, my brother smiled. "It's the greatest thing you'd ever imagine," said Hopper, and I knew he was telling the truth. I'd read enough fairy-tales to know thatlike Lyana's paintings and the stylist's tedious work, telling stories was an art. I shook my head, eyes wide. Wordlessly, I conveyed all the things I couldn't say. That I could tell stories, find them, read them - but never bring them to life and work the fine fabric of the words myself. "Try," he insisted, and so I closed my eyes and did my very best to find a dream hidden somewhere in my mind.


"Once upon a time, there was a boy who was afraid to pretend. Everywhere he went, he saw people without stories - faces and movements and smiles and tears with no explanation. He wanted to tell himself stories about these people, but no matter how hard he tried he could never piece together the puzzle.

His conclusions made no sense, became too far fetched or held no relevance. In time, the boy forgot to try. He counted the footsteps as the nameless people passed by, but he never did look up. There was, after all, no explanation for the money on their hands or the bare feet that carried them.

Things simply were. In the end, he relied on everybody else to tell the stories for him - that way, he couldn't be wrong."


I swallowed, realising that the story I told was not a story at all - simply the hollow rewording of what I was afraid of, mumbled under my breath. "Oh, Klaus," began Hopper, with a sad kind of smile that left his eyes bare. "Sometimes you have to let yourself believe even when you know you're wrong."

That is all I can think of now, as I count down the seconds. Tell a story, Klaus. You get to choose the end, and it doesn't matter that none of it is real. That's the beauty of make-believe. With that, I check the clock one last time - two twenty-eight - and close the door behind me. The cold is comforting, biting at me exactly as it did yesterday. The day before was much the same, as was the one before that. My favourite part of the day is two thirty, when the same things always happen without fail. Only, today, they will be different, because today is the day I will finally let myself wonder. One hundred and seven steps is all it takes to reach the end of the street, concrete hard and steady beneath my shoes. Sometimes, I yearn for the sand again - unstable and soft and altogether awful. In it's way, the sand is exactly like the Games themselves. Each altogether horrible and yet brilliant and somehow missed. For a boy who craves consistency, my whirlwind month was a story of a lifetime and somehow as perfectly wonderful as it was terrifying.

Another twelve steps take me to the corner. Fourteen leave me shaky, and not just from the cold that stings my bare cheeks. I adjust my scarf and pull the beanie lower on my forehead, suddenly desperate to turn back. In sixteen steps, I'll see him. Every morning at two thirty-two, he's there. Almost as though he's waiting for me. I don't turn, though, because the arena taught me that turning back will only leave you facing a sword. Forward is the only option, so this is the way I head. All at once, I am standing outside the coffee shop, watching the bent head of that boy scrawling violently in that spiral-bound notebook of his.

I wait for him to look up - and then I remember that today is the day that I am going to tell his story. Once upon a time, I begin, and then smile. Instead of no stories, this boy holds thousands. Perhaps he's writing a poem for his mother, or a eulogy for an aunt he never really knew. Maybe the words that spill from his fountain pen detail the passers by, every single one of them. It could be a recipe book, or comprised of rebel plans. He could be anyone, and I think perhaps this is why I am so enthralled by his presence. Instead of continuing walking, I turn and open the door to the tiny shop, catching his eye for the slightest of moments as I do. The bell rings to signal my arrival and as suddenly as I held his gaze, it is broken. Absently, I order a coffee and take a seat. Tick, tock.

For a while I am lost in my own world of memories and daydreams, and then somebody calls my name. Momentarily confused, I blink, and then realise that although I never told the girl who I am, she knows. Everybody knows me and my story, and I am still wandering around, guessing. A lot of the time, I forget. I take a sip of the bitter, dark liquid that swirls in the disposable cup, choking on it's vile taste and leaping back from the boiling syrup. The cup tumbles to the floor, and before I can mutter my apologies the girl is at my feet, mopping at the mess I made. "Sorry!" I yell, swallowing over and over in an effort to rid myself of the coffee. I want to see the boy.

It only takes a second to realise that he is gone, and in his place lies a scrap of paper, presumably from the book I have never seen him without. My hands reach out, and before I can stop myself, I am gazing into his story. No longer is this boy a mystery - surely, I hold in my hands the answer to my pretences.




"Hello.

You walk by every day. I keep telling myself that one day I'm going to look up and talk to you, but I never do. Maybe I'm starstruck, or maybe it's something much more complex that that, something I can't quite wrap my head around. Maybe it's because you're something I can't quite wrap my head around. I keep telling myself that one day I'm going to look up and say hello to you, ask you how your day is going. We've become constants for one another, I think, knowing that no matter what else happens in a day that at 2:36 exactly I will be sitting here with my notebook and you will be walking past, that we'll make eye contact for a few seconds and look away. Thank you for being my constant. It's nice to have one.

I keep telling myself that one day I'm going to look up and tell you that you're much better looking outside of a TV screen, but I don't think I ever will. You see, I realized when you came and went inside today that it's an understatement.

You're actually quite beautiful. Maybe one day I'll look up and tell you that instead."


I stop breathing for a moment, feel my cheeks burn scarlet, and then tuck the note into my jacket and continue on my way. Suddenly, he is more than just a boy. He is a boy with a story - and being part of that very story is, like Hopper said, the greatest thing I've ever imagined.