Page 5 of Bound By Brielle (Crave & Cure Productions)

About trees.

“I’ll have a year of ground floor experience, and after that, well, that is future B’s problem.” I sigh, turning the corner, immediately hitting my breaks as a bike messenger darts in front of my car. This fucking city. “I need to do something different, Win. Noah is getting married and I’m… boring, stagnant, predictable.”

“You can be pretty boring,” she teases. “And okay. I’m on board. Let’s sign you the fuck up!”

“See you soon.”

two

I am abso-fucking-lutely the beggar here

augustus

The alarm dronesonand fucking onand as usual, I’m overwhelmed with the urge to grab my phone and fire it off against the wall. But as I do every morning, I roll over, swipe until the noise is off, and return to staring at the ceiling in the dark.

My room is dark, not unlike my mind.

Staring at the shiplap, studying the same tongue and grooves I’ve been staring at for the last year, I give myself the daily pep talk.

Get up. Go to work. Keep trying. You will never have him back if you stop trying, so quit feeling bad for yourself and get the fuck up.

I guess I’m lucky in a way. He left me, but we spend every day together. And goddamn if it isn’t beautiful and bittersweet that we work so well together. Being near him for twelve hours a day allows me to put one foot in front of the other for the remaining twelve. It’s agonizing to hold conversations with him, staring into his eyes, our arms brushing, hands grazing—and yet, it's none of the contact I crave, none of the connection I so desperately seek.

But beggars can’t be choosers. And I am abso-fucking-lutely the beggar here. I know, and he knows.

I fucked up. And I will not let a single day pass without making sure he knows that I know I fucked up. And that I will do anything it takes to get him back.

My body creaks as I get out of bed, confused by the lazy state it lives in now. I’ve abandoned the gym and replaced my weight lifting with occasional running, and even sometimes swimming. The burn of a cardiovascular push is punishing and clears my mind, if only for an hour or two. He never leaves my mind, but some of the sting bleeds out of my veins, temporarily.

Dressing in running shorts and a tank, I slip my shoes on, grab my EarPods and head out. The morning is much like every San Francisco morning; hazy, gray, cold, and lifeless. Cities don’t sleep, but I live just far enough outside the city, in a sleepy suburb that often naps. Especially at six in the morning.

My feet pound the pavement, my knees ache with each quickened step, and my heart hammers beneath my ribs. His favorite songs carry me through seven miles of steep streets, and when I’ve finally circled back to my house, I’ve never felt more exhausted. And it’s perfect.

Heading into a long day next to him is beyond challenging, but when my body is exhausted, my anxiety wanes. Depression never does, but the truth is, I know it won’t. Not if I don’t get him back.

After standing beneath the scalding water in my shower for ten minutes, I lather up, fondly remembering the mornings wherewedid this together. My chest pressed to his back, bubbles and steam everywhere, his moans echoing in the stall as I reached around, giving him his first orgasm of the day.

I turn off the water, letting my forehead fall against the wall, the drain gurgling as my shower drains away. I close my eyes, heavy drops of water falling from my beard, plunking onto the tile below. I never had a beard when we were together, and I wonder what noises he’d make feeling it between his legs. But then again, I have the beard because I don’t have him.

Lifting weights wasn’t the only thing that felt too overwhelming after he left. Grooming, cooking—it all became too much. I get my haircut by Alexa, the makeup artist at the studio, and order all my food. I have a housecleaner. I have a laundry service. If there is a task to be done, outside of waking, breathing and working, I pay for it to be done. Because missing him takes every goddamn ounce of energy I can muster.

I stroke my hand down my beard endlessly on the drive to work, still playing his favorite music. If that makes me a masochist, so be it. Things that remind me of him give me temporary bursts of happiness, and even though those bursts are followed by long, overwhelming waves of self-loathing and pain, it’s worth it. It’s worth it to remember a few good moments. We had so much good.

Until I fucked it up.

The studio door slams shut behind me, and the best twelve hours of my day have officially begun. Trudging down the hall, my fingertips graze the wall as I recount all of the times I pinned him here, urgency and need fiery between us. The nights where we couldn’t quite make it to the door, and I’d hold him against this very wall, the quiet hallway, our own little sanctuary.

“You’re everything,” I’d whisper, my lips at his ear causing goosebumps to melt down his neck. Then our mouths would fuse, and the world would be perfect, beautiful and right.

“Morning,” I grumble, walking into our office as I drop my bag to the floor and sink into my chair.

“Morning,” Lance greets coolly, without looking up from his iPad as he sits at his desk, opposite the room to mine. Sharing an office with him before, we felt cozy in here, fortunately tucked away together in our own private space. And now those same twelve feet that span between our two desks feel like a goddamn continent. And instead of best friends, lovers, and creators that work so well together, we’re more like strangers now than ever before. Like students tossed together for a group project with nothing but a finish line in common.

Bile rises in my throat everytime I come into this office and inevitably contrast whatwaswith whatis, but like I do each day, I swallow it down. I sip the coffee that waits at my desk, courtesy of Cohen, the art & set designer, who doesn’t force me to verbalize my pain, but sees it nonetheless.

Lifting my laptop, I wait patiently as the screen comes to life, sipping my coffee, trying to keep my eyes straight ahead. But Vienna saunters in, all smiles and perfume, and slips into the chair next to Lance’s desk. Her voice is low as she asks to get their plans together. He taps on his iPad, sharing scheduling for the day as she scribbles away in her notebook. And I watch them. I stare. I hate that I do, because I feel like a fucking creepy voyeur, but just watching him interact with other people gives me a small lift. Hearing his voice, when it isn’t brimming with hurt and anger, it softens the painfully jagged edges inside me, just for a second, knowing I didn’t fully break him.

My computer awakens, and I turn my focus back to my day, clicking through the schedule ahead. There’s an orange rectangle around the hour of 9am to 10am, readingUCSF FILM SCHOOL CALL. I’d planned this call more than a year ago, as the university required film directors to opt in early, in order to obtain an accurate headcount for the program size.

---