seven minutes || a. griezmann

quatre minutes

quatre minutes

Then the fourth minute rushes into my brain. I can't be older than 14 and I can already feel the stress of being a teenager fill my entire body. I'm irritated but I'm more sad, my whole being filled with this unfamiliar craving feeling mixed with the yearning for things to simply be better. So, I reach for the telephone next to my bed.

I dial his number easily; I'd memorized it some years before. It rings only three times before his gentle voice comes from the phone.

"Bonjour, Lilou." He says and I can tell he's smiling on the other end.

"Antoine." I breath his nam and I'm on the verge of tears.

"Lilou? Est-ce que tu vas bien?" Are you alright? A sense of nervousness and concern is laced in his words.

"Antoine, merde. Je t'aime." Antoine, fuck. I love you. I confess. When his voice doesn't come from the other end I continue. "Je t'ai aimé depuis le premier moment où je suis tombé sur toi dans ce couloir quand j'avais neuf ans." I've loved you since the moment I first bumped into you in that hallway when I was nine and I love you. I love you. I'm sorry. I can feel the relief of finally telling him fall off my shoulders but is instantly replaced on his reaction. I can barely breathe I'm so nervous. I have to force myself to suck in a gulp of air and let it out.

There's a moment of silence between us, filled only with rushing blood and pounding heartbeats.

"Pourquoi es-tu désolée? Je t'aime aussi Lilou. Je t'ai aimé depuis le moment où mes yeux se sont posés sur toi." Why are you sorry? I love you too, Lilou. I've loved you since the moment I set my eyes on you. He admits and relief and joy spreads through all my nerves.

I love this boy. I always will.

The fourth minute grows black around the edges and fades away until it's totally disappeared.