Perhaps this what it would feel like to be idle. Like you are floating between two spaces — not quite like the place between sleep and awake where Peter Pan lives. It is much heavier, as if you are just a body and your soul is Somewhere Else. It is that place between past and present where the sun still shine and the rain still fall, but you are not whole. As if life decides to carry on without your consent and it won't slow down but yet everything still linger invisibly on your skin. You can still feel the way his hand fills the spaces of your fingers. The way his oversized jumper hang loose on your body but warms you in between the cold breeze of English summer. You can still feel your cheek sore from smiling over his bad sense of humour. This makes you hate yourself for loving it too much, because now is not enough, because you demand forever. It feels so fresh as if it just happened a moment ago although hours had turned into days and soon it will turn into weeks. And you are scared it is bound to turn into a story. And it's not enough. Although you used to settle with story, but this time, you selfishly want it to come back to the past and stay there and stop the time.
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