now the thing that inspired this  one-shot book in the first place is this magnificent song by jon cozart, who is easily one of my most adored youtubers at the moment. this is based upon the song, "Tourist: A Love Song from Paris" if you didn't already know. hope you enjoy!

My smile would widen everytime he'd intertwine his fingers with mine as I sped through the crowded streets of my hometown, and I'd pray my hair was long enough to cover the cherry red of my face as he'd laugh and grip tighter as I weaved through the crowd. I knew it wasn't long enough to cover it, of course, due to my thin hair and my bob that stopped right at my chin. I could pretend he couldn't notice, at least, he pretended to not notice as well.

As we would come to a halt in front of a destionation which I would introduce with an exhausted pant and an excited motion, his white teeth would reveal themselves to me, his thumb would run over my knuckles and I'd suddenly feel dizzy.

"So," he'd begin, rocking on his heels and looking at his surroundings for the first time, as he would never take his eyes off of me on our journey, "Where are we?"

I would giggle, of course. His voice sounded silly, and he'd grin at me like he was waiting for my laughter after he said anything. Maybe he'd come to accept that I thought he sounded funny to me when he spoke, or, as he would tell me in the dark, no one around but us, that he adored the way a laugh sounded as it escaped my lips. I was fine with either one, I suppose.

The places I'd show him weren't grand or spectacular. I'd take him to the restaurant my mother would take me to after my school hours, or to an art museum that I'd come to when I needed a good cheering up rather than that of the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe. Those have no value to me, yet I value him. So I show him the places I do value instead. He doesn't seem to complain, for he nods along as I will reminisce on several lasting occasions of the places I'd show him.

He'd stare at me with light in his eyes as I recounted the times of a younger, rebellious me tripping a waitress just for the kick of it, and then laugh as I cringed at the memory of my mothers lecture afterwards. He'd reach for my hand beside the table we would sit at, and I would grab it and swing  our arms as I continued, as if it wasn't anything to mention. 

I recall on several occasions him strumming his ukelele in the wee hours of the morning, harmonizing to himself and writing something down as he thought I was asleep, then throwing his things back into his suitcase and coming back to lie with me.  I would pretend to be asleep, then, as if I hadn't heard a thing. Though, I wished I had known what he was writing. I don't like mysteries.

He wouldn't completely abandon his musical abilities around me, however. When we'd act like we were something straight out a cliché, ballroom dancing around my kitchen as he'd sing soft melodies into my ear. We weren't saying that we were playing out the life that could have been if it weren't for - everything that was keeping us apart. 

It was heavily implied. 

I can remember clearly how his voice made me want to cry and fall asleep both at the same time, hiding my face in his shoulder as I preteneded not to be tired, hoping to stay up and listen to him just a bit longer. I could feel his smile as his nose ghosted my cheek and his lips brushed my lips. I'd shudder, and I'd crave to stay awake a bit longer. I wanted there to be more there. I needed there to be something more than just this. 

He would stop it before I said a thing, though, tapping me twice on the shoulder before carrying me to bed and leaving me to put on my pyjamas. I'd be dozing off by the time he returned, but still awake enough to feel his lips press on my cheek before he dozed off with me. I never brought it up. He never did either.

One night, I can recall him coming back into 'our' room as I had just finished buttoning a satin sleep shirt. I remember looking up at him with a soft smile, and I also recall him smiling back with unease, or uncertainty. I don't really know which it was. 

"Goodnight, sunshine," he told me, reaching over me and turning off the lamp at my bedside table. 

He leaned back away from the lamp then, but not from me. I could feel him looming over me, his arm falling limp at the other side of me.

His uneasy smile had returned, or perhaps maybe it had never left in the first place. I instantly reddened and looked down at his hands, subconciously placing one of my own over it and running my fingers over his knuckles as he usually did to me. I felt him shudder, and I simply rested my hands upon his.

I will never forget his soft, shaky whisper as he asked, "Would you let me?"

I did not pretend to not know what he was referring to as I leaned closer to him and brushed my lips on the corner of his own. He finished what I started by capturing my lips in his, running his soft lips over them softly before pressing forward. I remember watching his eyes close and head tilt, and recalling that I should do the same. I moved my hand from his shoulder to the base of his neck, and one of his hands lightly gripped my waist.

He let go of me first. I felt colder without him. In just a few minutes, I had felt at home with his lips on mine and his hands on my waist and now I was lost.

"Goodnight," he repeated. He moved away from me and collapsed back on the bed, turning away and pulling the duvet over himself.

I recall nodding myself and doing the same.

I also recall this happening again almost every night. Him being the  one to initiate it and also being the one to end it.

The night that it marked a week until his departure, I can remember him staying in the room as I changed out of my day clothes into pyjamas, though I can't recall if he stared or not.  I remember that as soon as he noticed I'd finished, instead of waiting until we were on the bed he walked over to me and gripped one of my hands in his. With his other hand, he pushed the hair out of my face with another uncertain smile and stared at me.

I stared back, and began to memorize every inch of his face, so I could never forget it when he left. Perhaps he was doing the same.

I was the first one to lean and press my lips to his.

It escelated from a simple kiss to his hands gripping my shoulders and his tongue lapping into my mouth like he was thirsty. 

There were purple marks over my body the next morning.

The day before he left me, I tried to cram every Paris cliché into one day, adjusting the beret on my head constantly as I took his pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower in the early bits of morning, sat outside a café with velvet table cloth. We rode a gondola with a violins accompaniment and had ourselves painted by a man with a striped shirt and a mustache. We laughed through it all.

I was still hurting though, that last night when he didn't bother to look at me when he came into the bedroom and laid down next to me, mumbling for me to turn off the light.

I recall trying to not make it seem as if I was crying as I tried to sleep next to him.

On the day of his departure, I remember waking up red-eyed and puffy nosed and having him instantly questioning it. I passed it off as me coming down with a cold rather than not getting any sleep because of him distancing himself from me.

My brain seemed to feel empty as we arrived to the airport, and it was him who needed to pull me along as I felt lightheaded and dizzy at the thought of him leaving. 

We reached the outside of his terminal quicker than I thought we would. I remember hearing the final call for his flight. 

I remember the same uneasy smile as he told me to contact him even though he was going to be gone. I remember the final kiss to my lips as he walked away from me.

I remember standing there in agony as I waited for him to turn around and tell me he would stay, shaking my head whenever anyone asked if I needed help with anything.

My hands shook when I got back to 'our' house and began writing my first letter to him. I gave it a week before I sent it so he didn't think I was hurting too bad.

He wrote back quickly.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, the replies started to take longer to recieve. I read of him telling me his dreams had come true, I read of him wishing I would text rather than write.

And then the letters stopped.

For we were never in love, and I deseprately needed to stop acting like we were.

it's 1 am :))) i still have english homework why did i decide to write this this song is so pretty fuck jon is so good @life