The Greatest Showman#1175 - taboo
Hailing a taxi, I watched the wet city blur past, headlights reflecting in puddles, the streets alive with hurried footsteps. When the cab pulled up outside my apartment building, I glanced upward. From the third floor, a warm, creamy-yellow light glowed through the window, its soft halo cutting through the evening's gloom.
Climbing the stairs, I bypassed my own floor and headed directly to the third. Retrieving the spare key hidden above the lintel, I let myself in, moving toward the kitchen as if I belonged. Without thinking, I reached for a kettle, intent on brewing tea to chase away the cold. But as I stood in the unfamiliar kitchen, my hands hesitated. The cabinets, the drawers—none of it made sense. The simple task felt suddenly foreign, my mind blank.
From the living room, Matthew Dunlop watched. He had been reviewing legal documents, his eyes scanning the laptop screen with practiced efficiency, but my fumbling caught his attention. He leaned back slightly, removing his gold-rimmed glasses, and observed me with quiet amusement.
It wasn't surprising.
In truth, even in my own apartment, I probably wouldn't know where to find a kettle. The kitchen had always been a foreign land to me—an expanse of tools and appliances that never quite fit into my world. And it wasn't just the kitchen. All household chores seemed to exist beyond my grasp.
Matthew sighed, closing his laptop. He stood, walked over, and clapped a hand on my shoulder.
"Don't stay here and make a mess," he said dryly. "You're only making things worse."
"Hey! At least I'm trying," I protested.
Matthew remained unimpressed. "Sometimes, with certain things, not trying is the wiser choice."
I raised my hands in surrender. "And that's why I'll never learn. You never give me a chance!"
Matthew shot me a look—a single, unamused glance that shut down my argument before I could continue. I grinned, relenting. "Fine. The wisest move is to leave things as they are."
Abandoning the kitchen, I retreated to the living room, throwing myself onto the navy-blue linen sofa.
The third-floor apartment was a reflection of Matthew's mind—structured, efficient, meticulously arranged. Unlike my own spacious and sparsely furnished unit downstairs, his home made full use of its space. A massive bookshelf divided the hall into two sections. The front served as a formal living area, complete with a dark brown coffee table and additional bookshelves lining the walls, overflowing with legal tomes. The back half functioned as a study, centered around a large desk stacked neatly with case files. A smaller shelf nearby housed a meticulously organized collection of vinyl records. The space was dense, full, but undeniably warm—a stark contrast to the carefully curated emptiness of my own home.
I shifted on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position. It was too rigid, too structured—nothing about it invited relaxation. I kept adjusting, fidgeting like a restless child. Hardly the composed and refined "Master Renly" I was supposed to be.
Matthew, predictably, ignored my antics. He disappeared briefly, returning with two pillows and a blanket, dropping them unceremoniously beside me before heading back to the kitchen. A few moments later, he emerged with a tray—freshly brewed black tea and a selection of simple snacks. He placed it on the table before disappearing once more into his study, seamlessly resuming his work.
The apartment settled into silence, the brief stir of activity fading. Only the rhythmic ticking of a clock and the faint hum of Matthew's laptop filled the space. Outside, the snow continued to fall, its whispering descent barely audible against the hush of the winter afternoon.
Then, without warning, I spoke.
"If you knew someone was destined to leave… or to die… would it change how you approached your friendship? Would you hold back?"
My voice was quiet, yet it carried, filling the room with the weight of the question.
Matthew hesitated. He did not answer immediately.
Everyone knows the logical answer. Life is short, connections are precious—we should embrace them fully, without hesitation. But reality isn't so simple. Fear, loss, and grief are powerful forces. Even when we know better, even when we understand the inevitability of goodbyes, we still hesitate. We protect ourselves. We retreat.
Isn't that the nature of every friendship? Every life? Isn't every connection destined to end? Isn't every person fated to disappear, to become a memory? And yet, knowing this, can we still choose to love without reservation?
I had been grappling with these thoughts since Heather Cross's death.
Not just her. The children at Mount Sinai. Paul Walker.
I knew what was coming. I knew what fate had planned. And I had tried—so desperately—to change it. If I could, I would rewrite history itself. I would bend the universe to spare Paul. To alter the course of time. To save those who were meant to be lost.
But could I?
Could I really be their savior? Could I fight against the forces of time, against the certainty of life's end? Could I change what was meant to be? Could I truly create a ripple large enough to defy fate itself?
A storm of thoughts battled in my mind—angels and demons, each arguing their case, neither willing to yield.
Matthew's voice finally cut through the quiet. Calm. Measured. Honest.
"I would."
A simple truth. No sugarcoating, no grand speeches. Just honesty.
In an ideal world, we wouldn't hesitate. We wouldn't be afraid. But this wasn't an ideal world.
Knowing the outcome doesn't erase fear. Logic doesn't override emotion.
Matthew turned his gaze toward me, his expression unreadable. Through the narrow gap in the bookshelf, his eyes locked onto mine.
"But," he added, after a pause, "you are not me."
And that made all the difference.
Renly had always been different.
If he had followed the logical path, if he had adhered to the rules of his upbringing, he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be an actor. He wouldn't have created the life he had. He wouldn't have shattered expectations and embraced the impossible.
Renly had never been one to accept fate.
A slow smile formed on my lips. A breath. A sigh.
"Maybe."
The word lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.
Matthew watched me for a long moment. He waited, as if expecting more. But the conversation had run its course. The silence stretched, and eventually, my breathing slowed, deepened. Sleep overtook me.
Matthew exhaled, glancing back at his laptop. The glow of the screen reflected in his eyes as he returned to his work, his thoughts lingering somewhere between the words on the page and the friend sleeping soundly on his couch.
Outside, the snowfall thickened, blanketing the city in stillness. Nightfall arrived with a quiet hush, the world settling into the embrace of winter's touch.