We're Not Really Strangers | Mark Lee

we're not really strangers | mark lee

genre: mark lee x reader, drabble (700 words), meditative prose, angst (?) inspired by the movie "all of us strangers" and mark's 'dirty smoothie' trailer for their upcoming album "dreamscape"

warnings: none!

summary: the love of your life, mark, appears out of thin air.

The edges of your vision are blurred with tears. You attempt to blink them back- to keep them at bay-  but they fall hastily as your pace quickens amidst the concrete jungle. You’re experiencing the type of vulnerability that can only exist before nine in the morning- when people ravage the polluted city, weaving in and out of the crowd as they hustle to work. You’ve missed your train, and now, in order to make it to the office on time, you’ll have to walk six blocks. The sky is abysmally gray, but it’s apt, you suppose. Your mind and body feels gray as well-  mushy, drab and bland in its quiet suffering. You curse your faulty alarm clock and rue the feeling of watching the train zip past right as you reach its closed doors. It’s enough to ruin your entire day. Probably your entire week. But nevertheless, the world moves onward. 

You jump into the mix, warm bodies making the sidewalk blush as they cross its mind. As a law-abiding citizen, you mind the traffic lights. When it says walk, you walk. When it says stop, you stop. There’s something comforting about being told what to do. Muscle memory pilots your pliant form. You come to a stop again, because the light tells you so. On the opposite side of the street, in the middle of about twenty or so people waiting to cross as well, you see a man with wired headphones nodding along to his music. In his hand is an iPod Touch. The light turns and suddenly, you’re passing one another. The man skips joyfully, taking big strides with his elegantly long legs. You make contact briefly, his shoulder brushing yours, before he disappears into the morning mist. 

When you return your attention ahead of you, there he is again, leaning against the crosswalk light. You look around in confusion. Had he not just crossed the street? Didn’t he just vanish into the chaos of his morning commute?

“What?” the man asks as you come to stand in front of him. “You’re staring.”

“I thought I just saw you-” your head whips around with such force, you’re afraid you’ve injured your neck. When you look behind you, the entire street is empty- everyone having evaporated without a single trace. 

The man is  wearing a corporate lanyard. His badge says Mark Lee. You’ve known him for a lifetime, suddenly.

“Hey. I said you’re staring.”

“What are you doing here, Mark?”

“Playing hooky with you, of course.” Mark grasps your freezing hand, encasing it in two of his own, and warms it with his breath. “Let’s get out of here. You’ll catch a cold.”

He walks you back to your apartment. You’re not sure how he knows how to get there. Or where he got a key from. He moves around your home with tenured expertise, blending into the domesticity as if he’d been a permanent fixture in it for many years. Years that have escaped you. Years, that when you look up one day, you realize have flown past you in a flash. He takes your favorite mug out of the cupboard, the one with glazed ladybugs painted on it.

“Mark,” you start.

“Shh. Don’t ruin it,” he says. 

“Ruin what?”

He makes you a cup of tea. Chamomile. Also your favorite. He places it wordlessly on your tiny dining room table, sitting across from you.

“This is the best idea I’ve had in a while,” Mark says. “I should skip work more often.” He leans over to kiss you, chastely, on the lips. He misses slightly, only capturing the corner of your mouth. He chuckles. 

“You’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost,” whispers Mark, still only inches away from your face. You kiss his nose, and the feeling is so familiar that it almost calms you completely. Then you remember: there’s a stranger in your house.

“Do I know you?” you inquire, scared of ‘ruining it’. All you do is ruin things. For once, you’d like to get out of your own way. 

Mark simply nods. “Of course you do.”

He kisses you once more, then stands to retrieve his iPod. When he returns, he sits next to you this time, placing an earbud into your left ear and the other in his right. Mark presses play, and a song you don’t recognize fills your ears like water. Mark rests his head on your shoulder, draping you in his sodden affection. Your heart feels impossibly heavy. You hope he’s real. 

“I love you,” Mark says.

“I love you too.” 

a/n: thanks for reading! feedback is always appreciated!

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