olstark

[olstark]

The new, seventh chapter of “smells Like Love” will be released tomorrow at 5 in the afternoon. please wait for it :)

your olstark

[olstark]

"He didn’t say I wasn’t his. That was enough."

[olstark]

hello everyone, I know I haven’t been here for a few days — I’m really sorry about that. I made it up to you with a longer chapter.

I noticed that Chapter 5 of “Smell Like Love” didn’t get many views. And I get it — everyone has different tastes. But for me, this chapter is deeply important — both for the main character and for myself. It’s her story. It’s my story.

Chapters like this, in my opinion, reveal the soul of the characters more than anything else. Because life is like that too — not everyone will always be there for you.

Thank you so much for your reactions and follows. I love you the way Pluto loves the Sun. 🖤

-olstark

[olstark]

smell like love

chapter six

No one wakes me up in the morning. I open my eyes just a bit, feeling a ray of sunshine fall right onto them.I reach for my phone. One notification.

Daryl Your spot in the car — morning’s taken by the cat 07:25

I reread the message in surprise. I knew Daryl didn’t have any pets — his mom was allergic to fur.

Cat? 10:27

I wait a couple of minutes, hoping for a reply. Sigh, turning off the phone.

I sit on the mattress, scratching my cheeks with my palms. It hurts. My cheek is probably red from the “applause” last night. I push myself up from the mattress and stand on my feet, feeling pain in my knees from countless hits and falls.

I’m always bumping into something or knocking against furniture. I’m not even rushing anywhere. But every evening there are new bruises on my thighs and knees, proving the opposite.

I quietly leave my bedroom. From the kitchen, I hear dishes clinking and voices. Swallowing, I head there, not knowing what to expect. It could be anything — especially after last night’s celebration.

Mom is standing by the table, making breakfast, mixing eggs and milk in a bowl. Her phone lies on the windowsill, playing some cheesy pop song from the nineties.

I lean my shoulder against the kitchen door, voice hoarse from sleep. — Mom, I overslept for school. Sorry, I’ll get dressed quickly and — — You’re not going to school today. “Elizabeth says dryly, pouring the scrambled egg mixture into the hot pan. No emotions. No explanations.”

I swallow nervously, biting my lips. — W-why? — Rest. You have a day off today. Sleep as much as you want and take a walk.

A day off because of Dad’s “applause.” A day off so no one sees the bruise and swollen half of my face. A day off instead of “sorry.”

Breakfast passes in silence. Mom scrolls through social media on her phone. Dad puts a plate of breakfast and a cup of coffee on a tray and goes to the living room to watch TV.

As if nothing happened. No last night, no yelling, no fight. Only the contents of Dad’s tray changed.

I lower my eyes to my plate. A small portion of scrambled eggs — two or three bites — and a cup of cold water. I spear a piece of egg with my fork and start eating, feeling an unpleasant lump in my throat.

While drinking water after breakfast, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I open the message.

Daryl Come and see 11:05

I swallow. Put the phone away, taking the last sips of water. — Mom. “Looking up at her, biting my lips” There’s apparently a sale at the mall today — got a notification. Can I… can I go there for a walk?

A lie slips from my broken lips like a stream of air. — Go ahead. Need money? “Elizabeth asks, starting to clear the dishes in the sink.” — No. I still have my scholarship money.

Just a nod in response.

It’s chilly outside. I tie my sneakers and, after stroking the cat’s head, leave the yard. Headphones in my ears tell me short stories about space.

Usually, they’re either in my backpack — which I decided to leave at home today — or hanging around my neck. The cord, in case the battery dies, sadly nestles in my jeans pocket.

I walk along the sidewalk, not really looking around. My feet have learned the way by heart for a week. It seems my whole body already knows the path to the person... to... my person? I shake my head, biting my already beaten lips. Nonsense.

Clenching my palms, I speed up my pace.

The road flows into a small alley, hiding cozy houses like in Spanish films.Fenced yards with gazebos, swings, flowerbeds.

I take off my headphones and press the button to turn them off. I walk down the sidewalk, admiring the yards, marveling at the beauty.The beauty people created with their own hands, in search of beauty in the world.

— You’re in a hurry? “A hoarse voice sounds behind me.”

My chest cracks from sudden realization. A bruise on my cheek. Since Dad was in the bathroom this morning, I decided not to go there a second time.

I bite my lip and shyly turn to Daryl.

— I’m going to see the cat. “I lift my dull eyes to Daryl.”

Blue eyes like a living sea stop on my blue cheek and broken lips.

A soft sigh escapes. No words are needed to understand everything. Teenagers know other teenagers’ problems better than adults do.

— Come on. My parents went to the market.

I feel a warm hand on mine, cold as ice. I follow Daryl without looking up at his back.

Shame brings tears of anger to my eyes. For ruining the mood of someone who, in a week, became more than just... just... I bite my lip, squinting.

And with the slam of the door comes a quiet sob, tearing from my lips trembling like leaves in the wind. Frightened, I release Daryl’s hand and cover my mouth with my warm palm.

— Sorry! Really sorry. “I whisper hurriedly to Daryl in a hoarse voice, trying to stop.”

But pain isn’t water. You can’t dam it. Pain is shards. Of soul. Body. Mind.

Daryl stands aside, watching Olesya’s quiet breakdown. Quiet, because after many years of such life, you get used to it. Quiet, so no one notices and hears how you break.

Daryl presses his lips. Gently touches Olesya’s shoulder with his palm, removing her hand from her mouth.

— You might get a panic attack. Breathe calmly.

I nod, hearing Daryl’s words. His palm lies like a warm blanket on my shoulder. I wipe away tears, feeling their saltiness on my lips.

— Cat. “I whisper quietly.” — Mm? — Cat. You talked about the cat.

A soft laugh breaks out, turning into a chuckle. Genuine. Bright. Alive.

I lift my surprised eyes to Daryl, wiping tears of laughter from his cheeks.

— Wh-what’s so funny?

Instead of words, Daryl pulls me by the hand toward his room. My chest tightens with anticipation.

Closing the door behind me, Daryl smiles and goes to his desk. I stand there, lonely near the door. For the first time, I came to someone’s place and don’t know what to do. What to touch, how to sit, how to breathe.

— Here.

I look up at Daryl. Freeze.

He holds an open notebook in his hands, with a cat drawn on the spread in black pen.

— His name is Mischief.

My lips tremble. I squint and start to laugh quietly, swallowing tears.

— You’re... you’re joking?

— What do you think?

Wiping tears, I sit on the edge of the bed, clutching the notebook with Daryl’s drawing. A black cat looking at me with button-like eyes.

— I didn’t think you drew. “I look up at Daryl, clutching the pages.” Can I see the other drawings?

— It’s my diary.

I freeze. Apologize awkwardly and hand it back.

— Sorry, I didn’t mean to invade your life.

While Daryl tidies up the creative mess on the desk, I sit on the edge of the bed and look around his room. A big bed, with a blanket mixed with pillows, some toy shaped like an axe, and a couple of hoodies. As if he builds a nest like a black cat at night.

My gaze moves further. One wall looks like a kind of board where you can pin anything with thumbtacks. Because of poor eyesight, I can’t see clearly. I carefully get up and move closer to look.

Many magazine cutouts with pictures, drawings made from different materials, candy wrappers, even an aluminum energy drink can nailed there.

— You’re... you’re so alive. “I whisper quietly, turning to Daryl.”

Daryl throws a failed drawing in the trash and looks at me.

— And you?

Only silence and the soft footsteps of the wind visiting through the open balcony respond.

Daryl rubs his face with his palm and, taking Olesya’s hand, pulls her to a chair.

— Sit. You can look at whatever you want. I’ll be right back.

Tapping his finger on the tip of his nose, Daryl leaves the room.

I remain surprised, sitting and watching the closed door. The tip of my nose pleasantly burns. I snort and turn to the desk. Timidly, I touch with my fingertips the stack of books on the shelf. There’s everything — from classical Japanese literature by Ryunosuke Akutagawa to collections of some facts about sea creatures.

My gaze falls on the notebook at the edge of the desk. That very black notebook hiding a cat in its pages.

I sigh. Rub my cheek bruised by Dad, and turn away, studying Daryl’s desk and room — my friend’s.

Outside it’s cold. The sun that was there in the morning is gone somewhere. I walk behind Daryl, who is ahead, actively talking on the phone. Suddenly, a call comes through.

I see a cat sitting on the sidewalk. Black, but with white paws — as if it put on white boots before the walk. I smile gently with my broken lips. I squat down.

— Kitty, kitty, gentleman. Where did you come from, handsome? “I ask the cat, stroking its fur with my palm.” — How serious you are.

I see that the cat’s eyes are blue — like the sky mixed with the ocean. I turn to Daryl, who is chatting on the phone, waving his hand as if trying to explain something to his interlocutor.

Also blue eyes — a mixture of sky and ocean.

— Only cats walk the streets. “I whisper quietly, looking at the cat.”

I sit on the sidewalk while the cat-gentleman lies on my knees, softly purring into my chest, telling something in its language of love. It’s getting colder.

The sun occasionally peeks out from under the stormy cloud brothers, illuminating the collar on the cat’s neck with its ray.

Suddenly, I feel sharp warmth. I raise my head confused and see Daryl threw his hoodie on my shoulders, staying in a long-sleeve shirt.

— You’ll freeze! Take it back — — Shh, you have a baby there. Daryl says, nodding at the cat curled up on my knees.

A rustle. Daryl sits next to me on the sidewalk, not afraid to dirty his light jeans.

— Did your mom call? “I ask hesitantly, remembering how Daryl talked on the phone for a long time before.”

— Nah, buddy. Joel crashed his car into a tree again, and now he can’t do the repair himself. So I’m going to help him this weekend.

I look at Daryl in surprise, continuing to stroke one of the cats.

— You know about cars?

He nods in response.

— Yeah. I don’t have mine yet. My parents promised to give me one for my birthday. It’s awkward to accept such a gift, but “I catch Daryl’s glance” they offered themselves. After all, they’re parents, right? By the way, when’s your birthday? We’ve been talking for a week, and I still don’t know.

— Not soon. At the end of December — the 29th. And yours, Daryl?

The cat jumps off my knees and, licking my hand one last time, runs toward the house standing on the corner.

Only me and another cat remain.

— Ah, on International Cello Day? Mine’s August 29th.

— What? I look at Daryl confused. — Cello?

— Yeah. "Daryl nods, standing up from the sidewalk. Stretching, loosening his back."— You have cello day, I have roof walking day. We’ll cancel one of those someday.

I laugh hoarsely and carefully stand up. I brush dust and dirt off my thighs with my palms.

— How do you know that, Daryl?

— I was bored.

I see Daryl walking ahead. I follow him, trying not to fall behind. The hoodie on my shoulders warms me with a heat that seems to burn through my skin and insides like radiation.

— Wh-where are we going? "I ask quietly, starting to walk alongside Daryl"

Sometimes our fingers touch — the sidewalk is narrow.

A few minutes of silence. We cross the traffic light and enter another part of the street where there are even more people. I don’t like people and crowds.

Suddenly Daryl’s voice sounds, grabbing my hand and pulling me forward. Like a lighthouse drawing ships to safe hands in the ocean.

— To live. We’re going to teach you to be alive.

Day 0. My first and unrequited love — Daryl Dixon

[olstark]

smell like love

chapter fIve

Many adults think that teenagers don’t have real problems — just whims: a new phone, trendy clothes, parties, sex, smoking.

But most teenagers have three problems — an alcoholic father who loses his mind over a bottle of beer, a mother cheating on her husband, and a sister who hates her own flesh and blood out of jealousy.

As it turned out, at sixteen, I had a full bingo.

There’s a celebration at home. My sister came from the city to stay with us for a few days. The table is full of delicious food — from homemade pizza to a store-bought cake. The eldest, beloved daughter has come home. The pride of the family, with honors on her diploma.

I sit in the corner of the table, watching mom and sister talking and laughing about something. Mom’s ears glisten with golden earrings she only wears for special occasions. Right, it’s a celebration. I glance sideways and see my father pulling out a bottle of vodka.

I swallow hard.

— Dad, maybe you shouldn’t, "I whisper anxiously, looking up at him" — Shush, it’s a celebration, "he replies"

I nod nervously, clenching my hands on my knees. Yes. A celebration.

I see my sister leaning into mom, seeking affection. My chest tightens. — Um... how are you doing, Sof?

Without looking at me, my sister shrugs. — Fine.

I nod, pressing my lips together. That’s the whole conversation. Or can you even call it a conversation when only one word is said? Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not the one with the honors diploma.

I cut my slice of cake into small pieces to make it easier to eat with a fork. Quietly chewing, sipping water. I don’t like tea because it’s hot.

Just as I’m about to take another piece, mom pushes the plate away. I look up at her worriedly. — Enough. You’re like a cake yourself, "Elizabeth says, moving the plate closer to my sister." — But… I only had one piece, mom. — That’s enough. Look at your cheeks.

I sigh, feeling something ache inside me. I rub my itchy wrist, my fingers brushing over old burn scars.

— Okay, mom, "I whisper hoarsely" — And?

I swallow the lump in my throat. —Sorry, please.

Only a nod in reply.

Mom goes back to talking with Sofi. Father places a tray of salads and the bottle of vodka on the table and goes to the living room.

The celebration continues.

I look at the table. I want to eat but know I won’t be allowed. I swallow. My side of the table is empty — just a glass of water and a fork smeared with cake cream. Everything else is closer to my sister.

My phone vibrates. I pull it out from under the table and open a message.

Daryl: Want to walk around town tomorrow. 18:56

I bite my lip. It’s been a week since I met Daryl near the store. After exchanging numbers, I often get messages from him anytime.

Will you take me with you? 18:57

I put the phone away, glancing one last time at Daryl’s avatar.

— Who are you texting? "my sister asks"

I raise my head, clenching my fingers, whispering: — A classmate. Aurora asked if we have a physics test tomorrow.

— Watch out. Don’t you dare talk to boys! "Mom bangs her palm on the table playfully"

My chest freezes with animal fear.

Night approaches. The table has long been cleared; only a lonely kettle sits in the middle.

I lie on the floor of the old bedroom. My sister sleeps on my bed. Mom is on the couch, and dad is alone.

I close my tired eyes, resting my forehead on my elbow. It’s cold, even though I’m near the radiator.

From the other room, I hear only the TV voices and my sister’s quiet snoring. Nothing else. As if there are only two people in the house, not four.

The clock shows half past eleven. I breathe quietly into my pillow, having fallen asleep half an hour ago.

Sudden crash and a scream echo through the house.

I open my eyes, feeling my heart flutter like a butterfly trapped in a closed jar.

— Where the fuck is the vodka?! Where the fuck did you hide it again?!

I press my lips together, eyes blurry, staring at the door. The sister’s celebration slowly turns into father’s celebration.

I get up from the floor, tuck my phone into my pocket, and leave the bedroom. I walk down the hall and enter the kitchen, where the light is on. Mom sits at the table, while dad rummages through the shelves.

— What… what’s going on? "I whisper hoarsely, looking at my parents"

— Where the fuck is the vodka! That stupid bitch hid it and won’t give it back!

I look at mom, calmly drinking tea and scrolling on her phone as if nothing is happening, as if dad hasn’t lost it. Her fingers quietly type on the screen. I press my lips, understanding where that message is going.

— Dad, but you took the vodka with you to the living room during dinner. Maybe check there? "I say nervously, looking at dad’s bare back, covered with scars from his drunken nights".

— It’s not there! I’ve checked everything! "Andrew growls, looking at his daughter. He turns to his wife, seeing her calmly sitting with her phone" — Where is the vodka?! Or this phone’s going out the window, bitch!”

Silence.

I swallow hard, gripping the edge of the table with my fingers.

Please, mom, say something.

But only silence answers me.

Dad lunges forward, snatches the phone from mom’s hands, and throws it against the wall. It breaks loudly in half from the force of the impact. I see dad hobbling closer to mom.

A chill of horror freezes inside me.

— Dad, no! We don’t know where the vodka is! ”I run closer, standing between them, shielding her with my back from his blow" — I swear, we don’t know, dad! Please, stop!

Dad breathes heavily, turns away, and leaves the kitchen. I sigh, clutching my wrist with scars.

Mom gets up from the table, wipes it down, takes a sip of tea, and leaves the kitchen. I follow her. I hear footsteps behind me, then a loud smack.

I squeeze my eyes shut in pain, grit my teeth, and quietly sob. My cheek burns.

I open my teary eyes and see shocked mom and dad, who sobered instantly from the horror of what he did.

— I... I wanted to hit Elizabeth, "he whispers with a broken voice after his outburst"

I hear mom yelling at dad. The door slams, shaking the glass. I stand in the corner, clutching my cheek with a trembling hand.

Mom shouts something at sister, who left the room and went into the hallway. Mom takes my hand, trying to sit me down, but I can’t. That slap and the burning cheek keep replaying in my head.

A celebration that didn’t end with applause — but with a slap.

I get up from the chair, averting my gaze from mom and Sofi. I lick my cracked lip, aching not from pain but from disappointment in my own family.

— I... I’m going to bed. School tomorrow.

I pass by mom and sister and quickly disappear into my dark room, which welcomes me in its embrace. The door clicks shut softly.

A cold wind quietly taps the window, trying to mingle with the darkness of the room.

And a quiet sob escapes my lips unexpectedly. I cover my mouth with my hand, afraid to make noise. Swallowing shards of pain, trying not to cry, because I can’t. Not when someone’s home.

I sit on the edge of the mattress on the floor, pressing my lips into a trembling line. My legs shake from restrained tears. I close my eyes, unaware that my phone vibrates on the floor.

I feel terrible. For the first time, I feel so bad it seems I’ll die in this dark room, and the last witness will be the autumn wind.

A few minutes of silence.

Goodnight, Daryl. 01:24

Only hot tears and a sore throat remain my faithful company, guarding me till morning.

Day 0. My first and unrequited love — Daryl Dixon.

[olstark]

"And I begin to tell the story of little Pluto, spinning somewhere far away — around its Sun. Alone, in the darkness, in the boundless void" "My Sun is Daryl"

[olstark]

smell like love

chapter four

In the kitchen, silence.

Only the sound of water hitting the dishes shatters that silence into pieces.

I wash the plates, gently scrubbing them with a sponge. One plate. Another. The last one. I rinse it, dry it, and place it with the others.

A dead silence — strange, considering there are two of us in the kitchen.

I rinse the last plate, dry it with a cloth, and set it aside. I sigh, pushing strands of hair behind my ears.

— What are you going to do now, Daryl? "I rasp, turning to the boy. I see how you stare at the table surface, unblinking. Only your fingers tremble slightly"

A heavy sigh, as if the air is not enough, even though the windows are wide open.

— I don’t know.

I nod, rubbing my tired wrist. Lean against the edge of the table.

Silence.

Daryl had been with Anna for almost three years — since he was seventeen.

Now he’s twenty. I’m nineteen.

Three years of being in love with Daryl Dixon.

— What was the reason for your breakup? I mean... did something happen? — We had a huge fight. I don’t want to talk about it. "Then Daryl takes a sip of cold tea, as if hiding behind the motion" It all just snapped. Anna said some things, I said some things. And in the end... — And in the end, you’re here. "I finish almost in a whisper" — Yeah. Here again.

It had always been this way. From the very beginning, and maybe until the very end.

Whenever Daryl felt bad, he came to me, clutching his battered backpack he carried like a snail carries its shell. That backpack was his home.

And my home had always been Daryl Dixon.

I sniff, staring out the window. It’s cloudy. Large clouds drift across the sky, as if they know the Sun shouldn’t show itself today — it has to spare Daryl’s already dry, empty eyes.

— You... you love Anna, Daryl. You shouldn’t be apart. She’s your first love. "I say, sitting down beside you, my dull eyes locked on yours, feeling something ache inside my chest"

— What’s the point of that love if it’s already too late, Olesya? What the fuck is the point? "Daryl croaks, his eyes empty. Eyes that were once as bright as the blue ocean, today are murky and hollow like a swamp" — I can’t do anything! Nothing! I just... I just fucking screwed it all up—

Before he can finish, I quickly get up and wrap my arms around him, holding him tightly against me. My palms press into his shoulders, my face buried in his hair, eyes shut from the pain.

It hurts for you. It hurts for me. It feels like the pain of the whole universe is inside my heart.

I feel Daryl frown deeply, pressing his forehead into my stomach, searching for love and comfort.

My hands move over his shoulders, his neck, his hair. Touches speak louder than words. His hands remain on his knees, gripping the worn fabric of his jeans. Because this is Daryl. Daryl, who can’t touch other women like he touched her. Not in the arms of anyone but her.

I close my eyes and exhale softly. — Do you want me to try to help you with Anna?

Words that slowly dig the center of my grave.

We move to my room. I hold two cups of tea. The hallway leading to the stairs is swallowed by darkness.

Behind me, I hear a soft rustle and his voice: — Careful, the steps.

— Daryl, this is my house, I know where—"I start, but feel his hands gently take the cups from mine" — Go ahead.

It had always been like this. Since I was sixteen, Daryl had been behind me, helping, supporting. The first runaway from home, the first cheap beer under his watch, the first cigarette.

I sigh, pushing away the memories, or else I’ll drown in them.

And I’m tired of drowning.

We reach the bedroom. I hold the door for Daryl. We don’t turn on the light — we both love the dark.

Daryl because he loves deep colors and silence, and I, because I’ve lived in this darkness since childhood.

He carefully places the cups on the table, sits on the edge of the bed with a sigh. A moment later, he lies back, his hoodie riding up slightly at his stomach.

I avert my gaze, biting my lip.

— "Tired?" — "Always."

I laugh hoarsely, taking a sip of tea. — "Idiot."

Daryl yawns quietly, eyes closing for a moment. The dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep hurt my heart. He must not have slept all night because of the fight with Anna.

I nervously lick my lips. — "How bad is it with Anna?"

A few minutes of silence. Only the quiet clink of my cup against the table.

His hoarse voice, as he rubs his face with a tired hand: — "Really bad. I... I don’t know yet. I think I need a few days to pull myself together. You know how I react to this."

I nod. — "Of course. I’m here if you need me."

Always.

I take the last sip of my tea, sighing. I place my cup in the center of the table so it won’t fall. Yours I put on the windowsill, so it won’t accidentally crash to the floor at night. As it usually does.

I glance at Daryl.

He lies with his eyes closed, breathing quietly. His hair is a messy bird’s nest on the pillow, a few strands falling onto his forehead.

Something sharp scratches inside my chest.

— Do you want to change into something else? "I whisper, afraid to break the stillness"

Daryl wrinkles his nose. No.

— Okay. Rest then. "I whisper again, pulling from the closet the soft blanket my grandma gave me last year for my birthday. I cover Daryl with it"

As I turn to leave, I feel cold fingers wrap around my wrist.

— Have you... read anything new online? "His whisper hits harder than a sledgehammer"

— Yeah. Yeah, of course. "Swallowing the shards of my pain, I turn to him with a crooked smile" I read a couple of articles about Pluto. Want me to tell you?

Instead of words, only his entwined hands pulling me onto the bed.

I sit, leaning against the headboard. Daryl lies next to me, burying his face against my side.

And I begin to tell him about the small Pluto, spinning somewhere far away, near its Sun. Alone, in the dark, in the emptiness.

My sun is Daryl.

Time dissolves. Dawn slowly creeps in through the window. I breathe softly, feeling his head rise and fall with each breath I take.

Daryl.

Daryl.

Daryl.

I sigh.

Trying not to wake him, I gently move him onto the pillow. He clings to it like a snow leopard clings to its mother, pressing his nose into it.

I quietly close the door behind me and step out. The air feels heavy, suffocating.

I go out onto the porch. On the bench, two neighbor cats sleep, curled into a single ball — one completely brown, the other light gray.

I sit on the far edge, careful not to disturb them. Today, everyone’s sleep is fragile. And it’s still early, only four in the morning.

I rest my head against the wall of the house, exhale, and close my eyes.

Day 1123. My first and unrequited love — Daryl Dixon

[olstark]

"After all, every person needs to have at least one place where they can be truly pitied, where they can be shown compassion."

[olstark]

smell like love

chapter three

Our first meeting with Daryl Dixon happened in the summer. Well, to be precise, it was already September. But the day was so hot it felt like July. The streets were almost empty — thirty-five degrees even in the shade.

Clutching the strap of my backpack, I step into the grocery store. I sigh with relief as the cold air wraps around me like an embrace. After standing for a moment under the air conditioner hanging above the entrance, I grab a cart and walk down the aisles.

I pass the colorful alcohol labels, the aisle with household chemicals. From the pocket of my light trousers, I pull out a crumpled list. — “Milk, cheese, potatoes, and frozen mushrooms,” I read the list quietly. I’m about to put it away when I notice a note scribbled in pencil at the bottom: “Stewardess cigarettes.” Dad’s handwriting.

I sigh and start gathering the items. I place the bottle of milk carefully in the corner of the cart, the discounted cheese beside it. After weighing the potatoes, I drop the bag into the cart. Gripping the handle tightly, I head to the checkout, nervously pressing my lips together.

Only the cigarettes are left.

At the register, I greet the cashier. As soon as my items are scanned, I begin packing them into a small bag. I place the potatoes inside — the second to last item on my list. — “Can I also get cigarettes? Blue Stewardess?” I ask the cashier, looking up at her.

— “ID?”

I bite my lip. I don’t have my passport with me. And even if I did, it wouldn’t help — the legal age for buying alcohol and cigarettes is twenty. I’m only sixteen. I nod, grab the bag.

— “Sorry. Thank you, goodbye.”

After standing under the air conditioner for another second, I step outside. The scorching air slams into me like a wall. My breathing turns raspy, and sweat appears instantly. The bag’s weight cuts into my hand.

Suddenly, I hear a rustling from the bag. I stop, turn — and see a young man. — “Excuse me…?” I say uncertainly.

As if I’m not there, the guy, holding a bouquet in one hand, takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with the other and drops it into my bag. — “I heard they didn’t sell you cigarettes,” he says in a hoarse voice, looking down at me. He’s tall.

— “I… yeah,” I nod nervously, pulling some change from my pocket. “How much were they?”

— “Buy flowers.”

I lift my eyes at him, surprised. I meet piercing blue ones. The crumpled dollars sweat in my palm. — “What?” I breathe out quietly.

He nods at the bouquet in his hand — large flowers, resembling sunflowers. — “Buy flowers instead.”

The air is getting cooler. The sun has slipped to the other side of the sky. My bag rests on the curb while I clutch the bouquet in my hands.

— “I’m Daryl Dixon,” says the young man with messy russet hair, like a bird’s nest.

I squeeze the stems tighter. The bottom of the bouquet rustles with a plastic wrap, keeping the clothes safe from stains. — “Olesya Stark. Nice to meet you?”

A nod. A glint in his blue eyes. — “Nice.”

my first meeting with my first, unrequited love — Daryl Dixon.

[olstark]

the story of my page

"even though I only have one work, I decided to create a table of contents for my page." smell like love chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven (11/08)

playlist "smell like love"

[olstark]

smell like love

chapter two

The kettle hisses softly on the stove, releasing a thin stream of steam that mingles with the lingering scent of yesterday’s dinner. Rubbing my shoulder, I open the fridge and take out a container with leftover potatoes and meat. The cold air brushes against my skin, making me shiver slightly.

“Do you want sauce with that?” I ask hoarsely, without turning to Daryl, who is sitting at the table behind me.

I already know the answer — you always eat with sauce. Yet the oppressive silence in the kitchen presses down on me.

“Yes. Please.”

I nod to myself and place the plate with dinner into the microwave. The click of the door, the low hum of the machine — all these sounds fill the emptiness but fail to ease the tension. The kettle has already boiled.

I hear the chair scrape against the floor, soft footsteps approaching the cabinet. Daryl reaches up to take down the tea packages from the top shelf.

“I could’ve done it myself,” I whisper quietly, lifting my eyes to you.

“You’re small,” he replies calmly.

I nod. True. Neither my height nor my figure reaches anything close to “perfect.” A small girl with endless problems — with sleep, with people.

While Daryl prepares the tea, I take the warmed plate out of the microwave and place it on the table. I grab a fork. I’m about to turn when I feel a light, almost ghostly touch of his fingers on my back and hear a barely audible whisper:

“Careful… I’ve got the cups.”

I nod. Daryl carefully sets two cups of tea on the table. As he walks to his seat, he habitually pulls out my chair for me — reflexively, sometimes without even noticing.

I sit across from him, wrapping my hands around the cup as if searching for something solid to hold on to. The first sip — and the taste of lilac spreads across my tongue, spicy, slightly bitter.

“Enjoy your meal, Daryl,” I murmur softly.

He only nods.

Silence settles in the kitchen again, broken only by the occasional scrape of a fork against the plate and the quiet sips of tea.

Usually, people sitting at the same table talk: they share news, show videos, discuss plans. Our communication is made up of touches, glances, gestures. We rarely say “please” or “thank you.” We just touch.

As he takes a sip from his cup, Daryl brushes his fingertips lightly against my hand. I sit on the other side of the table, yet the distance feels almost nonexistent. He intertwines his fingers with mine, squeezing them, as if making sure I’m still here.

He drinks his tea, hissing softly from the heat, but doesn’t let go. I know: his nightmares are like shadows he escapes only through pain. He bites his lips, scratches his skin — anything not to drown in it.

“Why… are you here?” I ask timidly, lifting my gaze. My brown eyes meet his tired blue ones.

Daryl stays silent. He takes another sip, scratches the rim of his cup with his nail. A small chip breaks off and falls onto the table. He exhales, as if each word costs him an effort.

“Anna and I… broke up,” he finally breathes out.

And at that moment, the kitchen stops being just a kitchen. It becomes a place where silence speaks louder than words.

my first and unrequited love is daryl dixon.

[olstark]

smell like love

first love smelled of warmth, care, warm tea in the evenings. goosebumps from soft squeezes of thighs and quiet sobs of pleasure.

for me, love smelled like strong cigarettes, cheap shampoo and black coffee. my love smelled like Daryl Dixon.

-. .- ---. .- .-.. --- .. … - --- .-. .. .---

I'm standing on the porch, clutching the doorknob. the cold wind rustles the leaves all over the house. it's cold. it's fall. my toes are freezing, because I haven't even had a chance to get dressed since the short message.

daryl "can i come?" 19:26

I look at my favorite blond hair that was always like an owl's nest. dull blue eyes and a slanted smile with weathered corners of my lips.

—  Daryl? I say boldly, looking at the guy. I swallow excitedly, gripping the doorknob tighter —  why are you here?

daryl squeezes the almost dead cigarette between his fingers. he exhales the smoke out to the side, swallowing hard. the backpack behind his back pulls unpleasantly with its weight.

—  аnna, I've been kicked out. сan you take me in?

her name has always been between us, like a wall I couldn't overcome. she's his first love, his cigarettes, his love. and me? I'm just a girl, a veranda girl, with sleep problems, waiting for him to pay even the slightest bit of attention to her.

the veranda creaked under his heavy boots, and the wind, like an annoying voice of conscience, whispered to me: don't let him in, don't let him in. but how could I refuse? his voice, like the wind, hoarse from cigarettes and fatigue, penetrated under my skin like a needle, piercing my heart. what month has it been, eh, wind?

he looks at me, his eyes are two shards of ice melting under my gaze. his hand trembles as he throws the cigarette butt on the ground, crushing it with the toe of his boot. the backpack behind his back, tattered like himself, seems to have absorbed his whole world.

is the beginning. or the end. i don't know.

I'm tugging at my insides with resentment and pain.

my first love smells like cigarettes, late night "can i come over?" messages. my love smells like daryl dixon.

daryl's first love smells like sweet perfume, short mid-thigh dresses and tiger lily colored hair. daryl's first love smells like anna smitt.

— сan I? daryl asks me with his ocean-colored eyes

my first and unrequited love is daryl dixon.

[olstark]

Hi. I'm stark. 20 years old, december girl .