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isabela's lips, soft and unreachable, remind mirabel of distant clouds. after all, she can only admire them from the ground passionately and, out of naivety, dream of someday being able to touch them. to build a stairway to heaven and timidly press her lips against her sister's, inhale the floral scent that follows isabela everywhere, allow herself to melt like wax and freeze in the moment, and kiss, kiss, kiss those lips until the universe itself is torn at the seams.
until the whole world is turned upside down.
until the wrong becomes right.
until the curse of mirabel's love turns into a blessing.
a pair of dark brown eyes, of a deeper, more saturated color than mirabel’s, looks up and down at her a little condescendingly. these eyes do not have that inexorable magnetism that could lock her up to them with invisible, yet quite tangible chains-vines, just as they do not have that depth in which mirabel wanted to drown and never come to the surface again.
the only thing they have is a playful gleam inviting her to the game without a word.
and although the copy is absolutely identical, the falseness lies on the very surface: the way she rolls her eyes is somehow different, the tone she uses is false and her sighs are way too theatrical, loud, artificial.
mirabel is too deep in love not to notice.
mirabel is too deep in love not to take advantage of at least a fake.
with just her fingertips, she touches the soft cheek right in the place where the hot blush is visible most clearly. for some reason, mirabel believes isabela to be colder, like a colombian winter night, she believes her to even feel differently to the touch. her fingers inevitably slide to a tiny mole near the cheekbones, circling it with a subtle movement, enclosing it in her imaginary captivity.
mirabel has always dreamed of kissing this very spot, this scarcely noticeable imperfection on isabela's perfect face.
a moment - and she touches it with her lips trembling in tension, hides it from view for a couple of long seconds. another moment - and she plants gentle kisses on the cheekbones, temples, cheeks, the tip of the nose, the corners of the lips. mirabel freezes in millimeters from this insanely beautiful face and these lips that she so dreams of touching. somewhat confused, she just tickles them with her warm breath and fumbles the edges of her turquoise skirt – an anchor that does not allow her to get too carried away with this fantasy and forget reality.
is it so bad to escape from unwanted reality for a couple of minutes and allow yourself an illusion of happiness? even if afterwards her heart will be crushed, and tears will come, and she will become overwhelmed with self-pity, shame and disgust.
isn't a couple of minutes of happiness worth it?
mirabel closes her eyes and leans forward impatiently. she meets those cursed lips, merges with them in a desperate, inexperienced kiss, while her hands greedily fall to the waist, pulling her sister closer, closer, as much as possible. isabela's soft breasts pressing against her almost flat, not yet fully formed chest, her gentle fingers stroking the curly nape, sending lots and lots of goosebumps all over sensitive skin, making her shudder under the touch, slightly bite her sister's lip and immediately run it over with her tongue as an apology.
mirabel truly is sorry.
she is wondering if isabela knows how beautiful she is. looking in the mirror, does she see herself in the same way as mirabel sees her?
her surprisingly straight obsidian hair scattered over the pillow, her face full of somewhat embarrassment and a dark blush. her pupils suddenly oppress brown irises, looking at mirabel with their sparks, ready to flare up into a full-fledged fire.
she is wondering what isabela would say if her so hated little sister loomed over her like that. and if she greedily and not at all modestly ran her tongue from the collarbone to the earlobe just like this? would she have moaned as softly and constrainedly as right now?
this isabela does not smell like flowers and does not taste sweet at all. her skin is saltish, with the well-known smell of their mother's pastries and fresh fruit.
this isabela does not look at her with coldness and undeserved judgement. her gaze is summery warm, playful, lively, impetuous.
mirabel wants to be a little dense, wants not to notice, wants to blow out that spark that is responsible for critical thinking - and if she puts some effort, she can push these differences to the background of her mind.
she can stay in this beautiful illusion longer.
she can kiss her sister almost everywhere.
she can dull the pain in the heart for a while and, as it were, fill this demanding emptiness in the soul.
and then what?
then she will feel bitter and ashamed. mirabel will hide her face in the folds of the sunny yellow ruana and, most likely, wet it with salty tears, while rough boyish hands will squeeze her in captivity of a tight hug, and the freckled cheek will carefully rest against the curly top of her head.
“estoy contigo”, camilo will whisper, and mirabel will only sob softly and tighten her fingers on his sharp shoulders, quite unlike those soft ones that were in their place a moment ago.