So, fellow Seddie Warriors, what's the prescribed treatment for prolonged droughts of new iCarly episodes and a bittersweet breakup? Why, Seddie drabbles, of course! I'm planning to do fifty or so. I'll play it by ear.
Awake
It was already tomorrow.
Briinngg went his Pear Phone, signifying an incoming message. Sending texts at midnight are ordinarily ill advised, but this particular night found him wide awake in his room and he welcomed the diversion to staring at his ceiling. Her name read across the screen, and immediately something as random and inconsiderate as texting someone in the middle of the night made sense, unearthing a seldom smile.
You awake?
I am now, was his reply back, and in hindsight, wondered if his tone tilted more sarcastically or annoyed. And as soon as his mind settled on an answer, another incoming alert broke the concentration.
I can't sleep.
He held up his phone with both hands and angled it to his face, thumbs already tapping away in response.
Why can't you sleep, Sam?
Almost instantly—like she already knew his response, or didn't care what it was—her reply came, brought forth by the Briinngg of his text alert, and made he it a point to turn down the volume.
Why couldn't Jason and Amber make it work? It makes no freakin sense!
He sighed, a soft one, for he could almost hear the irritation in her voice, like it was somehow attached to her message, rounding out her anger.
Seriously?—he scoffed as he wrote—That's what's keeping you up? Our book report for English Class? What's really bothering you?
Unlike the others, her reply didn't come right away, like his words had pierced her deeply inside and she wanted to end the conversation right then and there. As unintentional as it was though, he still was warranted a reply, after all, she started it.
Finally, like it was pried out, her message made its way to his phone.
What, I can't be concerned with a school project?
He thought for a quick second before replying with: would be the first time.
Well I am—she wrote back, seconds later—It's obvious they like each other, but they let everything else get in the way, and they didn't end up together!
"What?" he said aloud. How do you know that? We're only on chapter 3.
I read the whole thing already, was the obvious plot back, and was followed immediately by, You know I'm right.
I know, he texted back, hoping she caught his candor. Just leave it alone.
How can I? It's the worst ending ever! It's total chizz!
And before he could text back, a second scathing response bombarded his inbox accompanied by another irritating Briinngg, just in case the message wasn't interrupting enough.
This book sucks! You suck for choosing it!
He sighed, rubbing his blood shot eyes. How was this possible? How was it—at 12:30 in the morning—he was having an argument with Sam Puckett? This was one for the record books. Cross this scenario off the Puckett/Benson record keeper list.
It wasn't just the argument though. It had to be tonight—this night—just a day after a bittersweet moment in the Shay's elevator, where submissions, explanations and realizations all melded into one truth, one answer, and one begrudging yet mutual choice. And even though the memory of them rushing back into that elevator—with two and a half more hours borrowed on their side—was still fresh in his mind, replacing it so quickly with a meaningless clash like this didn't sit well with him. In fact, it made him sick.
There's another book.
What?
The author. He made a sequel.
What happens next?
I don't know! I haven't read it yet!
He surrendered. He was done. He had already placed his phone face down on his night stand and turned the opposite way. For the first time that night he shut his eyes and they stayed closed. In just a few more hours the day would start, and he would go back to his boring monotonous life—full of midterms and server redundancy backups—and maybe those few weeks of love and reciprocation would soon be swept under that giant rug in the sky. Out of sight. Out of mind.
But the resounding end to their conversation was suffixed by another Briinngg. He twitched and cursed himself for paying $1.99 for such a commonplace tone.
He picked up his phone. He was glad he did.
I'm sorry. So this isn't the end?
Her words were surprisingly sincere, and they made him regret his earlier outburst. Calmly, he tapped the appropriate keys and pressed send, this time with no anger or bereavement to go with it.
No, Sam. It's not.
Good... thanks.
No problem.
He was tired now, and only after sending those last few words did he realize the cause of his insomnia. He wasn't quite sure how to handle the last twenty four hours. Their time together had been like a lone encrypted file on his hard drive, and after its deletion, no trace of it was left to be found. Perhaps their relationship was like a book—one still being discovered. This wasn't the end. There was more to be written. There was still more to the story.
Then he fell asleep. So did her. They had school in just a few hours. After all, it was already tomorrow.