This is quite different from what I usually write. But I've decided to give it a shot.
All in a life's work
You're fifteen and you think the world is your stage.
There's nothing that can bring you down, and you think love is the purest thing there is and when someone says they love someone, they mean it. You use it as an anchor when you talk to him, smile when he gushes about his girlfriend.
But that's just in the beginning. And because you're fifteen and in love with the concept of forever, you allow yourself to be fooled.
.
The first request comes off as a surprise. You turn your head and look around, your tongue dabbing your lower lip because you don't understand. He waits for your answer a little less patiently than you expect him to.
But you already know your answer.
"No, I can't."
You see how it throws him off for a second there, where his pupils draw sharp and everything is enveloped in a shadowy sleet. You see and you smile and he plays it off.
"Oh, it's cool. Some other time then."
It's not a question, but a statement.
You don't make the effort to correct him.
.
You're half way through summer, where he talks to you all night and you're left wondering why he doesn't spend it speaking to the girlfriend he claims to love. You smell the smoke, see the flash, but you ignore it. Because you're still fifteen, and a little desperate to cling on to the false hope that love makes everything right.
.
"He's playing you."
You frown.
"No, he's not." So quick to come to his rescue, you won't let anyone tarnish his name. Even if it's your best friend.
She shrugs, nonchalant, maybe a little angry. "He is. He really is."
It annoys you, how she thinks you're still a naive child.
"You're crazy."
"No," she picks up a fry and twirls it in her hand, eyes hooded and sharp as crystals, "you're blind."
You want to scream at her, to yell and throw flames that'll burn you both down. Because you're so tired of being treated like a fool.
But you don't. Because you might be a fool who believes in happily ever afters but that doesn't mean you're careless.
So you turn your head straight and say, "Fine, explain."
You ignore the smile she throws you.
.
As much as you hate to admit it, her words make sense. So you tell her just that.
"Sometimes I really hate you."
She nods like she understands.
"Sometimes I hate myself too."
.
You try to distance yourself from him, starting with the little excuses, like you have places to be with your friends and people to meet with your family. You smile and bare your teeth and pray to God he won't bare his.
But he doesn't. Because he's almost 21 and a lot mature than he seems and you're just a fifteen year old girl trying to make it through her days with a smile. So when you pull your curtains close, you ignore the little light that gleams down the street where a predator lays awake at night and haunts you. You turn a blind eye and turn away and never look back.
You probably can't afford to.
.
He gets a little desperate, you think. A little too forward.
You don't like how he's always asking you to come play mouse in a maze or deer in the headlights. You turn down every invite to coffee and ice cream and midnight strolls with a small smile and tell him 'hey, maybe some other time,' or 'you know my parents won't let me,' and everytime you feel like as if he's tightening the noose around your neck a little tighter. You don't forget that he has a girlfriend he loves. You don't forget that once upon a time, you looked up to him with stars in your eyes and little love in your heart- you don't let yourself lose sight what matters most.
Because like a fifteen year old hopelessly drunk on the idea of love, you won't let yourself come in between someone else's story.
.
There's a community fair that proves to be a stepping stone in the foundation of your resolution. You're wearing your best shirt and favourite jeans and you think the sun and the stars are your witness in this. You don't see him, but he sees you, and that's the first thing he mentions when you talk to him later that night.
"You wanna' know what makes you shine brighter than everyone else?"
You look to your window and play along.
"My charming sense of humor?"
He chuckles, and the sound sends butterflies in your stomach. You realizes you dont want this to end and feel a little guilty all the same.
"That too. But that's not it. What makes you so different is the way you look. Like today, for example."
You think you're so desperate for the happy endings that you almost sound flirtatious. You think of the girlfriend he loves that you've never met and question his motives.
"Yea?" Your voice sounds a little suspicios even to your ears, a little wary, "what did I look like today?"
His voice gleams from the other side, and you're left clutching your frenzied heart in the aftermath.
"You looked like love."
.
You're in a particularly good mood, you remember. The weather has been generous to you and poured down and turned the ground a wet shade of brown. You relinquish in the smell of moss and muddy trenches and wet tree - bark and think that it can't get better than this. So you slip. You slip and he catches you off guard.
"You wanna know something funny," he chuckles during one of your million phone calls, a sound that originates from his belly and vibrates in his chest. You think if there's something you will remember about all this when it's over and wrapped under the darkness, it would be his laugh- deep, carefree and happy.
"Yea, what?" You finger the curtains and pull back.
"I once heard your friend screaming that you have a crush on me."
It's a car crash inside your chest where everything halts to a stop, fighting inertia in the process, your heart screeching to a silence that echoes on your ears. Your lungs collapse, and for the first time you peek through the slit and see a figure standing under the street light, dark hair gleaming in devious glee. And you finally hear the malicious intent in the laughter that had held you intrigued for so long, see the anger in the forced chuckles and feel the sneer resonating on his upper lip as he looks up and smirks in your direction.
You're fifteen and for the first time in your life, you're scared because the love you believed in so long has failed you.
.
"You - you were right. He - he's right out there andan-"
"Wow, hey calm down."
"I can't. You don't- you don't know him. He's everywhere!"
"Hey, it's okay. He can't hur-"
"That's the thing! He can! He can and I'm going out of my freaking mind and I don't know what to do and you- please, you have to help me. I don't - I can't do this anymo-"
.
You stop moving after that. Your life slows to a standstill where you keep yourself hidden inside your blanket and refuse to come out. Your phone vibrates beside you all day long but you ignore it and pull your knees close and try to breathe again.
.
"Hey, it's me. I, uh- I don't know what it is that I did to make you run away but I want to let you know that I'm sorry. I really am. So, um, just take care of yourself and maybe if you feel like it, just call me so I can know you're alright."
.
"It's me again. You're worrying me, I swear that you are. I'm so sorry okay, for everything. I promise I won't ever try to pull you into something you don't want- I would never do that, believe me- but just-
Shit. Just please, just call me. I- I need to hear your voice again."
.
Your best friend takes it upon herself to pull you out of your self induced misery. You sit in your room while your mother brings you tea and you ignore the itch in your fingertips.
On the nightstand, the phone vibrates again.
She looks at it before turning to you.
"Why haven't you blocked him yet?"
You don't answer and instead walk to the curtains and slide an eye to the corner where the street light burns under a clear summer night sky. A remnant of a shadow lingers there.
"I don't know," You hear yourself mumble and glance at the phone. You can swear you can see his face forming there in moth smoke. It makes you grimace.
Your best friend rolls her eyes. "Don't let him control you like this. Change your number if you can't block him. Dye your hair. Hell, get a lip piercing. Just do something!"
Your lips waver and you look back to out the window again. Your reflection stares back at you, a dark image of brown eyes and thin lashes and alabaster skin. You look at yourself and think you've had enough.
Because fifteen is a long enough age to believe in love.
.
"This is the last one, I promise. I, um, I don't know if you're using this number anymore or whatever, but I just wanted to let you know that I'm leaving. New semester starts in two days. So, uh yea. Take care of yourself. Bye."
.
Flipping your phone shut, you stare at your reflection in the mirror and think three months is too long to live under a shadow. You push all thoughts of that summer to the darkest corner of your mind and wait for time to rot the blood to sinew.
You're sixteen now. You don't belive in love anymore.
.
The thing about time is that it never waits for you to catch up.
If you could, you think you would take back everything from that summer and start again, where the dampness in your eyes and the caution in your stride doesn't cripple you. But sometimes, sometimes you wonder if you would do it differently if you had the chance.
You're sixteen and the hopeless romantic in you has died. You look at your reflection with hooded eyes and you like what you've become.
.
There's a collision, one you can't outrun. It leaves you a little winded, but the anxiousness that once thrummed in your marrow has cooled off to dust and you're not afraid of looking back anymore. So you pick yourself up and offer an apology and gather your things.
"It's you," that whisper makes you freeze. Your lungs wheeze in your chest like a pair of dying eagles.
"It's really you," your silence seems to give him confidence, and you panic and decide you don't want another go at the past. So you look up, pushing your glasses higher on the ridge of your nose, and smile like any confused person would.
"Excuse me?"
He stares at you with the precision of a microscope, but you keep your face crafted, never wavering under the strain of his eyes. He looks at you for a moment longer but pulls back, running a hand through his hair.
"I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else."
You grin, exposing your sharp canines. He blinks at them.
"No, it's okay. Just one of those faces, I guess."
His nod comes a second late, a mechanical jerk of his chin. You almost want to smile for no absolute reason. So you do just that and this time you don't miss the part where his eyes glint at the motion.
You walk out of there with your head held high and your spine diamond hard. You're 21 and strong enough to not be stringed into making the same mistake twice.
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