A few weeks into summer he realized the girl was dead air. The phone never
rang from her. Envelopes never had her return address in the top left
corner.
He wasn't going to hear from her.
He can hold his breath for 58 seconds, and when it's been so long it hurts it comes out sounding like sex. The fuck. What the fuck. He really shouldn't care. He hadn't come back for her. He swore up and down on the bus back to town that he wasn't coming back for her.
The few weeks in the city were plenty of evidence to back him up.
Maybe if he'd written, his friends wouldn't look at him like he forced them to acknowledge adults had authority and they weren't as scott-free sexy as they wanted to be. He got caught. He got put in his place. The cool of NYC youth is untranscendent, and he was any longer a part of what they faked. He sank into a beat-up couch at a house party and watched his friends in glitter and in love and barely knew them from the wallpaper.
Yeah, maybe if he'd written everything would have been different.
His mother didn't say a word when he came in late. Eye contact might have been confused for approval. Stars Hollow was a joke but the town defined failure more quaintly than his mother ever did.
To be a fuck-up here in Stars Hollow -- it was kind of cute, kind of like the girls.
So he had to get the fuck out of the city, but he hadn't known she was going to jump him when he came back. He hadn't known she was going to ignore him when she left.
He couldn't walk away from the distinct feeling that he fucking deserved it. He'd ride that feeling until he got bucked off, bruised to the ground. When he finally had it in him to uncrumple and roll over, he'd stare up at the sky and the stars would remind him of her and the clouds would remind him of her and the air would remind him of her.
To think he'd believe her when she looked at him like he might be good enough for her. Maybe everything would make sense with her. Maybe he was out of his mind. She was smarter than everyone else, she was sharper than everyone else, she was a lot like him, but her fumbling silences spoke fumbling volumes. When things got real, she was just like everyone else.
It was time to plant his feet on the ground and razor out the part of the story where he gave a fuck or took off his headphones or ever really kissed back.
.theend.
Author's note: real life has kept me away. I want to give thanks for reviews for my other stories and for The Grynne's insightful, essential beta reading. Her Night's Contemplation has been pure inspiration from the start.
He wasn't going to hear from her.
He can hold his breath for 58 seconds, and when it's been so long it hurts it comes out sounding like sex. The fuck. What the fuck. He really shouldn't care. He hadn't come back for her. He swore up and down on the bus back to town that he wasn't coming back for her.
The few weeks in the city were plenty of evidence to back him up.
Maybe if he'd written, his friends wouldn't look at him like he forced them to acknowledge adults had authority and they weren't as scott-free sexy as they wanted to be. He got caught. He got put in his place. The cool of NYC youth is untranscendent, and he was any longer a part of what they faked. He sank into a beat-up couch at a house party and watched his friends in glitter and in love and barely knew them from the wallpaper.
Yeah, maybe if he'd written everything would have been different.
His mother didn't say a word when he came in late. Eye contact might have been confused for approval. Stars Hollow was a joke but the town defined failure more quaintly than his mother ever did.
To be a fuck-up here in Stars Hollow -- it was kind of cute, kind of like the girls.
So he had to get the fuck out of the city, but he hadn't known she was going to jump him when he came back. He hadn't known she was going to ignore him when she left.
He couldn't walk away from the distinct feeling that he fucking deserved it. He'd ride that feeling until he got bucked off, bruised to the ground. When he finally had it in him to uncrumple and roll over, he'd stare up at the sky and the stars would remind him of her and the clouds would remind him of her and the air would remind him of her.
To think he'd believe her when she looked at him like he might be good enough for her. Maybe everything would make sense with her. Maybe he was out of his mind. She was smarter than everyone else, she was sharper than everyone else, she was a lot like him, but her fumbling silences spoke fumbling volumes. When things got real, she was just like everyone else.
It was time to plant his feet on the ground and razor out the part of the story where he gave a fuck or took off his headphones or ever really kissed back.
.theend.
Author's note: real life has kept me away. I want to give thanks for reviews for my other stories and for The Grynne's insightful, essential beta reading. Her Night's Contemplation has been pure inspiration from the start.