The conceptof the future scared me more often than not. Whenever I thought too hard or too far into a phase of life I wasn’t in yet, I got anxious. Sometimes, the anxiety would be comforting. It felt like a call to younger me, the version of myself I spent years controlling. Other times—like now—it felt horrifying. Itchy.
For the last eight years, I had lived on a day-to-day or week-to-week schedule. I didn’t have a five-year plan like they begged us to create in high school. All I knew was that I lived, breathed, and cooked until I could fall asleep and do it again.
I didn’t know what exactly I wanted from Crew; however, I knew I wanted more.
Actually, I wanted it all. I wantedhim.
But Crew was… mysterious and flighty. He was unpredictable as hell, which sent me into an internal spiral. To understand my thoughts, I had to think about the future and whether I wanted him there with me.
If I thought about the future, I got itchy. When I got itchy, I wanted to scratch. Maim. Fucking rip my skin to shreds. Touching him made my skin stop crawling, but then I had to let go, and it came rushing back.
The broken part of my brain had decided I couldn’t have a break unless Crew were in my presence which was highly irrational and incredibly frustrating.
Especially since Willow, his best friend and roommate, had decided to hate me. The fury laced in her voice was too familiar. The pitch was just below my mother’s, sending chills down my spine immediately. I’d practically malfunctioned listening to her, transported back in time towhen I was a kid, cooking in the kitchen to avoid the screaming match Mom and Dad were having in their bedroom.
I understood where Willow was coming from. Truly, I did. I wouldn’t have expected anything less if she loved Crew the way I hoped she had.
It was comforting to know he had someone in his corner, yet terrifying to know my second impression of someone so important in his life went so terribly.
The rest of the day passed by slowly. I waited for a text or a call, giving up when six o’clock came and I’d heard nothing. The sun had set, leaving nothing but city lights to shine through the tiny slots in my window curtains.
My day could have been spent more productively, though I tried not to dwell on that. There were a million and one things to do, and I had yet to get my ass off the couch in my living room.
Just like the first night I met Crew, I was frozen in place and time. I felt mildly pathetic. A looming sense of doom permanently hovered over my head as I played this morning over and over.
Waking up with Crew in my arms was fucking inexplicable. Nothing would ever compare to the peace I felt or how rested my body was. I only hoped I could do it again. If not, I might lose my mind.
Not for the first time, I found myself missing someone I shouldn’t. I was musing through my phone, chuckling at old text messages or stupid photos from years ago.
Samantha’s contact remained intact in my phone. I hadn’t even blocked her, though I couldn’t say the same on her end. At some point, she stopped answering my calls. And then they started going straight to voicemail. Of course, the little green bubble that used to be blue followed suit.
That was when I knew I’d truly lost my only friend. My first constant in life that spoke back to me rather than sizzled in a pan. I hated thinking about the future because I had never envisioned one without Sam. Then, one day, I no longer had her, and I had no idea what to do about it.
Waking up with her in my arms after a full night of messing around, making fake love until our bones ached, had never felt like it did with Crew. I didn’t know what to do about that either.
After parting ways with Sam, the photos in my photo gallery took an abrupt turn. Not a single one of them included a picture of me. No selfies, no group pictures, not even an accidental reflection from the metal counters at work.
I pulled up my camera app and turned it towards myself. Looking into the lens, I realized two things: I looked nothing like I used to, and I looked like I reeked of loneliness.
I grimaced at myself, swiping away just in time for a text to appear.
Pretty Boy:
Dinner at ur place? We should talk.
Crew was unpredictable, and I thanked whatever watched over us lowly humans for it.
What about the Southern wrath?
Pretty Boy:
Our lives are spared
For now
Dinner?
When?
