My teeth are chattering so much that it jolts me out of my thoughts.
The cold is all-consuming.
It’s as if it’s seeping deeper into me, making my limbs heavy and numb. Every breath is like inhaling shards of ice.
Will I ever feel warmth again?
Or will the cold be the last thing I ever feel?
My body is tremblingfrom the chill that has seeped into every corner of my old van when I wake with a start. I can see my breath in the dimly lit interior, and my heart sinks as I realize the heater has gone silent. The only sound is the radio playing a soft tune.
Pushing aside the blanket, I sit up and rub my arms vigorously, trying to generate some warmth. The van’s windowsare frosted over, and the fairy lights flicker weakly as if mocking my predicament.
With a heavy sigh, I reach over and try to adjust the heater’s controls, but there’s no response, just the eerie silence of mechanical failure. Panic starts to creep in as I realize that it’s not just a sputter or a hiccup this time. The old heater has given up on me completely.
Pulling on a hoodie to shield myself from the biting temperature, I grab the flashlight I use for nightly bathroom breaks off the floor and open the van’s side door. Even colder air greets me outside, so I step out and quickly close the door again to keep the fraction of warmth inside.
It’s still dark, with only the streetlamps illuminated around me. None of the houses lining the street have a light on.
I open the back of the van, my fingers numb as I fumble around for the tools I keep stashed beneath the bed. Then, I hurry to get back inside and close the door behind me, not quite sure if the temperature outside or the creepy stillness gave me goose bumps all over.
Gritting my teeth, I unplug the heater and remove the cover to peer inside. I wish I had more light, but the weak glow of the fairy lights and the old flashlight is all I have to work with. I examine the wires and connections, my breath coming out in white puffs.
A sinking feeling grows in the pit of my stomach. It’s not just a minor issue. The cables are burned and scorched beyond repair. Tears well up in my eyes, and I feel completely defeated.
That’s it.
I’m stranded without a heater or a way to move the van for a longer distance. Nearly as bad as living on the street. The closest thing I have to a home is falling apart, piece by piece, making it more impossible to live inside day by day.
I collapse back against the side of the bed, my tools clattering to the floor. Tears stream down my face as despair takes hold. I scream into the empty space, not caring if anyone outside hears me.
“Why?” I cry out, my voice cracking with anguish. “What have I done to deserve this? I just wanted to keep my promise to bring her here and finally be able to move on. Why is the universe out to get me? Why does everything I touch turn to dust?”
Mom was right.I ambad luck.
The echoes of my desperate words bounce off the van’s walls, a haunting reminder of my loneliness. I bury my face in my hands, the weight of my situation crushing me as I sob uncontrollably in the bitter cold of the van.
“Nan,” I whisper, but just like the last hundred times I have whispered her name, the only thing that answers me is the deafening silence.
I’m a fucking creep.
A pervert.
I’m leaning against the van in the parking lot, watching Sloan stretch after her morning run. I just popped in. No idea how much time went by since I felt the pull while chilling with Nash on the couch, watching a poetry slam video. Boring as fuck, but better than just not being. I would have rather been with her.
Choosing where I am is not always an option. It’s not like I would spend my time with any of the dickheads if it was. I would be right where I am now. Watching those long legs stretch, those toned arms reach up to the sky, pushing out her chest, her nipples hard and visible through her tight jacket, probably from the cold, which is something I can’t feel anymore. It’s still early, the morning frost covering everything, and the fact I can see her breath coming out of those perfect pouty lips I would die again for just one kiss, tells me it is fucking cold.
“You’re doing it again,” she states, not even looking my way.
I scramble to stand straight. “I’m not doing anything,” I mutter.
If I were alive, my face would be as red as a tomato.
Caught red-handed.
“You were staring, Casper,” she accuses as she stops stretching, looking over at me with an amused look, the corner of her lip slightly turning upward.
“I was. Because if you were a fruit, you’d be a fineapple.” I wiggle my brows, trying to cover my awkwardness with humor.
