Whatever, the damage is already done. She doesn’t want to see me again, anyway.
And now she has another reason not to believe me.
I finally get to my Jeep and pull my phone out of my back pocket. I stare at the screen for a long time. I know what I’m about to do is a huge fucking mistake, but desperation does something to people.
And right now? Yeah, I'm fucking desperate.
Me: Hey. Can you get me some of that stuff you wanted me to try at that party?
Chase: You know it brother. Swing by my place and I’ll hook you up.
It’s beena month since I’ve seen her. Thirty-one fucking days. I’ve counted every single one of them. I’m losing my mind and these pills only numb so much before the ache comes crawling back in. Every week, I tell myself I’m only buying enough to get through a few more days. And every week, I end up right back at Chase’s place with another wad of cash in my pocket and another excuse on my tongue.
Between the new security cameras I installed around my place, the pills I’ve been buying off Chase, and the ridiculous amount of beer I’ve gone through this month, I’m honestly surprised I have any money left.
The cameras haven't caught shit, the pills haven't made me forget, and the beer really only helps me finally fall asleep. None of it fixes the only thing that’s actually wrong.
I didn’t do what she asked. I never deleted her number. Hell, I couldn't even bring myself to delete our messages. I’ve texted her every fucking day for the past month. Some days it’s a simple “Good morning,” other days it's paragraphs—apologies, explanations, promises that I know she’ll never read because she still hasn’t answered a single one.
If someone looked through my phone, they’d think I was fucking insane. A month’s worth of one sided conversations. A lot of blue bubbles with no replies. I’ve never felt more pathetic, but I can’t stop. What if tomorrow is the day she finally answers? What if she’s just waiting for me to prove I’m not giving up?
The thought is probably bullshit, but it’s enough to keep my thumbs pressing against the keyboard every morning.
God, I fucking miss her.
No, that doesn't even come close to describing it. She’s everywhere. She’s all I ever think about. She’s the first thing I think about when I wake up, reaching across the bed before I remember she was only ever beside me once. The mattress is cold every morning, but my body still searches for her.
She's with me in the shower, when I close my eyes and remember the way she tasted, the way she trembled beneath my hands, the soft sounds she’d make just for me. Sometimes I jerk myself off to the memory, chasing something I can never quite recreate.
She’s there when I'm driving, when I’m in class, when I’m lying awake at three in the morning staring at the damn ceiling.
Even when the pills finally hit and the edges of the world start to blur into something soft and distant, she never fades with them.
If anything, she becomes clearer. It’s her. It will always be her. I knew it the first time I kissed her, and I refuse to believe that one mistake erased everything between us. I don't care how long it takes. She can’t ignore me forever. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
My phone buzzes in my hands as I send Chase a quick text letting him know I’m on my way. I know I should probably stop taking this shit, and I will. I’ll stop when I get her back.
Every morning I wake up with a pounding headache and tell myself today’s the day. Then I remember it all—the silence, the empty apartment, the insane amount of unanswered texts, and suddenly one more week doesn't seem so bad.
I’ll quit, just not today.
I grab my keys from the bowl beside the front door, lock up, and head for my jeep.
“Damn brother.” Chase lets out a low whistle as he climbs into the passenger seat. “You look like shit”
“Fuck you, dude. Do you have the shit or not?” He gives me an ugly look, so I give him one back. “What?”
“What's your problem, man?”
I let out a short laugh that holds absolutely no humor. He crosses his arms and keeps his stare on me when I don’t answer him, and I scoff. He needs to mind his fucking business and just give me what I came here for.
“Right now? My problem is that you’re all up in my business and won’t give me my shit. Do you want more money or something?” I reach for my wallet and he grabs my arm, stopping me.
“I’m worried about you, brother. This isn’t like you. A few pills every once in a while is one thing, but this? You’ve even bought coke a few times. You’re here every week for more and I don’t know, man. I’m just concerned.”
I rake both hands through my hair, pushing it back off my forehead. It’s gotten too long, hanging in my eyes because I haven’t bothered getting it cut in almost two months.
I don’t need this shit right now and I really want to break and yell at him for not minding his fucking business, but I just want what I came here for and I’ll say whatever I need to get out of here.
