Shift ☆ Louis Partridge

4 | Line 276

☆

[y/n]

_

AHHHHHH, THIS IS WEIRD.

Everything's a bit foggy, but I can't tell if I've shifted or not. I'm still laying in my bed, in my bedroom, and in my house. I just feel like I've been hit with a 4 stone weight. Maybe even 5.

Letting out a painful groan, I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, slowly pulling myself onto my feet. The lack of covers made my bare legs shiver with the cold air of my room, and I had to resist the urge of falling back asleep. Stumbling over to my desk, I placed my hand on the white surface to groggily investigate my surroundings.

Everything was exactly where I left it; a half-finished tea mug on the right, an untouched bouquet of flowers from yesterday, and scattered papers of homework. The only thing missing was my notebook—which carried the details of my minimalist script.

"So, I'm currently in my Desired Reality," I muttered to myself, yawning between words, "or I have a notebook thief."

Cool.

Or, not cool. As I willed myself to get dressed, a thought occurred to me that I was too depressed to think of earlier. A really important thought. One that made this whole thing a complete waste if it turned out to bust.

If I went in without a script, how the hell am I going to find Louis Partridge?

I'm in my normal world, living my normal life, which unfortunately has a serious lack of the boy being a personal friend. I'm an idiot. A seriously, bloody, idiot.

At least it's Saturday and I don't have school. I can stick around in this world for a little longer. It will give me a chance to do whatever I want to do, without having my parents on my back, Monica and Heather forcing me to tell them my secrets, and the overall tragedy of school weighing me down.

I need therapy.

But I'm too broke for that, so I'll just visit the flower shop instead.

"So here's the plan," I said to my reflection, staring into my bathroom mirror with a mix of exhaustion and disappointment, "take a day off from life, do whatever you want to do in this reality, and then go back home and write a different script."

I was talking to myself, which was a sign of insanity. Or it was a sign of a sane person who didn't have anyone to talk to. The point is—mind your own business. I don't know how Monica could shift so many times, and still feel like nothing was missing or out of place. I felt like a two-timer in my own skin. Living a double life.

Grabbing my house keys from the kitchen table, I slipped on my shoes, heading out of my house and towards the bus stop a few blocks away.

It was empty.

Cool.

Plopping onto the bench, I stared out into the barren street, trying to find a sense of calm. I messed this whole thing up. I wasted my time and energy to shift into a replica of my current reality, and now I was going to my flower shop because I didn't have anywhere else to go.

Anyone else to talk to.

Who would understand, that is.

"Hello, terribly sorry," someone said, their voice panicked, "can I sit here?"

Not even a second after I turned my head towards the noise, a blurry figure of someone ducking under the bus stop whipped into my gaze, and I was perpetually knocked over by them forcefully sliding next to me onto the bench. The bike they were carrying was tossed quickly off to the side.