The Mute Reporter

1- Present Day

Garrett 'Jensen' Blackwell

I fucked up.

Not like a simple "oops, I broke this vase" sort of fuck up. Nope. It was more like a "I definitely hurt everyone around me when I thought I was protecting them" kind of fuck up.

Except it wasn't everyone I hurt. It was just Sam. But Sam might as well be everyone to me, because he has been the only person to truly give a shit about me for the six years I have known him. Sam is my everyone.

I'm just not everyone to Sam.

I feel like I'm making zero sense. But I'm used to making zero sense. I didn't get a full ride scholarship based on education related purposes. It was baseball. I'm a good player.

Or at least, was a good player.

I subconsciously rub my knee, the skin itching for a brake from the brace I wore underneath my jeans. I'm still careful enough to hide my discomfort underneath the booth table, because I never know who has an eye on me in situations like this.

"You're chai tea latte, sir." The waitress comes over and places the cup in front of me with a casual customer service smile.

I look up and give her a nod of thanks. As she walks away, I don't put my head down like I expected myself to do.

My eyes are stuck on the person behind her, in the background. He stands at the counter, talking to another worker focused on taking his order. And by talking, I mean pointing at things at the menu, the worker taking food guesses at what he pointed at.

Sam.

I could recognize him anywhere. He is quite literally as quiet as a mouse to the world around him, but to me he's been more of a bird singing loudly.

Not the bad loud though. More like when you wake up for the first time on a summers day, and you hear the birds singing outside your window.

He didn't look like summer though. More like winter. Can someone even look like a season? I guess not, I'm just being dramatic.

But seriously though, if a person could look like a season, Sam would be winter. I'm not just saying that because Sam's last name is literally Winters, but because he was albino.

He had platinum blond hair, practically white. Youthful, not an old greying type. His skin was very pale, which I do remember him always applying crazy amounts of sunscreen when we were together. His skin got burned pretty easily. His eyes were the prettiest blue. It was always hidden underneath his glasses though, because the lenses turned into tinted ones when he stepped outside.

"Fuck light sensitivity." He always used to say.

His slight irritation about that always made me laugh silently to myself.

But those memories were six years old, and I'd doubt I'd ever get to make those with him again.

Because like I said earlier- I. Fucked. Up.

I look away from him finally, before his blue eyes can find my brown ones. I do a horrible job of hiding my face behind my hand, angling my head away from the counter and towards my laptop in front of me.

I reach for my drink, ready to take a sip to only realize I don't have a straw. I'd have to go to the counter and get one.