17 Last Times

⤹2❁ Stay

𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘. 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞?
𝙸 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗, 𝚜𝚘 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚜.
𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎, 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎.
𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞!

__________

𝓝𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓷

An awaited knock on the door hauls me up from the sofa. I scoot towards the entrance and welcome Davina into our home. She steps inside, making a few casual but complimentary comments on the prevalent aroma of my mother's baking, which permeated the house and stagnated in the air, even though she left the kitchen an hour ago.

The door closes with a moderate slam as I give it a push. My eyes immediately shift to Davina. She's wearing light cotton sweatpants and a cerulean pullover sweater. I wait patiently as she takes off her sneakers.

"Want me to make you a hot drink?" I ask, analysing the greyish sky outside the windows.

She straightens her back, running her fingers through her hair, frizzed by the cool breeze. "No, I'm alright, but thanks." She sighs, staring at me. "I just need to talk to you."

My eyes scrutinize her distressed expression. She seems deeply perturbed about something, but when was the last time she didn't look this way?

Lately, since the accident, Davina has developed into a brand new version of herself. The change wasn't fully conscious, in my opinion. The death of her parents affected her profoundly, which was entirely understandable, considering the amount of love she had for them and the fact that she was now an orphan.

It pushed a sword through my heart, too. Being the one who found himself the closest to the crash site, I felt bound to tell her everything I witnessed that day, especially when her curiosity peaked and she started asking questions. It was beyond afflictive, sitting in front of the girl I love, apprising her of the nauseating memory that carved itself in my mind. I thanked the heavens for not having seen their bodies, but mostly, that Davina didn't get to either. The car was totalled. There wasn't much to see anyway . . .

Oh, how greatly she cried that day. When I locked her in my embrace, it felt like she was slipping through my fingers — a broken human, melting down to the floor, turning into a puddle of woeful, endless tears. I've never felt this helpless in my entire life like I did that unforgettable evening.

"I think I've said something I shouldn't have," she discloses, taking a cross-legged position on the sofa.

I glance at her bear-print socks. The tiny, furry faces haven't got the right to be this cute. I smother the smile and look up at her. "What did you say? And to whom?"

She scrubs her face with her hands, clearly frustrated. "To Will." Her fingers clamp the bridge of her nose. "I literally called him weak-minded."

My eyebrows pull together like two magnets attracting each other. I hoist one of my legs off the floor and cross it over the other leg, ankle atop the knee. I can't come up with anything, not even a single conjecture, that would explain what she's just told me. She couldn't have called him weak-minded for no reason. Not after all the times she rang me herself, late at night, crying into the mouthpiece of her cell, begging me to force her into having a shower, otherwise, she wouldn't have found the strength to do it. She bawled like a baby, thrown off a bike, bruised and scratched all over. It was breaking my heart, each time I couldn't be there for her, and each time I actually could.