failed attempts to fly

is this the real life?

My heart was already beating rapidly even before the blaring alarm. A little disoriented from my dream, half asleep trying to find that damn phone screaming before sunrise.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Rio's voice groans through the adjacent wall.

For a social night owl like him, Saturday "morning" doesn't start until the sun reaches its highest peak. Way past breakfast time. On the other hand, I'm up bright and early--against my will, kind of.

I forgot to turn off my alarm. And once my eyes open, I can't close them again. Which is not such a bad thing...

Who the hell was the man in my dream?

Seeing random people in dreams isn't all unusual. I sometimes even see familiar faces below as I look down at the city. But someone on the roof with me? A stranger who knew my name? That was a first.

On the bright side of waking up so early is most people my age are asleep, hungover, or still drunk. Running errands is ideal during this time with fewer crowds and less noise.

A busy mind is a good one.

Messy hair I can't be bothered combing gets stuffed into a hat I stole from Rio. He has plenty, won't notice.

Overachieving athletic students are the only people I run into this early morning. But most are too focused on trying to outrun each other.

"Wrong way, dumbass!"
"Shut up, Kageyama! You are not beating me!"

I'm exhausted just staring at them.

"Guys, pace yourself! - Oh, good morning, Rin-chan." The rest of the group turned the corner, jogging at a steady pace, while the man with the silver hair was the one who recognized me, not that it was a surprise. Suga and Rio were best friends. Are? I don't know. I don't really know much about Rio's life these days. All I know is the entire volleyball team was out for a morning jog, all except Rio.

*******************************

"Hey." A hungover Rio was slumped in the kitchen, drinking up all the orange juice I bought for myself.

"Hey."

I wanted to ask why he wasn't with the team or why I haven't seen Sugawara hanging out lately. But I didn't ask. Our conversations these days were minimal. And by days, I mean years.

And I was mainly shocked there was enough juice left for me to have a cup--half a cup.

"How was therapy?" He asks in his groggy voice.

"It was great." I lie

Since my teenage years, therapy was every other Saturday. Self-harming myself one too many times got me mandatory staring at the poop-colored walls.

Rio would take the bus with me as he went to volleyball practice. And when he got his license, he would drive me.

Things were different then.

I did go for a while after becoming an adult. But talking to a stranger who could give two shits about what I'm feeling isn't really my thing. I can't even speak to my womb mate about feelings. Why would I talk to a stranger?

And besides, no one accompanied me anymore, so no one would know if I went or not.

Therapy works. Yes. One hundred percent.

I just have a little thing called "self-destructive behavior." —amongst other things.

***************************

"There are always those stories. The ones about the pumpkin turning into a fairy tale. Thanks to a bit of luck—and a lot of makeup. The already beautiful girl is, oh? Surprising, beautiful.