𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

☾ 𝕺𝖓𝖊 ☽

𝙁𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙭

I woke up to my parents packing their suitcases in their bedroom this morning. Their door was wide open.

I speculate they are stuffing their clothing in grocery bags because time is running out, and their suitcases bettered the weight limit. They had to leave one behind in the past, so they probably aren't planning on doing that again.

The corner of my mouth curls into a smirk as my mother looks up at me with panic-stricken eyes, pushing as many blouses as possible into the transparent bag.

I roam the kitchen before stumbling across the jar cabinet and pulling out the jam. I yawn, rubbing my eyes as I approach the fridge, pull out the wheat bread, and set it aside to obtain a plate next.

Glancing toward my parent's bedroom, I notice they are no longer shoving their things in bags. They're rolling their suitcases out to the foyer.

My mother stops in her tracks. She presses down the handle on her suitcase and clicks her heels toward me. She pulls me into her arms, rubbing my back in a circular motion. When she draws back, her hands clasp my upper arms firmly. Her mouth hangs open to say something, but my father calls her name to inform her they are finally departing.

She presses her mouth on my cheek, and then speed walks toward her suitcase and rolls it outside the house.

I wait until the door closes to rub my left cheek, removing as much crimson from it not to spark any attention at school.

It happened once, and I don't want people to assume I have a girlfriend again.

As I recall embarrassing memories regarding my mother's bright red lipstick, my hand moves back and forth on the bread before me. Once I spread a rich amount of jam, I fold the bread in half and bring it to my mouth.

I reach my bedroom, strip out of my sleepwear, and slip into a casual hoodie and gray sweatpants.

Sweats are the only sets of pants I own. I'm not a fan of the feel of jeans or any other texture against my skin. It's strange to others when I confess it, but it's just personal preference. Everyone possesses that kind of trait.

🌙

The marker taps away on the board as everyone in the class writes down what the teacher had begun writing a few seconds ago.

As I finish, I glance toward my friend, who sits to my right.

She didn't write anything, even though she's had her pencil out for a few minutes now. Her notebook is as—and I quote—"as blank as her future."

It's empty, besides the small scribbles sporadically coating the page. The ink is wasted anywhere but the center of the page. It's quite humorous how the pen slips off the page onto the desk, leaving a blue dot.

She continues to draw small stick figures on her page as if nothing happened. She thrusts her tongue out, concentrating on getting a line perfect on the page.

She's so—

"Simmons. Are you done writing this down?" The teacher's voice erupts, making me jolt in my seat.