Complicated | An Original Story

• 𝐂 𝐇 𝐀 𝐏 𝐓 𝐄 𝐑 • 𝟏 𝟔 •

• ∞ • ∞ • ∞ •

The last real school day of the semester falls on a Tuesday this year. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and the following Monday, students are scheduled to take their finals. Then, next Tuesday is Christmas Eve.

I had plans for this Tuesday—not a specific schedule or anything, but a checklist of things I wanted to spend the last day of the semester doing. Studying for my finals, for example, was one of them. Spending time with Karter was another. The issue is that on Monday night, after almost a week of completely ignoring my existence, Clara texts me out of the blue asking if we can talk.

You know that feeling you get, deep in your gut, when you're at the peak of a rollercoaster? You're at the very top, staring down over the edge, and your stomach feels like it's dropped out from beneath you. You don't know whether you want to pray for the ride to stay there—balanced precariously on the edge—or just fucking go already, and get it over with.

That's how I feel as my eyes skim over the words of her text.

I think it would be in our best interest to talk before the break. I'd like to meet up tomorrow. Is there a time that works well for you?

Language is strange, when you think about it. The English language, specifically, is so interesting to me. I've spent more time than is likely reasonable thinking about how people came up with symbols that can be strung together into words, that somehow create a pattern which we derive meaning from. As I stare at the text Clara sent, the only thing I can think is this: I've never seen someone convey so much coldness in a string of symbols.

The message feels detached and heartless in a way that I've never known Clara to be. The text looks so out of place, in the context of all the other messages we've exchanged—long ranting paragraphs, four-letter-word exclamations of incredulity, random memes, and short videos—all of it, leading to this?

I feel like I've been slapped across the face ... and it fucking hurts.

Certainly, I write back, hoping I sound just as indifferent and uncaring. In the morning, or during lunch would work best for me, seeing as I have a prior commitment after school.

I turn my phone off after sending the message and head upstairs, deciding to get some sleep. Except that after whatever the hell that bullshit was, my brain won't shut up for long enough to let me sink into my exhaustion.

Groaning, I go back downstairs and decide to text Karter, asking if he's free to call. He doesn't text me back, opting instead to just call me right away. "Hey," he greets me immediately after I pick up.

"Hi," I say, and I try not to sound as frustrated as I feel, but I suspect I fail.

"Are you alright?" Karter asks, confirming my suspicions.

I shake my head before remembering he can't see me. "I'm ... I've been better," I admit. "Can you talk to me? About anything? I don't really mind, I just ... I kind of need a distraction right now."

"Sure," Karter agrees, easily. "Have I ever told you about that one time in middle school when Atticus got suspended for playing a prank on another student?"

"I think I would have remembered that particular story if you had," I respond. "What was the prank?"

"He stole someone's pants," Karter responds.