Collision (discontinued)

October 9, 2015

The Collision

October 9, 2015

Last night it happened. Her heart broke. I saw it coming all along. He was a jerk, and she never saw it. I should have said something. God. I should have warned you, Anya. I should have warned her that he was bad news. The whole school knows of what he does. He smokes weed, he hangs around with Seniors, bad Seniors, and acts older than his age. He gets in trouble with the police and his idea of fun is breaking into the mall at two in the morning. We all knew he did these things. We all knew not to mess with him. He's just bad. She didn't care. She saw the tall, dark-souled boy with the book from fifth grade, when they first met. The one who understood her. The one who was there for her. She didn't see his rebellious cause. She didn't see the dangerous fire that burned inside of him, the other older girls he was talking to on the side. She didn't see the nights he had spent wandering the streets, drunk. She saw the boy he made her believe he was.

It's so much easier to deny my feelings for her. It's so much easier to pretend that she doesn't exist. But I can't. Because all it takes is one look. One look out that stupid window I've spent hours sitting at. One look into her life and I was there again. In all my 11:11 wishes that she'd notice me. In all of my daydreams that she haunted. In all my nightmares in which she hated me. The thought of her consumed me. Anya Grace. Anya Piper Grace.

She's changed. I still remember the picture I took of her one of those first nights in this house. She was sitting at the window, something she never did, and she was reading. I took out my camera, and nothing seemed to be more perfectly timed. Her dark, dyed hair had blown slightly behind her in the soft breeze that had lifted. Her face was in a hard concentration on the words before her, her eyes soft, however, contemplating their meaning. The clothes she wore were long and all black, making an almost perfect contrast against the white house. Her body perfectly formed an asymmetrical focus for the photo and my window framed the scene perfectly. That night, I spent hours editing the photo in so many different ways, adding overlays and filters and changing the saturation and adding blurs and messing with the hues, until I had a folder filled with a multitude of versions of that same photo.

Back then, she was emo. Her hair was dyed black, but in the light, it was red. She wore contacts that made her eyes grey. She owned nothing but black or grey, baggy clothes, and even in summer she wore jeans and long sleeved shirts. Unlike other girls at the time, she didn't wear makeup. She just seemed like a dark mesh of black clothes and cherry black hair and grey eyes.

Now, she still wears her black and grey clothes, but now her hair dye is fading out and her contacts are commonly replaced with her glasses. She's changing. And now that Chase has broken her, she's probably going to change even more. I'm scared.

I stand up, setting my laptop on my bed and saving the track I was mixing. I walk over to my window and sit down next to it. I inhale deeply, bracing myself, then opening the curtains. The night is still and illuminated by the moon. She is sitting outside her window, for the first time in a while. She's holding it. The letter. The letter that douche wrote her. The one that made fun of her and broke her heart. Tears are clearly scribbled on face. Her glasses dirty with dried water drops. She's staring up at the moon, wiping her tears. She's wearing jeans and a grey hoodie. Clothes she'd never worn before. I close the curtain and scramble to find my camera. I quickly and discreetly take a photo of her, it captures the tragic beauty that is within her sadness at the moment. I set my camera down and watch her for a while longer. When she begins to cry harder, I grab a notebook out of my backpack and rip a page from the back.

He was a dick, anyway.

I throw it at her. It lands in her lap, and I shut my window, closing the curtain. I sit with my back to the window. A few seconds later, there's a tiny laugh, and a few more sniffles, before I hear her shoes on the window sill, followed by her window shutting.