Smoke Break /Georgenotfound/

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It didn't go back to normal after that. Two or three days passed like nothing, and the only good thing that happened was our recovery from the infection.

Was it a good thing, though? Could I call it a good thing if it resulted in him leaving and a sinking feeling taking over me once again? But this time, it felt different. It wasn't the usual slight sadness with the hope to see him soon. It was much worse. Maybe it was because I heard them packing for their trip or whatever they had planned and realized I wouldn't be able to see him for days at least. I wish I knew more. I wish I knew how many days. I only knew they had a flight because that’s all I managed to get out of George after his tongue slipped.

I could hear the other two friends almost clearly. They were loud, and the walls were thin. Strangely, I didn't hear much from George, except for the countless times the balcony door opened and closed, letting clouds of smoke escape each time.

I realized that we weren't on the best terms, actually. That night made things weird. Awkward, almost. Because each time I saw him go to the balcony to smoke, I didn't dare come out like I usually did. I sat inside and wondered why he was taking so many smoke breaks all of a sudden when it used to be one or two, or even none recently.

Hours were passing like nothing. And I was doing nothing. I only realized that I had been sitting in the same position and counting how many times I saw George on the balcony when it was already dark outside. I think he almost smoked a pack.

I needed a distraction. Maybe scrolling some t-

Georgenotfound tweeted!

My heart jumped.

I checked my surroundings as if there could be someone watching me when I was home alone, and only then dared to click on the notification.

Georgenotfound: 
Flying back home tomorrow! LA was so much fun but Florida is waiting for us.

I had to read it again. And again. And again.

Huh?

Either I was slow, or something didn't make sense. I had to check the replies. Nobody questioned anything. Everyone seemed excited for them to go back home.

Home.

Home?

Home? In Florida? LA was fun... fun?

He... he wasn't home here? He doesn't live here? This is not his home? He was here for fun?

Huh...

His words started replaying in my mind.

"Would you consider moving? Like moving to a different state?"

He had asked me that a few days ago. At the time, I didn't think much of it. Or maybe I did, but he dodged my questions like he always does. I don't even remember. I thought it was one of his mysterious dumb questions.

I remember my answer, though. It was no. And the conversation ended on that. That’s all he needed to hear, apparently.

Huh.

He wasn’t just asking casually; he was planning to leave. He knew all along.

Of course he fucking knew, of course he knows where he lives.

Why hadn’t I pressed him more? Why hadn’t I seen this coming?

Confusion and a sense of betrayal took over. He was leaving.

It made no sense. It made no fucking sense.

He wouldn't just get up and leave like that. We were this close to confessing our feelings just three days ago. He was kissing my forehead, thinking I was asleep, four days ago. I was on his lap, making out with him, five days ago.

He would have told me from the beginning that he was only here for a couple of months, right? He wouldn't let things get this far. At the very least, he would have told me he was leaving days ago.

I felt dizzy. My phone was shaking in my hand, and the background noises of them packing became nightmarish. The absence of George's voice was haunting. It felt like a bad dream - or waking up from a good one. I found myself frozen in one spot, unable to do, feel, or think anything, and desperate for some oxygen.

Their flight had to be tomorrow. And he didn't even come to say goodbye. Was he so sure that I was gonna find out through twitter? Was he so sure that I knew who he was, that I followed him, that I would eventually find out that he's leaving and would be the first to address it?

I've never felt more stupid. That's all I could feel when the appropriate reaction should've been sadness, anger, something. No, I didn't even feel stupid. I felt nothing. And I was stupid.

The air inside was growing heavier within these four walls. It felt like I might suffocate any moment if I didn't escape and take a breath of fresh air. Mindlessly, my feet took me to the balcony.

I was so overwhelmed that I dropped my phone somewhere on the floor as I staggered to the balcony. The weight of everything inside felt suffocating, so when I leaned against the railing and saw the blurry city lights, taking in deep breaths felt impossible. I had to close my eyes.

The first few breaths felt forced. Like I was forcing air into a closed space of stone walls. Right how I was a frozen statue of nothing inside the house seconds ago, I ended up replicating the same thing on the balcony.

It took me minutes to finally smell the scent of smoke drifting past me. It was here the whole time, but somehow I only acknowledged it when my receptors became numb to it.

I glanced over and noticed George on his own balcony, the image of his almost burnt out cigarette already looking nostalgic.

We locked eyes with the same emptiness inside and outside, but he seemed at ease with it while I couldn't bear it. All it took was a single look. In that exact moment, my heart shattered with a new force of realization, a sharp pain followed by numbness spreading from my chest through my whole body.

The disgusting tingly feeling of panic and anxiety made my stomach churn.

I ran back inside, not bothering to close the door behind me, which led to immediate consequences. I heard the familiar thump, a sound that used to be welcome and endearing, now transformed into an alarming signal.

In my hurry to fix my mistake and close the door, I turned around. But with tears pooling in my eyes and a blurry vision, I found out that he was already here the hard way. My body bumped his chest before I could even see anything.

He steadied me with a hand on my side, then leaned down to pick up my phone from the floor. It had infact fallen and was laying there forgotten, the screen still on just like how I left it and facing the ceiling.

He looked at his own tweet through my phone briefly and handed it back to me, so casually as if he was expecting to see it.

Of course he was.

Of course, he knew. Only an idiot would assume he didn't. We both knew. And now that the spectacle was over and out of the way, there was nothing else to do. It was over.