Unraveled

ZION

"There are those who say,
'If I had the opportunity to change anything about us, I wouldn't change a thing.
All the bad and the good have made us who we are.'

Well... I would change that. I want us to meet as strangers again, with nothing but the good.
No aberrant past, no lingering trepidation—just the purity of who we could be.

Perhaps, then, our friendship would have endured."
...

Days had been flowing by, each one blurring into the next. It had been a week since Oliver's strange visit, and he hadn't returned. Still, he texted—a lot.
Zion sighed as his phone lit up again with another message from Oliver.

Ugh, when can I get a break? He thought, leaning back into the couch.

Moving here had only made Oliver more overbearing. On the other hand, Sylvia—whom he'd been seeing every day lately—was easygoing.
For the past week, Zion had been out and about at six A.M. every morning because of her. He'd get back around nine, have a cup of coffee, and settle in for work. Ignoring Oliver's texts had become as routine as his morning outings with Sylvia.

Now, he stared at the blank TV—the one Oliver had insisted on buying for him—waiting for Sylvia to arrive. She was never late, punctuality was practically her trademark. But today, seven o'clock had come and gone. He smiled to himself, thinking he might finally get a chance to tease her about it. But then again, he probably wouldn't—he rarely voiced what was on his mind.

The quiet of the room pressed in around him, and his thoughts began to wander. As he leaned back on the couch, his eyelids grew heavy. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head, and shifted to get more comfortable.

When he woke, the clock showed well past seven-thirty. He'd dozed off. A faint sense of disappointment crept in. It was foolish, he realized, to expect someone to join him in touring the town every day. He sighed, wondering when mornings had become something to look forward to.

He headed to the kitchen, the peaceful quiet of the house surrounding him. Making himself a cup of coffee, he plopped down on the couch. He took a long sip, letting his mind drift as he picked up the phone. The glow of the screen pulled him out of his reverie, the sight of all the missed calls from his mom catching his attention. He stared at them, debating if he should ignore it. He felt a gnawing emptiness of unexpected guilt. He sighed, rubbing his temple, he couldn't push her away forever—maybe it was time he called her back.
...

Zion found himself standing before Sylvia's apartment, his arm stretched out, ready to knock on the door. He was drained after the call with his mom, and before he could give it a second thought, he had come over.

He knocked twice and leaned on the corridor railing, hands in his pockets, letting his thoughts wander to the conversation with his mom. Her concerns, while understandable, felt unreasonable. He was twenty-one, not fifteen.

Zion heard the faint shuffling of feet on the other side of the door and quickly straightened up. The door opened to reveal a stunning girl. She resembled Sylvia but appeared older—taller, with an air of maturity. Her straight, black hair was tied into a ponytail, soft tendrils framing her face. She wore a plain white apron over her PJs, and her sharp green eyes—though not as striking as Sylvia's—bore into him, scrutinizing him with an almost stern air.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her dark eyebrows knitting as she looked up at him.

"Um...is Sylvia here?" he asked, hesitantly.