A Love Like War

s e v e n t e e n

SONG OF THE CHAPTER:
Sober by Blink-182
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Hangovers suck.

This I know from many expieriences. Waking up with a raging headache and an impairment to loud noises sucked many things.

But the worst part about hangovers are the regret that follows the previous decisions made while in that state.

Like the four worded text message I sent to Stella.

She didn't even respond.

I feel wasted, and used up. She makes me feel worthless. It was one text, obviously a drunken one, and she didn't bother to respond. Didn't bother to reciprocate some kind of remark back. On how she missed me, as a friend perhaps, or even on the fact that she's moved on and I should too.

This whole thing sucks.

But she didn't, and I know she read it. Maybe that's what bothers me most. The little check mark right beside my message, meaning she read everything I said.

To: Stells
I'm sorry, I was really drunk last night
Delivered 1:14 PM

I leave the message for a moment, staring at what I sent. Then a small check mark appears on my screen.

She read it.

And I wait, because this is worthy of a response. She knows I don't get drunk easily. She knows I have to drink for hours to get intoxicated. She knows that whisky is like water to me, that I can chug it without feeling the effects.

But she doesn't.

I sigh. This is important.

To: Stells
Sorry, that was a mistake. I don't
Delivered 1:29 PM

To: Stells
I dont love you*
Delivered 1:30 PM

There's no response. No witty remark about drunk words and sober thoughts. Not a single mention of the fact thay I forgot the apostrophe in "don't". Which was intentional, she probably knows it was intentional.

I sigh. This is relevant.

To: Stells
I don't love you, like i did yesterday
Delivered 1:42 PM

Now, I seem like a clingy twelve-year-old with their first boyfriend. At the same time, that was a really casual refrence, even she should be able to appreciate it.

I throw my phone across my bunk, and it slams with a satisfying thump against the wall.

I hate this town.

She probably thinks I was lying to her. That I did mean it when I said I still love you. That I meant every word I said last night.

Fuck me.

Fuck my life.

Just, fuck everything.

I pick my phone up from the other side of the bed. My teeth dig into my lip in concentration. Should I call her? I swallow a lump building in my throat.

Yes, Jack. You fucking pansy. Just call the girl already.

But she isn't just a girl. I reason with myself