Or Is It Real?

Chapter 36: I Hate You, I Love You

Title Inspiration: I Hate You, I Love You by Gnash ft. Olivia O'Brien
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Lauren's PoV

All I wanted was mac & cheese, which is the best kind of distraction a pathetically single girl could ever have in the middle of a sleepless night. Wait, no, correction: second best thing, next to a well-rolled kush.

I miss her when I can't sleep or even when I close my eyes, and I can't even enjoy my cup of coffee without being reminded of the times we used to share breakfasts together after a night of, well, not sleeping. I hate it. I'm in deep shit and I've been in total denial all this time, but it seems that the more I try to forget her, the more the feelings intensify.

I did find leftover mac in the fridge, and, boy, did that make me so happy, all thoughts of Camila flew out of my head the minute I scooped a big amount of this cheesy goodness from the container and into my mouth. I didn't bother getting myself a plate because I plan to eat it all, I wanted to devour all of it so I could sleep with a full stomach, and maybe choke to death, if God was good to me.

That's all I wanted. A peaceful night, eating my favorite comfort food (aside from Camila's pussy -- okay, where the hell did that come from!?), while I hum my current favorite song, and ponder upon the mysteries of the universe. Of course, my mind keeps on bringing back to my conscious mind images of Camila, until I will myself to ignore it and let the flash of memories pass by like a flowing river of pictures, I wait until a new batch of thoughts that's not about Camila flood my mind.

It's an extreme mental battle: my mind pulling her back, and me, stubbornly pushing away.

That's why when I thought I heard Camila's voice calling my name, my immediate reaction was that it was all in my head. But then, a prickling sensation crept all over my neck and my back, like that feeling when someone is staring at you from behind, and when I turned the swivel chair around to face the doorway, there she was, totally not an apparition or a product of my mind: Camila, in all her glamorous post-party glory. And here I am, in my sweatpants and old tattered shirt, mouth full of fattening macaroni, stupid hair probably looking like a bird's nest, and heart beating so fast it makes me wonder why I haven't yet suffered cardiac arrest.

I stared at her, quickly trying to figure out how to react, and surprising myself when I felt no violent feelings towards her. Maybe it's because it's midnight and I simply have no energy to hate her at the moment, or maybe it's the mac & cheese that has put me into a calm mood, or maybe it's her hypnotic eyes, that has taken all the venom out of my system.

Her eyes seemed tired and anxious, sad and pleading, but despite all that, when she looked at me, I saw the usual glimmer of spark behind all the apparent gloom, like a ray of sunshine peeking out from the clouds after a storm. It was the same light I used to see whenever she looks at me. It surprised me that some things haven't changed; she still looks at me like a lone wolf pining over the moon - howling at it as it begged for it to cure its loneliness, gazing at it with a sense of awe reflected on its eyes, a glimmer of admiration that is only reserved for this divine thing that shines its pale but revitalizing light upon the wolf's somber mood.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not a narcissistic bastard, I'm not assuming anything that Camila hasn't told me all before. She used to tell me all of that - in her letters, her words, her songs. I was her moon, her beacon amidst her darkness, her inspiration, her love. I remember everything word for word, as if she has whispered those phrases to my ear only yesterday. She romanticizes the moon because she equates it to her love for me - comforting and ethereal.