Is Typing... || l.r.h [ON HOLD]

0.6

((Picture above is Mac's profile pic.))

((Unedited))

L A N A

-a week and a half later-

I sit up from the uncomfortable white chair I'm in and stretch.

Luke.

God can't he ever get out of my head? For the love of god I haven't even been awake for five minutes and he pops into my head.

He's probably worried sick. If he cares.

Okay, brain. Okay, heart. Listen up.

If I get home and check my phone and he's texted me more than... 10 times, he cares!

Ten is a lot... okay 6 messages and he cares, if not, then he doesn't care and I'm not worth his time, got it?

Looking up, I catch sight of the three numbers carved into the metal plate that covers the door to my mother's hospital room.

302.

Standing up, I dust my body off and check to make sure I have my keys with me. Alright, let's go home.

-at home-

I unlock the door to mine and my mother's home, and crack the door open. I step in, shut and lock the door behind me, and practically sprint up the stairs to my room.

I jump onto my bed and scramble for my phone, nearly dropping the new iPhone 6 but catching it with my other hand.

I slide it to unlock it and swipe many times to open Kik.

[51 messages from 'Luke 👎🏻']