Matches | √

Chapter Twenty-Eight

illuminate | help to clarify or explain

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4/28/17

MY EYES STARE at the ceiling of Asher's bedroom as I lay next to him in bed. I've been awake for hours just simply staring. I don't usually stay the night at Asher's during the week in case my mother notices. But she doesn't seem to notice much these days. She's become distant. She's gone most nights. Even when she's around she doesn't seem invested in our conversations, she seems distracted. Our relationship is unraveling from the inside out and I don't know how to handle it. I don't know how to fix it.

So instead of focusing on the aspects of my life that seem to be crumbling everywhere I look I chose to sleep over and let Asher distract me. Distract me with his lips, his touch, and his body. It's as if the physical aspect of our relationship is the only part keeping us afloat, keeping us from drowning in the realization that we're not meant to be.

But coming to terms with the fact that I threw away a friendship for a boy is one I'm scared to admit. So I hide in the physical, because being wrong isn't an option I want to face right now.

It's as if a match was struck on prom night. It was instant, hot, big, and flaming our connection. My love for this boy who I thought was changing me for the better. But now the flame has run its course and it's burned out, and all that is left is wispy smoke and a blackened, scorched match.

So I crave the distraction last night brought. Especially after the party. After Asher told me he loved me when he was drunk, and damp from the hot tub, and only after he confessed to kissing another girl.

After I didn't say those three little words back.

A harsh sigh escapes from between my parted lips and I twist my neck to see Asher still passed out next to me.

A single strand of his dark hair hangs across his forehead and he looks as handsome as ever. But the one thing I've noticed about Asher is that he never looks peaceful. Even asleep he looks as if he's struggling. His face is hard as tension crinkles his brows together creating a small crease between them. That even in his dreams he's not happy. He's not content.

I hear a laugh and then hushed talking from down the hall that surprises me. I roll over to see it's barely six in the morning. His parents get up this early? Come to think of it I don't even remember them being home last night.

My phone buzzes and I expect to see a text from my mother wondering where I am but it's just a general notification from Twitter.

A piece of me is disappointed that I don't see an angry text from my mother. I should be happy to be finally living a life that's so similar to Asher's with his parents. No one to watch his every move. No one to gripe at him for not cleaning up his room or forgetting to do his homework. But I don't feel relieved that my mother is backing off, instead I feel an overwhelming rush of loneliness and deep-seated sadness. Sad that I don't see any missed calls or worrisome voicemails. It's as if she doesn't see me anymore.

Or doesn't care?

Another loud sound echoes through the house, almost like someone ran into a table. Once again I hear hushed talking.

Before I can stop myself I climb out of bed and pull on one of Asher's T-shirts letting it fall to my thighs. Curiosity gets the best of me as I walk slowly over to his bedroom door. I cast a look towards the bed to find Asher still fast asleep. I twist the doorknob slowly so as to not make any noise, and I peak my head out the door to see Asher's father.

I've never met him in person, but I've seen his pictures hanging throughout the house in family photos. He looks just like Asher, or I guess Asher looks just like him. He has dark hair, though it's starting to grey, but in an incredibly handsome way, and dark eyes. They share similar bone structure and height. He's exactly what Asher will look like in thirty plus years.