words you'll never read

when the dust settles; whose fault is it?

He hadn't talked to her weeks.

In reality, it was bordering on two months, but it hurt less to say "weeks."

Koda-kun is online.

Brown eyes flickered to the corner of a computer screen, reading the words that had once brought a childlike happiness to the sixteen-nearly-seventeen year old's stomach. Now, all they brought was a sick feeling; a tormenting agony because she knew — she knew — he wasn't going to speak to her.

Miss Mai is online.

Oh, if that wasn't the salt in the wound.

She watched the two start playing the same game — no doubt together. They had, what felt like an eternity, once been the two always playing the same game; always together, with Mai as the occasional third party. Now, it was the opposite.

Except there was no third party.

It was just them.

Jealousy started coiling its way around her heart; worming its way into her stomach. She wanted to throw up and to cry, but neither bile nor tears would come. She would have to sit and suffer in silent torture like she always did — like she had for months.

No, weeks.

A soft ping through her headphones snapped the suffering girl from her trance, her eyes landing on a pop-up window that held a message. For a split second, something like hope coursed through her — he was talking to her again; her life was going back to normal — only to be shattered the instant she read who it was from.

Miss Mai: hey itzie, you wanna play with us?

She should have been happy — ecstatic, even. This would give her a chance to talk to him; to fix whatever she had undoubtedly ruined somehow. If Mai was asking, that meant he — Koda — had approved it; approved her. She should have been happy.

But she wasn't.

Her jealousy flared so hotly that it was a wonder she hadn't combusted on the spot. Brown eyes narrowed to slits as heat crept up her back, her neck, her face — her skin was crawling at the sensation and she wanted it to just stop.

Stop stop stop stop stop—

A number of things ran through her head — all things that were in no way Mai's fault, but things that she still wanted to take out on her. It wasn't Mai's fault Koda liked her. It wasn't Mai's fault Koda seemingly now hated her. It wasn't Mai's fault she was too scared to reach out to him and ask what was wrong; what she did. It wasn't Mai's fault she ruined what slim chance she had with him.

No, none of it was Mai's fault, but she was going to pretend it was, even just for a moment.

Itzie: don't call me that

Miss Mai: sorry. itzel. but is that a yes or no?

She — Itzel — glared at the message window. Why was she asking and not him? Why were they playing together? Why couldn't things go back to normal? Why had she ruined everything? What had she even done?

Itzel didn't realize she was crying until she couldn't see her keyboard any longer.

Itzie: no

Miss Mai: alright

Itzel pushed herself back from her desk, the wheels of her chair rolling until they hit carpet and couldn't move anymore. She pulled her knees to her chest, gripping them tightly as she buried her face into her arms. He was probably having fun. He was probably smiling and laughing, all while not caring about her in the slightest.

"What did I do...?"

The question came out as a choked whimper, a desperate plea called out into the uncomfortable stillness of her room. It was silent, save for the sound of the fan in the corner of the room — but the sound of that was so soft that it offered no recluse from the onslaught of thoughts her brain fired out.

Desperately, her hand reached out for her phone. Her palm slapped the desk aimlessly a few times before the cold glass of the screen hit her. She grabbed it, pulling it close to her body and frantically opening it. Maybe she could pinpoint when it happened. Maybe if she did that, she'd be able to fix it.

Maybe then, she'd be able to be happy again.

Fingers flew across the screen, opening and closing apps, scrolling rapidly while her eyes scanned lines after lines of text. She could see it clearly now, where his responses became more and more sparse — less enthusiastic; more generic. She would text four or five times in a row and get, most of the time, a single word reply.

How could I not see it...?

Finally, whether for better or for worse, she felt as though she found it. It was a single conversation — one that had meant little to nothing to her, but could have meant something massive to him.

Koda: hey i've got a question

Itzel: what is it?

Koda: what do you think about people who are asexual?

Itzel remembered having to search up the definition of the word.

Itzel: i mean, it's kind of weird i guess, but it doesn't bother me i guess?

Reading her reply reminded her of how confused she was by it — how she couldn't process the meaning of the word, nor how to convey her thoughts correctly. She wasn't that smart, after all. Not like he was.

Koda: oh, okay

Those two words felt like knives straight to her heart.

He thought she thought he was weird, didn't he? That was why he didn't want to talk to her anymore, wasn't it? Was it? Or was it something else, something underlying she didn't know? They were on two different sides of the world, after all. Any number of things could be happening in his life that—

No. This is why.

A poorly written text borne of a lack of understanding brought to the downfall of a relationship — a relationship Itzel had always hoped would become more, though always knew it never would.

"But... I can fix it, right...?"

She spoke softly to herself, her fingers hovering over the message box. All she had to do was apologize, right? All she had to do was ask if she had said something wrong, and when he said yes, all she had to say was sorry.

An apology.

She could do that.

With shaky and hesitant fingers, she typed out the words slowly — slowly so she could check their meaning; slowly so she could be sure she was saying exactly what she wanted to say.

Itzel: hey, this is kind of random, but I just wanted to ask if I did anything to upset you? and if I did, I'd like to apologize

After forcing herself to press send, she waited. She waited on the app; waiting for the indication that he had read it; waiting for the indication that he was typing back to her, finally replying after months — no, weeks — of silence.

Read 12:36 AM.

No response.

——011618