drowning in violet - skephalo

07:00 AM, Friday

The paper was folded nervously and there were faded creases on it, yellow and stained, like he had spilt coffee on it in marble strokes, liquid fingerprints on paper. And the ink was smudged, like he tried to press the numbers together in a straight line, the untidy scrawl pouring into strings of half-legible letters like he had written it in the backseat of a car:

(407) 078-2004 Zak: call me.

He shoved the slip in his coat pocket and walked in front of his small bathroom mirror. There were shadows under his eyes that he knew shouldn't have been there, but the smile that appeared on his face after remembering the events of the week melted away all logical reasoning that swirled in the pit of his stomach, because his eyes were greener than usual and his reflection seemed more colourful than the week before, hues of violet with just hints of red projecting off of his pale skin.

He opened his closet and grabbed the small black suitcase hidden behind piles of clothes and boxes, and began to (try) to pack. He threw in pair of socks, and soon enough, it was messily overflowing with unfolded t-shirts, jeans, and knitted sweaters. Admittedly, he had no clue what the acceptable "packing checklist" was for a camping trip on account of his embarrassingly narrow experience of them, so he was hopelessly raking through his wardrobe and several drawers, throwing the majority of the contents in there and hoping for the best.

The dark morning sky was actually pretty clear, much to Darryl's surprise. The rain didn't bother him that much, but he was never really out of the house enough to be bothered by it. The clouds bothered him more, especially at night, on account of the fact they were almost constantly blocking out the beautiful stretch of starlit sky behind it.

He loved the stars. They were what he'd longed to gaze up at every night, but obviously that was something he could so rarely do, which meant noticing how clear the sky was that morning had him almost so distracted he nearly ended up abandoning all of his bags and laying himself down, the hard road against his back as his eyes trailed over every constellation he could see.

Of course, he didn't do this. Passers-by would probably either think he'd spontaneously fainted onto the road, or that he was completely out of his head (which, to be honest, they probably did anyway). But he managed to sneak up as many glances at the sky as he could, painting the pictures of the Big Dipper, Orion's Belt, and Polaris in the blackness that the glimmering pinpoints were surrounded by. He'd always felt as if the stars had so much freedom that he lacked. They were all constantly burning alongside each other in the colossally infinite universe, each and every one of them effortlessly beautiful. They were what people would gaze up to on romantic dates sitting on a balcony, or what astronomers, or even students studying astronomy, would peer at every night through their professional telescopes, expertly studying and naming all the pictures in the sky the stars joined up into, most of which outside his limited knowledge of them. He wasn't even widely educated on the stars. He was just consumed in utter fascination by them. And, admittedly, he was even jealous of them.

Stars couldn't fall in love.

He grinned to himself, dragging his suitcase along the pavement and hearing the hollow sound of its clunky wheels pierce through the silent atmosphere of the night. Everyone in the city was either at work or on their way there, so the noise of his old suitcase probably wasn't too much of a disturbance for the neighbourhood. He tightened his grip on the suitcase, staring up at the sky again in complete mesmeration until he realized just how close he was to his destination.

He turned into the main lot to see a big white bus awaiting him in front of the school. Kids with suitcases packed with art supplies and the little clothing they were able to afford stood beside the bus, conversing loudly among themselves. Darryl peered over the crowd, trying to spot the familiar head of black hair and brown eyes he had grown so fond of.