Lefty's ✓

eleven.

July

I just wanted more. More from Melissa. She gave me nothing. Never did we talk about her. The times I stayed over at her house, we never stayed up late talking about dreams and passions, but I wanted to. I wanted to know every little thing about her.

The little things she did share I treasured dearly. It was great to see how open she got over time. Instead of her lips sitting in a flat line all the time, there'd be moments where they'd curve up into a smile. Those moments were my favorite. Her small traces of happiness were contagious. I couldn't help but smile when she smiled, blush when she blushed, and laugh when she laughed.

The connections wavered at times. Whenever I felt like I was getting somewhere- like I was actually getting to know the real Melissa- she'd put up a front. The same front I'd know all too well. I just want to know why she feels the need to act tough all the time. Why can't she feel comfortable enough with me to share her deep secrets; I've shared mine. I just want to connect with her.

But I've never been the person to connect with people. My mind always wanders as I'd sit back and watch everybody else. Older generations say I'm on my phone too much and there's more to life than my dry inbox. But sometimes I don't think there is. There's no difference between me sitting on my phone away from people and me sitting next to them, elbows touching, voices intertwining. Nothing helps the void in my chest. My heart doesn't beat any faster when a friend laughs at a joke I've told over and over again. I still feel isolated, as if the distance between me and them never fades no matter whether I leave or not. Lives don't change when I walk through the door. My life isn't anyone's constant; it's not even mine.