Y/n has never once believed in ghosts. She always thought they were excuses to scare people, and she hated horror movies. Not because they were scary, no, because they were idiotic.
But what if she somehow finds herself seeing figures and bunking w...
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This was your last box. The last thing you packed on your way to your new apartment. The sun was not yet hot, then again it wouldn't get hot since it was late fall. The wind blew a quick strong gust and you shoved your face in your scarf, pushing the heavy box into the trunk.
Your parents stared at you from the porch of the house you spent all of your time in. From the times you scrapped your knees running around, to pretending you were a popstar, to gossiping about boys with your best friends while doing makeup and painting nails.
The house you'd leave and probably rarely visit because college had high standards and you were a stubborn over achiever. You rushed to the driver side of the car not daring to looking at your parents, the two people you loved most in the world, in fear of breaking down in front of them and not wanting to move away. I'm doing this for me. You repeated in your head so you would have no reason to feel guilty, no reason to turn back on your decision.
You ran to the door because it was cold. Because tonight there was a chance of snow and you didn't want to be caught in that when you were going to drive across country. That's what you wanted to believe anyway. You grabbed the cold handle of the dusty car and slid into the leather seats. Your air freshener working wonders to make the smell seem 'new' and 'fresh' when you could have wanted anything but that. You wish you had an air freshener that smelled like home. Like nice cookies on cold days, and hard cologne from those days when your dad had extra important business meetings
Your emotional eyes stayed trained on the wheel, trying to memorize every detail of the Toyota Prius your parents bought you in the summer of 2017, saying you needed a car to look as good as you on hot summer days. You mindlessly shoved your key into it's rightful hole and turned, waiting to hear the healthy engine roar to life. Your hunched uncomfortable shoulders relaxed as you leaned back in your seat.
You're not looking.
You're not going to look.
But you did. You couldn't ever keep up your promises or resolutions. That was one major flaw about you. So while you were in the midst of backing out of the white paved driveway, your eyes travelled up to the windshield, then to the eyes of your parents. They looked proud. Their slight wrinkles and grey strandes of hair.
And as your eyes met theirs, they smiled. Your mom's smile has always been so infectious to you, so when her lips lifted, so did yours. They waved like their lives depended on it, like they would never see you again, and you wonder why that was. But nonetheless one of your hands lifted to wave to them back, a tear slowly crawling down your face.
