SADBOY - FINN WOLFHARD ✔

THIRTEEN!

ALFIE INDRA - DARLING IM GONE

"DARLING IM GONE, I'VE DONE YOU WRONG                                                                                                                 SO I'LL GO AWAY."

New year, new me.

Hopeless words muttered from sad people who hope for better, who use a day in order to justify their shitty ways as the past and evolve into new people when in reality, nobody really evolves. Who really changes, a flick over from one year or next doesn't switch your personality. It's utter bullshit. People promising themselves to get fit, they break on day two and shove the chocolate down their throat, people promise to cut people off, yet they still let them cause damage to their lives. People say they are going to go to the gym, work out, they sleep through the days and waste away their lives in front of the numbing television.

New year, new me hadn't been a thing for Finn.

However, he lies awake in the last fleeting moments of December 31st, his eyes trained onto the ticking time bomb, the hands slowly reaching to the point of no return, his eyes so intently watching as the hands rotate clockwise faster, it aches so close, that he closes his eyes for a split second, opening them to the clock two ticks away from midnight.

Tick, tock.

It changes over, yet the small hands still rotate as if nothing had happened. The room still lays still, small winds still blow against the windows, his girlfriend still lays on his chest, her breathing steady as her chest rises and falls, her legs entangled with his, nothing looks different, everything formats just as before, in no way should anything be out of place.

It's different, it feels foreign.

The ugly puzzle pieces had been scattered and misplaced, no longer forming a shit picture of his life. It didn't feel right, to be laying in his own bed, his home felt distant to him, he no longer craved the warm touch of his girl, her long flowing dark hair no longer had his thin long fingers brushing through it, he laid stiff like a board. Their hearts beat at different speeds. He doesn't belong here, feeling like a ghost in his own home. Her parted lips no longer needed to be placed on his, he didn't need to taste her, he didn't need to feel her hands on his skin for validation and love.

He looks at her, and he cannot doubt how beautiful she is, she sleeps like an angel. Just the sight of her makes him think of how lucky he had been when he had scored her, in a way, he still felt lucky, but like milk, she had expired, no longer was she good for him. It felt sickening to admit it to himself in his mind, how desperately he was chained to her only a few days ago, in agony trying to keep her from leaving. Now, he had escaped the heavy metal that encased his wrists and arms, he felt free. He could escape away, in these fleeting moments, without a trace.

The tickets still burn a hole in his bedside cabinet. They had been circulating through his mind on and off, it seemed like a worthless toss up if he should go or not, and his decision is already hardened over by the time he is slowly peeling her arms off his body. His mind is made up, slowly placing his feet onto the floorboards, making slow precise movements to stop her from hearing.

He walks from the room, the door creaking open as she drifts from the bedroom to the kitchen, he reaches for the alcohol, but he isn't apologetic of his actions, he deserves it, some sort of toast for finally doing the best for himself. He lights up a cigarette, not bothering to step outside, he lets the fumes run through the house and stink up the area. Sucking all the toxins into his tight chest, he has a shaky exhale, the grey fog of smoke flowing into space.

He dangles the cigarette in between his teeth as he treads around the house, finding a suitcase, packing his most valuable things into the small space, half of the shit in his apartment could stay, he would be back, he just needs to wait for her to finally leave. He pulls shirts and pants and coats to brace from the New York weather, dragging the heavy case to his car, loading it into the boot, the night brisk air picks at his skin, he walks into the home, rubbing his dying cigarette against the ashtray, searching for paper.