Wilted (boyxboy)

Chapter Two

Six days had passed since the overheard conversation at work. Not another word had been uttered about him. Maybe it wasn't true. Maybe it was just pointless rumours. The girls were back together - what better way to reunite than slagging of everyone you used to know. Like, isn't that a thing? I was pretty sure it was.

I was back at work, because that's all I did these days. Work. Sleep. Eat - Sometimes. If I remembered. If I felt anything other than emptiness, say, maybe hunger, or happiness, or as though I was a healthy, living organism. Which I am, I guess. I just needed to remind myself of that more often than my family would like to admit.

It's not hot today. No, it's freezing. Like the kind of cold that causes hypothermia and increases the death toll. Because this is England so more than two days of sun is... odd. The heater was switched off yesterday as the stock was going bad so now we're all swaddled up in our work jackets and have taken the liberty of wearing scarves up to our noses. If the boss makes an unexpected visit, Gordon on tills knows the drill. Two taps to the mic, pause, three taps to the mic. We then have point 2 seconds to stash our extra layers.

It's almost time to lock up, shelves are faced up, floors cleaned, newspapers returned. I make it 12 minuets until the shutters are down and the doors are locked from the outside. I'm wandering aimlessly up and down the aisles, stalking the stray customers dashing in for their last minuet essentials so that I can clock what shelves need to be rearranged for the fifth time that night.

I'm pulling bottles of wine towards the front of the shelf when I spot another presence at the end of the row. I pretend I haven't seen them, can't be bothered to raise my lips in a false smile and ask it they are looking for something specific. Instead, I pull the last bottle forwards and loiter down the next aisle.

The person follows behind, and I wait for the inevitable 'excuse me, do you know where I'd find...' that I'm sure will follow. When it doesn't I sidestep to allow the customer to squeeze past, feeling slightly awkward as although I am doing nothing, I don't want it to appear that way to anyone else. Employee of the month and all that.

When the customer, so help me God, it better be a customer and not an armed burglar, steps closer as though he'll continue down the aisle, I relax and release the breath I was holding. But the man, he's got to be male, I've decided, he's tall and broad and defiantly has the scent that can only be found at the male section of a drugstore, stands just inches from my back. My heart thumps harder against my ribs, anticipating a knife to be pressed against my polo shirt.

Spinning as fast as my rubber soles will allow, I cradle my head in my elbows and back up a few giant steps. There's an extended silence that follows, neither of us move, and I start to feel ridiculous at my version of a self defence position.

The other person hasn't moved, I risk raising my head to face him. Another few giant steps are placed between us unconsciously. Because I'd recognise that boy anywhere, and I'd prayed to whoever's out there that the anywhere was nowhere near me. But here he is in all his matured glory, donned in a hoody that only revealed his face and not much else. We locked eyes for the longest time, not knowing what to do. I, for one, had nothing to say to him. Not anymore. We were practically strangers now, he was just somebody that I used to know.

So why did my body crave for his embrace? Why did my feet ache with the effort it took me to keep my distance? Because I was weak, that's why. Because even though he'd moved on with his life, left me in the dust, I'd cried myself to sleep many times hoping, spitefully, that he was out there regretting that I wasn't in his life anymore.

He looked the same, yet so different. He was older. We were no longer teenagers, had both developed more structured features, had overcome the worst of our acne. But it wasn't just that. My best friend had always appeared cold, hardened, furious at the whole world. Yet there was always more; a longing, loneliness, tenderness, that lurked in the back, come out full force when we were alone.

Now though, I couldn't detect these things. Not really. But then, perhaps I was no longer in-tuned to him as I once was. Didn't know what signs to look for, how to decipher pride from snarkiness, patience from boredom.

If it was anyone else, I'd take his glassy eyes and trembling lip as despair or regret, as though they were shattered and lost. But it's him, and I know that if that's what he's really feeling, I'd break down with him. Because he's my best friend, my whole damn world, and I wouldn't be able to cope.

So no, he's not about to cry. He's not. And for one horrible, despicable second, it think, it's probably the drugs. And I'm so ashamed of myself.

'Can I help you with anything, Sir?' My tone is so flat, dead, and he flinches. It wasn't meant to come out that way, I was just trying to appear unaffected. Show him that he means nothing to me, that I barely remember him. What, we used to be friends at school did you say? Sorry mate, my memory's pretty terrible these days aha. Don't mean to offend you though.

'Ezra.' It's a broken sound, and I can't take it anymore. My throat closes up and I'm on the sudden brink of tears. I rub at my chest, because it hurts. So much. More than it has over these last three years. And he follows the movement, caves in on himself even more. But I'm not weak. I'm not weak, I'm not weak. Not when there's people around, not when I'm at work instead of beneath my duvet in the darkness of my childhood room.

I need his touch so bad, his reassurance that he's really, truly back and that he'd never leave me again. That he'd take me with him if he ever does go. But I'm not weak so instead I drop my fist from my palpitating heart and back up as I speak. 'Shop closes in five minuets. I suggest you make your way to checkout before it's too late.'

I turn as he starts to speak, get faster as he closes in on me with pleads I'd rather not listen to. I make it to the staff room, slam the door on a 'please, Ezra, just... I need you okay?'