Of June

17- Damp Eyes

I re-check my grocery list on my way back home while loaded down with bags of usual items- mostly canned or packed food in addition to the greens. Pretty silly, though, since I'm already more than a half distance away from the store, and not like I'll think twice about the tedious journey back even if a thing or two on the list was overlooked earlier. Still, it helps with my trust issues.

The road shimmers under the sunset painted sky, and irregular shadow blocks of landmarks here and there provide with a relief to the eyes every once in a while. Traffic is scarce and the neighborhood is quiet- nothing quite out of the ordinary. As I'm busy stuffing the list paper inside the bag, my head crashes into something- someone, once I look up.

"I- I'm sorry." The man stands not taller than five feet eleven, that is, until he bends down, hectic, and shuffles to pick up his
belongings. Something about the way he angles down his navy cap suggests that I should stay wary. I step back, partly posing up my free fist.

It's not much later that I observe the only things he dropped were a notepad and a silver ring that must've slid off of his
finger, possibly out of panic. Cautiously, I'm about to kneel to collect my fallen clump of spinach, when I notice the exact address of Joan's house scribbled over his mini jotter in barely legible handwriting.

"That-" I point at the pad just as he shoves it inside his jeans pocket. The first reasoning that comes to mind is the possibility of this person right here being someone the Youngs are familiar with, maybe just another guest who's having a hard time dealing with directions. Atleast, that is the only way I can interpret the address he has with himself, unless he's got the wrong street slash block number, or is planning to murder us tonight. For obvious reasons, I'm hoping it's the former- so far he hasn't proven to be harmful, though half of his face and full of his identity still remains a mystery.

"By any chance, do you know Mr. Young?" I inquire, finding it difficult to discern his face given he quickly raises up his arm to pull his cap down. In doing so I'm almost dazzled by his wrist watch bouncing off the incident sun rays straight into my squinted eyes.

"No." He replies finally, not giving me a second before his flailing black jacket brushes past me in a flash.

I blink. How odd. . .

-

"I'm back." I throw open the door and unfasten my vans by lifting up a leg, trying not to fall.

"I'll be back soon!" Another voice follows straight after, causing me to look up on instinct. Contrary to me Adam is hurrying off as he puts on his shoes right before our eyes meet momentarily. I drift away mine in the next instant acting like I didn't see anything, and he does the same before we both silently speed past each other.

Just like it has been for the past four days.

I hear the door click behind me as I walk across the lobby. Four days, and it still doesn't fit into my conscious as to how the heck did we manage to go on for this long without any interaction. Sure, I'm yet to forget about that day and the profound effect his words had on me, but it just feels too unreal. I wonder what was my motive behind all this cold- shoulder treatment, for time to suck away the anger out of me, or for silence to heal all the wounds?

At breakfast the morning after my ugly crying program, we'd both decided to rotate around our chairs such that it faced opposite to the dining table where we'd have our meals. Though it peeved me how he'd copied my strategy, the idea did serve two benefits: he couldn't see my puffy eyes, and I couldn't see his stupid face. Lo and behold, we both now had our backs turned on each other. Officially.

Somedays I'd feign being unwell and would eat in my room, other days he'd purposefully eat late after Joan and I are done. It was hard to figure out how long this drama would last. A part of me pondered that I was doing a splendid job at detaching myself from him, and if this stretches out for longer then atleast I wouldn't have to dread about being all melancholic on my last day here.