miscellaneous

lost cause

I pulled him into a separate room from the crowd. We stood there. Together. Just regarding each other. Around us, music nearly blasted our ears half-deaf and people's awful singing, shouts, shrieks and laughter vibrated through our bodies: but, to us, it was as if the room was completely empty.

The silence between us was deathly threatening. Neither of us wanted to be the first to break the ice; I guess we were both frightened that if we did, we'd end up screaming at each other, or crying. After an eternity of scrutinising one another, however, he gave in.

"Is everything alright?" he asked.
"You tell me." I shot back.
Silence. Bewilderment was clearly written on his face due to my sudden and unexpected retort.
"I don't get you, Finn. I don't." I continued.
"There's nothing to get. I'm an open book."
"Yeah," I scoffed. "an open book written in a language I never understand."
"What do you mean?"
"Most of the time, you're this cool and collected guy without a worry in the world. You seem perfect and act like nothing's wrong. But every so often, you open up; you let your guard down. And in that moment, in that split second, I see a boy who is dying inside. That same guy that has everything going for him, is the same person I see who is crying out for help. Even if he doesn't want to show it, he is lost and alone, looking for something, someone, to want him, to call his own.

"Maybe it's the look in your eye at that moment, or maybe it's the way all your words seem to have a double meaning. But there's something about you, there's something going on. And I need to know. I want to help you, Finn. Just let me help you."

I see him visibly stiffen from head to toe. But suddenly, his expression changes, and there's that look on his face again. That look of searching and desperation. It's short-lived, though. He snorts and replies, as cold as ice,

"You think you've got me all figured out huh. You think you know all about me." His voice was low and quiet
"Well, you don't. You don't know shit about me."
I tried to reach out for his arm, "Then let me ge-"
"NO!" He shook me off before I was even in contact with him; his voice was stern and raised. But it cracked at that point. I could see the hurting from his slightly bloodshot eyes. God, why won't he let me just help him? Just once. Does he not trust me?
"No," He whispered, looking at the ground.
"There's nothing left to help. I'm a lost cause and you know it. So, stop pretending to care."

And with that, he turned around and walked off. Hands in his jean pockets, not even daring to look back at me. I stare at his vanishing frame. Dazed.

Even when he had left the room, my eyes were fixed on where his tall, strong figure once stood.

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Thanks for reading my first story. Please comment your opinions (it'd really mean everything to me).

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