Mind the Gap | ✔️

September 20 @ 9:33 A.M.: Iris

It ain't easy bein' greasy.

A three-day-unshowered dirtball who only wants to get drunk Rena-style, with her hair oily enough to fry a dozen eggs on?

A hag with bags under her eyes—bags heavy enough to need a luggage cart?

That was who I was now.

A diva who had soap opera worthy sobbing sessions.

A she-Hulk, slamming doors in extreme anger.

That de-fricking-Prisco diamond ring of promise and duty did not lie heavily on my finger anymore, yet its absence burdened me in an equal manner.

I had to do it. I had to take my life back before I turned into someone else. And yet...

A break-up sucked—even if you were the one who had said them famous words: "You and I are absolutely perfect but not for each other. I think we need some time away from one another, like forever..."

Even if I was the dumper and not the dump-ee...

A break-up caused an achy-breaky heart for both parties.

A little voice kept screaming at me.

Hey, did you know that those were five lost years of your life?

That was a poor choice, you time waster. So many reasons against this match made in hell, and you should have seen them coming. You just weren't meant to be.

And—you hurt someone telling them what you both had wasn't good enough. That he was not good enough for you.

That you weren't compatible.

Most of the time, I did a good job of ignoring that little voice.

It did not always work, though.

Especially when my mom called, pleading Jayden's case and trying to convince me to get back with him. 

There was no way in hell I'd do that. 

Getting together again with an ex was like taking a shower and then putting your dirty underwear back on.

And now, I was back on the Red Line train.

Commuting from Braintree to Harvard on a regular basis after a two-month hiatus.

Things could have been worse. I adored the neighborhood, and the sense of familiarity might help me to get through it all. Or so I hoped.

Shooing off the negative thoughts, I swiped the home screen of my drawing tablet, diving into the "Fairy Tails' project. It would soon be ready for querying.

Fantasy was a perfectly valid form of escapism. Especially the one I was creating myself.

My eyes lingered on a scrawny stubbly elf with a the-terrorist-have-already-won curly hairdo, a pinocchio-had-sex-with-an-eagle styled nose, and bunny ears.

Magical sparks flew all around his hair.

Like Mr. Ruffles. Our encounters had been magical.

Where was he now?

Did he still travel the Red Line in the opposite direction, at this same time?

Would his hair porn magic still be as strong as I remembered it? Making me smile, no matter what?

My shoulders slumped.

No.

No amount of his or my tissues combined could save me from this deluge.