I shut the door behind me, slip off my shoes and drop my backpack by the door. My mom was at the stove, cooking something in a pan. It smells really good in here, like onions. I walk up and place a hand next to the stove and peer at what she's cooking. Hash Browns. Which is actually one of my favorite foods. I smile and give her a half hug, and hop up to sit on the counter.
"So you're in a pretty good mood," she remarks, and I smile a little.
"Sort of." I say, and she laughs. "You seem like youre happy too." Her smile drops a little, and she tries to change it before I notice.
"Well, yes and no." She says, and I wait for her to reply. "My parents asked for me to come spend a couple days with them, they're worried about me."
If this was a week ago, I would say I'm coming with you, or stay home, but I say "You should go, relax, I will be fine mom. It's only a few days home."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes mom, I'm sixteen, I can last a few days home alone." She gives me a light smile and I hop off of the counter to hug her. Sometimes you have to be a momma's boy.
"I love you." She says.
"I love you too." I reply.
"I have a lot of work to do, so you can have dinner in your room." She says as she scoops up some potatoes, bacon and a piece of toast. I grab the plate and a glass of orange juice before walking down the hallway to my room.
"Thanks mom!" I yell, and I walk into my room.
It is unpacked and decorated in a way that is the same, yet different to my old one. The only reason it makes me feel at home is the art plastered all over my walls, mostly mine, aside from a few things I've printed out, along with a few photos. Most of my art is random, drawn spur of the moment. a baby girl in a stroller, a lollipop wrapper laying on the ground, a girl working on some homework, a water bottle. Sometimes they mean something, and other times they mean nothing. Photos are few and in-between the drawings.
My favorite is a picture of my mom, dad and I, at the beach, our backs were facing the camera, and they swung me by my arms. I was nine, on vacation in Hawaii. Some photographer was walking behind us and took the photo, ran up to us, and told us how happy we looked. The same photo is posted on my wall in my new room, in a small town, in California. My heart aches, like I am sobbing, but no tears escape my eyes. My eyes are dried up, and I blink, before climbing onto my bed, plate and drink in hand. I sit in silence and eat, all while staring at my wall, drowning in the memories it sends me.
YOU ARE READING
3am
Short Story"It's 3am and all I want is your lips on mine. It's the same as yesterday at 7pm, or Thursday at noon. It's the same as every hour, every minute, every second since I met you." #26 in Short Story.
