Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

20 | Running Out Of Fuel

MIÉRCOLES
6:56PM

Dahlia Gray

Here's a secret: I think I'm going to fail.

I never had to balance between work, home, and school before. I'm more privileged than most—I'm half-white, my father makes a sufficient wage above the minimum pay and we live in the suburbs that classifies us as upper-middle class. We have money, we have access, and we have a family.

I think that calls for more than most.

That doesn't mean I live my entire life without obstacles however—I battle issues that stem from internal thoughts. I don't have the picture-perfect family, and my mother relies on me as her outlet for the rest of the world. I live in a constant state of limbo—between childhood and adulthood.

And I never got the chance to live either.

The lamp of my room lit with a bright LED, basking the entire room with artificial lighting. I learned how to replace the circuit board and screw the outlet back into place. After hours of studying a few YouTube videos, and my mother's help in going to the local hardware store, I managed to do it all on my own.

It wasn't much, but to me, it was a big F-you to the male population living downstairs.

I'm doing an assignment for SAINT Laboratories; working up a report on the statistics of STEM fields and their benefits that could be applied to the company. This ranges on what I could supply to them, and counts as one of the curriculum to be met if I want to stay.

I tried asking Aysa for help but she replied back with a just be yourself and good luck. I gathered that she wasn't much of a texter.

Hannah and Josie contacted me and told me that the dinner is a go—for tomorrow. They tried to schedule it for another Friday, but I told them I had work and they bombarded me with questions on where, what, when and why.

To say I don't keep them in the loop is an understatement.

I mean, I tried, believe me—but our dynamic isn't safe. I feel like I have to hold my tongue on every word I ooze and I have to keep my sentences concise or I'll breach a territory I can't go back from. I don't talk deep with them, I don't tell them my issues, and in the end, all I happen to do is remain silent.

I debated on just saying no and ended it there.

I return back to my MacBook, staring at the white screen with a couple of typed words and a hundred of deleted spaces. The prompts stare back at me with intimidation, taunting me with each passing second. My head wasn't right, and nothing was coherent enough to paste onto paper.

My dark hair returns, tipping over my shoulders and falling in front of my eyes—covering my vision once more. I push it back, with an irritated grunt, but remind myself to fix my posture. I subconsciously bend—looking like the Henchman of Notre Dame—and it tends to be the root of some of my problems.

"Dahlia!" I hear my name exiting from my father's voice, causing me to jump. I twist around in my spinny chair, meeting his figure standing a foot from my bedroom door. I swear I locked it before.

He comes in, uninvited, carrying a yellow package in one hand and a red velvet cupcake in the other. His brown eyes brim with gentleness, and it causes me to feel a stag of guilt in my stomach. My thoughts that contained him suddenly felt invalid, and somehow, the lamp situation pucks at the opportunity to say it was my fault.

"Hi," I say shortly, tucking another loose strand of hair behind my ear. I try not to wear annoyance on my face, and instead, carry all of my emotions down to my hands. I pull them into fists, releasing, and repeating the process once more.