Paradise ||H.S||

Ch.4

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"Maybe I shouldn't try to be perfect

I confess, I'm obsessed with the surface

In the end, if I fall or if I get it all

I just hope that it's worth it

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Isn't it interesting how a minuscule act can hold so much power over a person?

A handshake, a greeting, a couple of words.

They can hold a lot of power over a person whether it's obvious or not.

I can't explain the amount of times I've fixated over a trivial act of kindness, be it someone holding the door open for me, or a small compliment. However, it isn't only the kind acts of others that I fixate on, but my decisions as well.

A small action or choice I make can keep me up for days.

I remember when I was younger, around 9 or 10 years old, I wouldn't be able to sleep because I would be thinking of how, maybe if I was a bit quieter, or a bit smarter, or a bit prettier my mother would finally pay attention to me. Maybe if I did what she asked she would tell me that she was proud. Maybe if I cleaned up the house, like she goes on about everyday, she would notice. Maybe if I made her another painting she'll finally like it.

Or I would stay up dissecting the smallest embarrassing action, slipping up at school, saying the wrong letters during my 4th grade spelling bee.

The case at hand currently is, what should I do with Harry's number?  

It had been 4 days since the incident at "Paradise".

4 days of non stop over analysing for me.

The day after that night, I decided I wouldn't make the choice right away. I wanted to take some time to make my decision. That's why when I got ready for work that morning I pushed that little note to the back of my mind.

The physical note in the back pocket of my work pants, but that isn't the point.

And that's why in the car with the soft music I was listening to, not that The neighbourhood is considered soft music but whatever, I kept thinking about the little note burning a hole in my back pocket. And why as I was cleaning up table 6 at work the note was still on my mind. And why on my way home that god awful piece of paper was on my mind. And as I painted that note was still there.

And as I slept.

And as I worked out.

And as I called El.

I think it's safe to say that pushing that note to the back of my head wasn't working very well.

Which brings us back to this moment.

I stare at my phone screen illuminating my dark room. The pink lighting of my room faded and dark.

Harry's number is typed into my contacts, I'm still debating whether I should call him or just send him a text.

If I call him I probably won't be able to talk, since my anxiety loves to accompany me when i have conversations with people.

However... It is a lot less difficult for me to talk on the phone rather than face to face.

But if I send him a text I have more time to think about what I'll say, and I won't make that much of a fool of myself.

A text it is.