Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

43 | Restarting The Ignition

LUNES
9:11 PM

Dahlia Gray

I cough into the sleeve of my baby blue sweatshirt, the smoke from my father's cigarette clogging the access to my lungs and I could barely breathe. This time was worse than before. This time, he didn't care enough to move away from his daughter.

We still haven't talked since that day.

Harlow spots me from a distance and his stoic features lit up, his eyes growing bright. A small smile curves the corner of his lips and his face glows against the night—like a star among the sky. Like he's alive.

That's something I've noticed from him. Harlow may share many similarities to my father that even I can't ignore, but he also has differences. That's important. He doesn't view the world as something meaningless, a means to survive, or sees them through an ambitionless lens—he has something more.

Something more than before.

I settle into the seat beside him, just as he drops the half-finished cigarette to the ground. It crushes beneath his shoes, but extinguished with a lingering fume—a fume I couldn't bear to ignore.

Another fit of coughs thrown into the sleeve of my sweatshirt, and I forced myself to look away, not wanting Harlow to see me in my condition. My health is slightly deteriorating, and this time, I had to pull out my inhaler to clear my chest.

"Hey," Harlow said, concern dripping from his voice as I feel his hand on my lower back. "Are you okay?"

I open my mouth but it was to pump the canister a second time, coughing out into the open. My throat burns, and I shake my head, trying to tell him that it's fine—but he received the wrong message. He stands from his seat and I feel the weight of his side lighten. Harlow stops in front of me, crouching on the ground. "Dahlia."

I take in a gasp of air, "I'm okay," I choke, trying to regulate my oxygen. "I just—the smoke." I point to the floor, where the remnant of the cigarette remains. My eyes trail down to the dirt, noticing a couple more discarded ones left over the past couple of months and I scrunch my nose in disgust, before a sad smile forms on my lips and an emptiness builds against my heart.

"What?" His eyes follow my gaze, looking to the ground. "Oh."

I swallow, "it wasn't here before." I mumble quietly, low enough that even Harlow couldn't hear. Or so, I hoped. He turns back to me, delicacy flashes through his blue irises, and a soft expression overtakes his features, his eyes searching for mine.

"Dahlia..."

"No, it's okay," I hesitate, the lie tasting bitter on the tip of my tongue. I begin to shake my head slowly. "No. No, it's not."

Harlow found my gaze, his blue eyes staring back at me and awaiting every word I ever wanted to say. I swallow a gulp, my heart drumming in my chest, and my eyes soften at him. Only him. "I'm sorry."

Harlow cups my cheek, the warmth of his hand acts as a blanket of comfort that I yearn for. "You don't have to fucking apologize to me."

"I know," I said, drawing a long breath. The tingling sensation of cigarette smoke tickles my throat, but I held it in. "I just—you—I," I clear my throat, shaking off all the nicotine. "You smoke."

He nods once.

I point to myself. "And I...hate smoking."

Harlow looks at me like he knows the direction this conversation is heading, but he doesn't stop me. He doesn't try to reprimand how smoking helps him or alleviates his stress, or is his act of comfort. He doesn't try to explain himself. He allows me to talk.