Spark

30 | Not Again

.Miles.

Brown eyes track me. Starr is seemingly unmoving. I feel like she's been pushing me to lay myself bare. To admit all the things I desperately try to hide about myelf when it comes to her. First, at the hospital. Now, here. 

I don't know why I'm no longer restraining myself. It's like I got a taste–literally–of what it's like to be with her and I don't want to hold back. Not anymore. Not when I know how nice it is to finally be able to hold her in my arms again without her temper. Not when I know I can reach over, cup her easily flushed cheeks, and place my lips on hers. Not when I finally have her. She's an addiction I refuse to fight anymore. 

My eyes flit over, and I watch her visibly swallow. "Why'd you do it?" Her question is a whisper–so silent that I would have missed it had my eyes not been transfixed by her. 

"Do what?"

"You–" There's a visible blush crawling over her cheekbones. "I saw Ella Andrews climb in through your window that day."

The colour on her cheeks deepen. My confusion is what intensifies. 

"What? When?" I get the impression those are the last words she expects to hear as she gapes up at me in annoyance. Like I've just shoved her off the edge of a cliff.

"You don't remember," She mumbles. It's a statement It's a sort of question. "All this time–"

She stumbles off my bed, nearly trips on her own feet before righting herself again. "Galaxy, where are you going?"

"Home."

I fold my arms. "Your dad is there. You said you wanted to come over, remember?"

She's shuffling towards the door. "Galaxy?"

The door swings inwards. "Starr?" The door shuts, taking her away from my view. 

My mind is struggling to grasp what has just happened. Have I just managed to steer her away once again because I have a faulty memory about a girl I can't remember and a time I can't remember? I'm tempted to drop my head in between my hands and contemplate the last couple of hours.

How have I gone from laughing with Starr in my car to losing Starr in my room?

My hand is reaching out. My door is opening. My feet are pounding down the stairs. I'm barging into the living room. Kayla is the only one here. 

"They left." She says, reading my face. 

And I'm running out. I'm crossing to the house next door. Simultaneously, I'm ringing the doorbell and pounding my fists against their door. I don't even pay attention to the fact that her father isn't out here anymore–spineless fucker. 

The door opens and it's not the face I want to see. "Starr doesn't want to see you right now," Charlotte sighs. "And before you say anything, you two seem to have gotten over your odd feud slash not feud, so whatever it is this time, I'm certain it'll vanish before you know it. So please, Bryant," She shoots me a glare. "Keep your fingerprints off the doorbell and your fists off the door."

The door slams in my face before I can respond. 

There are suddenly a plethora of things sprinting through my mind. 

But the one that keeps being selfish, ringing loudest is Not Again. 

×××

The first time Starr had shut me out, I felt a splinter on my heart. It had been during freshman year, the term before summer. I'd never been more confused than that day. My best friend had just woken up and decided to treat me like I was the most disgusting being to associate with.

 I remember sitting next to her in English class, nudging her with my shoulder, grinning. And she'd done the strangest thing. She'd grabbed her chair and moved it as far as it would allow her. Avoided looking at me the entire time, and proceeded to act like I didn't exist. I'll never forget that odd flash of urgency I'd felt when she pulled away–like she was leaving, like she was trying to leave . . . me. 

I was so desperate to turn to her and ask her to tell me what I'd done wrong. Why she was acting so weirdly towards me. But I couldn't. Because she was still choosing to be mute at the time. I'd known her for five years by that time, and that was the one moment I desperately seeked her words the most. The moment I feared she might slip away. 

And she did. Over the summer, she did. But then I thought I'm not letting this happen, so during one of our odd sunday dinners, I looked her in the eyes, said , "Are you dumb?" and snickered. And each time I think of how I got her to play this hate me charade, it kills me every damn time to think I'd uttered something like that to her. 

This time, I don't know what to say, talk less of what to do.