Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

51 | Across The Bridge

VIERNES
12:54 AM

Dahlia Gray

My phone flips between my fingers, balanced on the center of my palm, as I waited for a notification to pop up on screen or his ringtone to sound through the speakers. Instead, I'm greeted with a long draft that sends a shiver down to my core, rustling the branches from above, and a heavy feeling pressing against my heart.

My eyes scan the horizon, taking in the desolated park with little interest. My head was spinning with one primary thought, and all seemed to be towards him. Each passing car I hoped for him, every moving silhouette peaked from the corner of my eyes I hoped for him—and everything and anything was a prayer for his presence.

I glance down to my hands, palming facing upwards, and imagine the day I took my chance. The memories flood back like a hurricane—the day I took his face into my hands, stared at him hard in the eyes, and kissed him.

The last day I ever saw him.

Phone calls were sent to voicemails, texts were left on delivered, and concern sprang through the roof. I didn't want to assume the worst: I thought he could've gotten sick from our long hours spent outside, or he wanted to rest a day or two, sinking in the memories made on his eighteenth birthday. I wanted excuses; to silence that voice in the back of my head, screaming at me otherwise. I wanted to think that this doesn't have to deal with me, that he thinks this was all a mistake.

He kissed me back.

So, why is he ignoring me?

I log into my phone, clicking on the delivered messages that never received replies. I scroll through, reading the hundred of texts I sent to him, hoping for a response. It felt clingy and desperate—each one worse than the last—but I didn't care. I wanted him to say something—to tell me to shut up, to tell me it's not me, something.

But it fell in the void, and for once, the silence was deafening.

I close my phone, dropping it onto my lap and lean my head backwards, neck pressing against the spine of the bench. The stars are visible through the clear night sky, but despite the mumbles of constellations I'm able to recall through the faint of my blurring vision, nothing could take my mind off my current predicament.

My eyes are growing watery, my chest labored in breaths, and I'm trying so hard to remain strong. I know I shouldn't be this hooked over a boy that doesn't seem to care for anything in my life, but I am. I thought I served as an exception, and for once, I thought I could see him through a clear lens instead of rose-colored glasses.

I didn't want to be wrong, but it's starting to feel like the only choice left.

Our memories come back to me in flashes, like lightning strikes through the night sky, or screenshots saved on a digital camera. It started from the very beginning, to our most recent, and it felt so heart-wrenching to relive the life I thought I could have.

It felt so stupid to imagine I could have that.

He seemed like he cared, he truly did. He seemed like he liked me, more than just the label-less friend he tried to box me into, and more than just a person he casually associates himself with. I meant more than that. He went the extra mile, he took the extra steps, and I always knew I was behind—but I wanted him to know that I want him.

I thought he loved me.

"Gosh, Dahlia," I mumble under my breath, the cold slicing through my skin and the feeling of hot tears rolling off my cheeks and landing on the back of my hand. I attempted to wipe them away, but they flooded back, and I just couldn't bother to stop them. "Why are you so stupid?"

I should've just stayed where I was at. Made myself comfortable sinking into the quicksand, building a home around the stability of being known. It would've been better, at least he would've been able to pull me up.

Now I'm across the bridge but I'm without him.

And it's so much worse.

I suck in a cruel breath, and wipe another trail of tears that's blurring my vision. I pick up the phone from my lap, dialing his number from the memory before pressing the cool device against my ear. I wipe my nose with the back of my hands, clearing my tears with the hook of my finger, and trying to regain composure as the phone rings, and rings, and rings.

And goes straight to voicemail.

My jaw loosens as the automatic message relays back to me, and I sink back into the seat, releasing a heavy breath. He won't get back to me, no matter how hard I'm trying to reach him, and there's this odd feeling pressing against my ribs, uncomfortable and forcing me to acknowledge—that this feels so familiar.

My head aches too much to consider where I might've been catching this sense of deja vu, but it didn't matter. What matters is the situation at home—and what's happening now, is hurting me so much.

I feel so helpless, undeserving. Maybe I was reading the wrong signs and making the wrong choices. Maybe, after all, I was right—there is love in this world and people do find it, but I'm not something worth loving.

It hurts but I'm not surprised.

And sitting here, alone, weeping into the dark with nothing but the stars to comfort me—proves my point. 

━━━━━

biden won!

i know he's not the best person, but we finally got that trump out of office! the movement doesn't stop, biden isn't free from criticism, and we will push and push for biden to make better policies, to help the environment, to help the poor, to help the country. we will continue to fight for equality and justice among us, forever until there's none more to avenge. :)