Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

53 | Potholes On The Road

FRIDAY
4:08 PM

Dahlia Gray

My laptop sat propped open in front of me, my trembling fingers digging into the case of my phone and my head hung low. Aysa sat in front of me, scribbling on her notebook, gel oozing from the pen, minding her business as much as I'm minding mine.

I didn't feel like talking. I didn't feel like doing anything. When I came into work today, it felt like my legs were anchors and I could barely walk across the floor without wanting to sink to the ground. As I accomplish tedious tasks—taking coffee orders, running back and forth from departments—the employees made note of my uncharacteristic silence. They didn't comment on it, but they eyed me and waited for me to speak up about the stars or give any commentary about the stars and the planetary alignment. They knew I love that.

But I didn't.

I wanted to call in sick and take days off, but I knew I had to persist. Despite the fact that my heart sank into my ribcage, every breath felt hard to take, and my chest constricting at the mere thought of Harlow—I had to continue. We were barely anything, and I treated us like a relationship.

I should've stayed in my lane. I should've stayed where I was at.

"Spill," Aysa demands, drawing my tired eyes to her face. Her red hijab wraps neatly around her head, her eyes dancing across the pages before meeting mine.

Swallowing hard, I gave her a look, because I didn't feel like opening my mouth. It felt heavy, every movement aches, but I'm here. I thought I looked distracted enough.

"What's going on?" She asks diligently, her brown eyes flashes with concern. "There's something off about you lately."

"Nothing." I answer quietly, nails digging into the plastic of the transparent phone case. I hope the lie escapes me well. "I'm just tired."

"Yeah, sure," she hums, her tone filled with disbelief. I wouldn't believe me either. "We're all tired, but that's not the problem here."

Aysa reaches forward, holding out her hand with her palm facing the ceiling. It was a warm gesture, and as she waits for me to take it, I stare back into her deep brown eyes–tired, sad, and a bit ashamed.

"Am I really that readable?" The words were soft, my voice cracking as they slip through my teeth, and I suck up the need to bawl out in the middle of the table. It's as if the waterworks are building in my lungs, suffocating my breath, and I'm just waiting for it to reach full capacity.

Her eyes soften, delicacy flashes through her irises, "kid..."

"I feel so stupid," I said softly, the words gasping on my tongue and the quiver in my voice I tried so hard to conceal, "I feel so stupid, and hurt, and there's this one feeling in my chest that I can't seem to describe. It feels so familiar, but so detached, and it hurts so bad."

My fists bundle underneath the table, clenching and unclenching, trying to relieve this stress building inside of me. I can't explain the pain I'm feeling towards Harlow ignoring me—turning his back on me—but it feels so close. So familiar. Like I'm missing a puzzle piece that could tie everything together but I'm too heartbroken to find it.

Aysa separates from the chair and falls in front of me, crouching with heels on. Setting a comforting hand on my lap, and forcing me to turn towards her while she watches my expression very closely. "Hey," she whispers, "can you breathe? Can you count?"

I nod viciously, but tears are welling in my eyes. I'm trying hard to wipe them away, before Aysa catches me crying, but it was too late. My cheeks are hot and flustered, my eyes glassy and visions are blurring. I feel embarrassed.