The Twenty-Fifth Summer Pt. 1
Do you remember that night when that dumbass got really drunk and he told everyone that you liked me? He spat it out like a mouthful of vinegar, bitter and resentful, and your eyes immediately dropped to the can in front of you, reading it like it was the most interesting thing in the world. He did it because he's an asshole. He did it because he was mad. He did it because he has the socialization of a doorknob. Remember how you didn't look at me for the entire night? I was so mad. Not at you, though; at him. I felt the immediate repercussions of that one slurred sentence. "You know he likes you, right?" I knew it right then.
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Can I tell you a secret? That one night where we ate pizza and you helped me in into my barstool? That one night where you and John pretended to be drummers? The night we sang along to your ridiculous playlist? The night where you sat so close to me, I could see the green flecks in your eyes in the dim lighting of the bar? The night you wished me a good night and watched me walk out the door until I disappeared out of sight? I told my best friend about you that night in the quiet darkness of his car. He told me that you seemed cool. And I told him that if you asked me out, I would say "yes". But when you told me you liked me, I panicked, because something, deep in the back of my mind, I knew that she still had you. And I was right.
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If I could stop time in one moment, I would pick that night. You remember, the one at the park? But after the show was over. Do you remember? I was absolutely devastated that morning, gray clouds suffocated the sun, rain threatening to pour down, washing the day out completely. You told me we could do something else instead, attempting half-heartedly to make the situation appear somewhat better. The actors left the stage and gallivanted into the arms of their loved ones still lingering in the audience, but you and I sat sprawled out in the cold summer breeze, your blanket over my bare feet, I was too stubborn to cover with it, and you stretched out astride me, gazing up at me from your lashes. You did warn me that you would be watching me more than the show and you saw me cry that night, my own shame. And maybe it was the residual sadness of Ophelia's death that made me vulnerable, but I think I changed my mind about you that night. I tried to hide my tears, my sweatshirt sleeves damp as my breath caught in my throat, and you smiled, a hand on my back as I pushed you away, licking my wounds like a metaphorical cat, in solitude. We talked about everything that night after the lights came up and the fireflies danced in the darkness of the treetops, the crickets creating an orchestra of sound. Everyone was packing up, and you just sat looking at me. I remember because I was looking at literally anything else but your face, knowing my own would be red under such scrutiny. I picked your mind as you talked your way through opinions and actions until the lights went out on us. And just then, I thought you might do it, you might tell me really where your mind was, but instead, you helped me pack up my blanket, and we left.\
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I have no right to feel like this because you were never mine. But every time a message goes unanswered, goes unacknowledged, I break. I crack. I fragment and I don't know why. What have you done to me? I want to turn you back into a face. Just a person that means nothing to me. But it's too late. I think I figured it out, though. You chose her over me. And that's fine. But it really isn't. I wasn't her. I wasn't good enough. And that's okay. It's not. But it is. I still look back at our conversations. If not for anything, just how perfect our thoughts flowed. I don't think I miss you. I miss that. You came along when I was most alone and suddenly I wasn't anymore. Every message was met with an answer. Queries about days, weather, feelings, our most wayward ideas met with enthusiasm. And for a second, I had just what I needed - a creative force to push me along. To make my wildest thoughts seem attainable. You were a whiteboard and I was a permanent marker. And I wrote all over you and now I can't erase anything and I'm sitting here while you're out there at a bar, chatting with your friends, messaging her, telling her about your day, and I'm here. And I'm here, with my thoughts, trying to keep it together because I don't know how. I don't know sometimes why I feel that lump at the back of my throat. I don't know why I feel like my heart is being ripped apart, piece by piece. It's difficult to describe. Tonight is the last night. I tell myself this every fucking day. Nightly.