Chapter Text
You stare out the window of the train, rolling green hills passing by with the occasional castle resting on top of one of them. Your leg taps on the floor, feeling like an out-of-place wild animal in the presence of humans. You swallow down the feeling, clenching your shaking hands in your jeans.
Everyone is staring at you. An aggravating voice in your head tells you.
You look over at the other passengers who are minding their own business and glancing nowhere in your direction.
Sometimes you wish you could safely get a lobotomy. Disbelief still clouds your chest; you still can’t believe this is your life. That you’re doing this. Your phone vibrates with the millionth text from your mother and father.
And aunties and grandmas and grandpas and even a cousin text you. The most attention your phone has ever gotten in the ten years of owning one. Everyone thinks you’re crazy. Actually they didn’t believe you when you first told them. They’d look at you, tilt their head with a confused skeptical look and say,
Really?
Of course they would. You were the quiet kid. A timid little girl in their eyes who could hardly order a sandwich without panicking. If you were a normal person they’d believe you instantly. They’d be happy for you. Probably talk about their days abroad with relatability.
Not you. You got skepticism. You got,
Are you sure honey? That seems like too much for you.
They didn’t believe you were strong enough. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter what they think. You didn’t even believe you could do this until it was shoved right in your face. The night before your flight you threw up in your bathroom for hours and almost cancelled the whole thing.
Your foot is still tapping on the train floor when it gets to the right station. You check if you have your phone and keys five times. Six. And even seven. And that’s not enough so you stick your hand in your purse and hold it. The only way your brain will shut up and let you have some peace and quiet. You take a taxi to your apartment. It took five minutes of you rehearsing what to say in your head over and over before you forced yourself to approach the car.
The apartment is only two blocks away from your university. It’s small. But the ceilings are tall with old wooden beams and bricks. A very tall window to match it. Everything is in the same room. A kitchenette, a bed, a wash machine. No dryer. At least the bathroom is its own separate space with a door. It is … you guessed it. Tiny.
But it’s okay. You don’t need much space. To you this apartment is perfect. Actually it’s your dream. Your own place. Your own space. Perfect and cozy.
At the convenience store on your street you buy everything pink. Rugs, towels, sheets, and even plates. There was a time a couple years ago where you rejected everything feminine because of how it was forced upon you in your youth. But you’re starting to learn it’s okay to like these things. Even the color pink. Sometimes you can wear a skirt too without feeling like you’re being waterboarded. And sometimes you see yourself in the mirror wearing a dress and feel a rage so intense you have to change.
It’s fine. You’re different now. You’re better. You can stick up for yourself better. Speaking your mind is easier than it was last year.
Two weeks fly by like leaves flowing in the wind. Classes are going well. You like your professors. You don’t talk to anyone in class. A few people have come up to you and as much as you want to be relatable and kind, your voice ends up sounding bored and cold. It isn’t something that makes you spiral yourself to sleep anymore. You’ve accepted that this is just the way you are. Not to sound like one of the girls in those lame-ass rom-com movies, but something in you is different. Not in the quirky admirable way. As in … something is alien in you. Once you’d hit the age of twenty you had a revelation that you must’ve been born without something everybody else had. When god created humans equal he left you out of that equation. God makes no mistakes but his one exception was you.
Not that you believe in god anymore. Or that god.
You’re binge-watching a YouTube channel when your sister calls. The closest person you have to a friend. The only person who tries to understand you.
“Hey,” you say, sipping on the boba you ordered earlier. Your voice comes out awkward. You’ve known this girl your entire life and yet … uncomfortableness is embroidered into you.
“Hey I’m just checking up on you. How have things been?”
You open your mouth to say your predictable “fine” but you’re cut off by her yell.
“DON’T YOU DARE THROW THAT DINOSAUR AT YOUR SISTER—!” your sister yells suddenly. Not at you. Your four-year-old nephew who has a knack for throwing things and roaring.
You suck in your lips as she deals with them, tapping your fingers on your leg. God, you’re never having kids. Is the only thought ringing in your head. Everything about them stresses you out. Even listening to the screaming and crying through the phone is making you anxious. Being responsible for a tiny human that is sticky and prone to danger is your worst nightmare.
She comes back a second later, hair slipping from her messy bun. “Where were we? Oh, have you made any friends?”
“Nope,” you respond.
The look of pity comes instantly.
You rush to assure her. “It’s fine. You know me. I hate people.”
“I know you do. But still. A friend would be nice.”
“I like being alone.”
She sighs like she’s heard this a million times before. Which. She has. It’s what you always say to get them off your back. I hate people. I like being alone. Please don’t get involved.
“Okay, no friends. But have you done anything at least?”
“I go to the store. And school. I walked around a little but …” You felt out of place. Everyone could tell you were foreign. Everyone knew you didn’t know what you were doing. Everyone could feel that you didn’t belong.
She says your name exasperated. “At least go to a restaurant. You said there was a lot on your street? Go eat dinner. It’ll be nice to be out of your apartment.”
Actually the thought of dining alone is suddenly your new worst fear. Just imagining everyone eating with people they care about, friends, family, and you in the corner alone like an out-of-place bear. Hell no. “Yeah … maybe,” you say. Which really means it’s never happening.
“I’ll check your location. Do it. Or I’ll tell mom.”
That got you. A familiar terror squeezes your chest. Your mother is the scariest person alive. The type of person who could absolutely rip you apart and destroy your confidence in two words and somehow make you feel like the monster. “Fine,” you growl into the phone.
You decide on a Chinese restaurant only five buildings over from your place. You sit in the corner trying to appear as unnoticeable as possible. Silently begging everyone to not look at you. Of course this happens to be the busiest restaurant in the whole damn city.
After ten minutes of sitting down, dozens of college students pile in with their separate friend groups. You don’t recognize anyone from your school. There are seven different universities in this northern Italian city. It’s a college town. People fulfilling all types of careers live here and go to one of the schools. Doctors, veterinarians, paleontologists, biotech, and even a flying school for soon-to-be pilots. You name it. You can probably pursue it in this city.
It’s a place full of foreigners from all around the world but somehow you feel the most foreign.
You order in shaky Italian and force yourself not to dig your nails into your thigh. When the waitress responds back in English you want to cry. It makes you never want to even try to speak Italian again. You obviously butchered the language and made that lady hate you. She probably thinks you’re some pretentious foreigner or something. You bite your lip as your thoughts spiral out of control. Should you just leave? Would she want that? She probably doesn’t want to serve you.
“Hey,” a deep voice cuts through your ugly worries, “Can I sit here?”
You look across from you at the empty chair and the big hand that’s holding the top of it. Your eyes travel up and find the person the hand is connected to. A very objectively attractive man. Probably above six feet, the face of a goddamn model and purple eyes. He’s probably around your age. Maybe a year or two older. A very charming smile rests on his face like it’s always there.
You register what he said, feeling your face scrunch. What you want to say is, ‘why would you want to sit with me?’ What comes out is, “Why would you do that?” in a near-disgusted voice.
On the way home you’re going to buy a gun.
But the strange man isn’t affected by your blatant rudeness. Instead his smile shifts slightly, into something more … natural. “Because I want to, is that alright with you?”
Well, you can’t exactly say no when he phrases it like that. If you say no you’ll be thinking about it for the next four months with guilt. “Yeah, uh, go ahead. I’m probably leaving soon anyway.”
“I just saw you order,” the man replies. Okay, now his smile is frustrating you.
Seriously, you’re going to start chewing on your hair and eating it. It’d probably be better than whatever the fuck is going on in your chest right now. “Um …” You don’t really have anything to say to that. “I just wanted to leave.”
That makes him laugh for some reason. “Wow, ouch, you hold no punches huh?”
“I’m sorry,” you blurt instantly with wide eyes, panic tightening your chest. Have you angered him? Does he think you’re a horrible person? “I’m—I’m very—so—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—oh god—to offend you! I’m—”
“Woah woah,” he cuts in, his smile dropping to a frown. Great. Now is when he realizes you’re a freak. Just like everyone else does when you say the wrong thing. He puts a hand on top of yours on the table. You have to fight a flinch. You don’t want him to think he’s making you uncomfortable. Even though you are uncomfortable. “Relax, Mouse, I was only teasing you. Take a deep breath.”
For some reason you listen to him. He’s … a very convincing person without even trying. He has a voice that soothes, makes you want to follow it to the ends of the earth. You recall what he said. “Oh, my name isn’t Mouse.” You tell him your name.
“Pretty name,” he says, “but I think Mouse suits you.”
Of course you don’t object. You also don’t snatch your hand away from him even though it feels like it’s on fire. He must hear your thoughts somehow because he lets go and moves his hands out of your space.
You look everywhere but him, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You’re suddenly nauseous. You just want to go home and curl up on your bed and watch YouTube. You pretend to observe the menu so you don’t make eye contact with the man.
Everyone is looking at us. You glance up. Okay, maybe not everyone. A few people. But they’re all thinking the same thing. Why is he sitting with her?
“I’m Caleb in case you were wondering my name.”
Please leave me alone.
“I wasn’t,” you say and instantly regret it.
Most people would have picked up on the message you were unintentionally sending them and left you alone by now. But Caleb only smiles more as though you weren’t blatantly rude. “What did you order?”
“Oh … uh … just rice and dumplings.”
“That’s not enough,” Caleb says and leans back in his chair, very naturally comfortable at your table. “This place is really good. As a Chinese person I can confirm it’s almost authentic. It’s fine, you can share some of mine.”
Out of all the things not happening, that one is not happening the most.
“You’re Chinese?” you ask and then want to eat your hand. What if you sounded too interested? What if he—
“Yep,” he answers. No big deal. His fingers drum on the table in a synchronized rhythm.
“I’ve always wanted to go. To China, I mean.” What else would you have meant?
“Mmm, I don’t know if you’d like it.”
What is that supposed to mean? Do you look like someone who wouldn’t like it? Does he think you’re uncultured?
Noticing your deep-set frown he corrects himself. “You seem like someone who’d appreciate older places. Like here. Somewhere versed in history.”
“China has some of the oldest richest history in the world,” you tell him, then add, “Not that you wouldn’t know that.”
“Sure, but our cities are futuristic and busy. Not to mention all the Wanders.”
Your eyes widen and you lean a little closer. “Oh right, Wanders. What are they like?”
“Annoying.”
“Oh.”
“But also pretty cool. You know, when they aren’t trying to kill you.”
“You’re wrong,” you say, looking away from his purple eyes and down at the wooden table that has a bunch of initials carved into it. “I would still like the futuristic stuff. Did you know there’s a city in the sky? It’s called Skyhaven or something.”
His smile turns secretive like he’s in a joke you’re unaware of. “I’ve heard of it.”
“There’s nothing cool like that on this side of the world. We’re stuck in the past. Though, I do love the history here.”
“Is that why you chose to come to Italy?” He raises an eyebrow and sips on his drink that the waitress brought out. Some Chinese beer.
You trace your fingers around your Fanta can, feeling silly for drinking it. “Sort of.” Is all the answer you give him.
But Caleb is someone who likes to dig it seems. He’s determined to get more out of you than what you give everyone else. “I’m assuming you’re a student, what do you study?”
“Journalism,” you reply. Then, because you’re curious, you ask him, “You?”
Because you can’t get him down. There’s no clear reading of this man. Usually observing is your thing. But Caleb … you have no idea. The image he is presenting is charming and kind but … it feels only half true.
“I’m a pilot down at the flying school.”
Suddenly it clicks into place. Why didn’t you think of it? There’s nothing else he could’ve been. A pilot suits him. A laugh leaves you.
“Is that funny, Mouse?” he asks with narrowed eyes, but by his smile it’s obvious he’s not actually offended.
“How long are you here?”
“Two years,” he responds instantly. Questions seem to not faze him. Most people got uneasy with your curiosity.
“Flying school is only eighteen months, no?”
“I’m also studying aeronautical engineering. I already did most of my schooling back home. I’m just finishing it up here.”
Damn. You weren’t expecting that. You try not to look impressed. But god, Caleb has to be infinitely smart. Smarter than you. Math is your biggest enemy. Give you words and essays any day. You chew the inside of your cheek again, not knowing what to say. Words are easy for you when you write them, but they give you a hard time when it comes to speaking.
Your food comes out and an excited smile blooms on your face. You’re starving. You look down and realize they forgot to give you chopsticks. Great. You lift your head and open your mouth to ask the waitress but she’s already gone.
Your eyes slip shut for a minute, preparing yourself to call for her. But then you don’t have to. Caleb calls her over, speaking to her in Chinese. The waitress laughs breezily at something he says then hands him another pair of chopsticks from her apron.
How had he known?
He hands them to you with an easy smile. You take them hesitantly with a muttered “thanks.”
You eat mostly in silence.
And then, “Here, try mine.”
“No, I’m okay.”
“It’s really good.”
“I’m a picky eater.”
He eyes you like he knows it’s a bullshit excuse but then lets it go. This is awkward. You’re making it awkward.
“Fine,” you snap a little too hissy then snatch some of his chicken and shove it into your mouth. Oh my god. “Oh my god.” You accidentally say out loud.
“See?” He throws you a smirk that could make anyone shiver. “Told ya.”
“It’s okay …”
“Liar. You love it. Take more, I don’t mind sharing.”
You scowl at him before you realize how rude it is and cover it with a blank expression. “I’m okay.”
“Do you hate me?” he asks suddenly; there’s no apprehension on his face. He just seems genuinely curious, leaning forward to really lock eyes with you. He likes doing that. Holding gazes. It makes you want to die. You glance down at your rice.
“No. Of course not,” you say, twiddling with your chopsticks. You just don’t understand why he’s eating with you. You don’t understand why he has stayed here this long. Nobody’s interested in you long enough to have dinner. “Why are you here alone? And why are you sitting with me?” you ask him, confused. Your voice comes out judgmental.
“Hey, first of all, you’re here alone too, Mouse. Second, you looked … I don’t know, like you wanted someone to sit with you.”
“I really didn’t.”
He lets out a laugh, his face ending in a grin. “You know how to make me feel welcome. But seriously. I can leave if you want me to.”
“It’s fine. You don’t have to leave.”
“But do you want me to?”
“No,” you say quietly, “I mean I don’t care either way.”
“I really can’t figure you out, Mouse. I won’t lie, it’s frustrating me.”
“I’m not a puzzle,” you snap, suddenly vicious, dropping your chopsticks. You knew there had to be an ulterior motive as to why he was sitting with you. He isn’t interested in you. He just wants to solve you, wants to feel like a hero and take pity on the quiet girl alone in the restaurant. But the anger deflates as quickly as it came. It doesn’t matter. Why would you care what he wants from you?
“I didn’t mean it in an offensive way. I’m sorry. I just meant … you intrigue me. I can’t figure out your next move.”
“I’m sorry for snapping.”
“It’s my fault.”
Oh god you’re a mess. What is wrong with you? “It’s fine. We don’t know each other.”
“… what about twenty questions?”
“Seriously?”
“Oh c’mon, Mouse. Humor me.”
“I suppose.”
“Favorite color?”
You raise a brow. Really? “Don’t have one,” you respond. Then a little quieter, “Pink. Maybe.”
Caleb looks surprised at that answer but he doesn’t say anything else, waiting for your question. Ugh. You are not the right person to play these games with. Suddenly you’ve forgotten every single question in the English language. And you call yourself a journalist. So of course, the dumbest possible question slips out of your mouth: “Why are your eyes purple?”
His lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh at you. If you knew him a little better you probably would have kicked him under the table. “Dunno, I was born with them this color.”
“Thank you, smartass.”
“Ooo, careful—you’re showing a bit too much personality, Mouse.”
But his grin is triumphant, like it’s been his goal this entire time to get the walls around you to fracture.
You snap your mouth shut, forcing your expression blank. Shit. How did he realize that’s what you were doing? Usually if you act boring and disinterested enough people leave you alone.
“Your turn,” you say with narrowed eyes.
“Do you do drugs?”
This question baffles you enough to leave your jaw hanging in genuine shock. That was a complete 180 from your favorite color. “Um, no?” Do you look like a drug addict or something? “I mean, not un-prescribed ones anyway.”
“Oh, okay,” he says and offers no further explanation for that question.
Your eyes narrow further, your head tilting. “Do you do drugs?”
“Nope. And that counts as your question, by the way.” He flashes a sly smirk and shovels more food in his mouth.
You scowl proudly, not trying to force it down this time.
“Do you have any friends?”
You hope he dies. “No,” you growl. “Are you always so annoying?”
“Depends on who’s asking. Why journalism?”
“I like to write.”
“Yeah, but why not write novels?”
“I like to write about things that matter. And that counts as a question, by the way,” you throw his words back at him with a small tight smile. “What kind of pilot?”
We both seem to lean closer as though a war had just started and the rest of the restaurant didn’t exist. “Commercial. Why—”
“I get another question,” you interrupt, slightly smug. “Why did you come to Italy?”
“It’s very far from China. Why did you?”
“To prove that I could. Why did you lie about what kind of pilot you were?”
That surprises him. And by the way he looks you can tell that not very many things do. His head tilts, observing you for a moment. It seems he still hasn’t figured you out. “You’re good, Mouse. How did you know I was lying?”
He’s weirdly easy to talk to. You don’t like it. It feels like manipulation. Nobody can ever make you talk this much so he must be pulling the strings somehow.
You tap your fingers on the table and force down a smile. “You do this thing when you lie.”
“What thing?” he asks, eager.
“If I tell you then you’ll stop doing it and I like knowing when someone is lying to me.”
“Okay, I’m understanding the journalist thing now. You’re devious.”
“I’m not the liar.”
“It wasn’t a lie. It was a half-truth. I originally was going to be a fighter pilot. But I … haven’t decided if it’s what I really want. It’s part of why I moved here, to just go to school and figure things out.”
“That’s a lot more than I asked for.”
He huffs a laugh. “You know how to make a guy feel special, Mouse.”
“Stop calling me that,” you grumble and shove rice into your mouth, glaring down at your bowl. Too much food. You can feel it in your stomach, making you cringe slightly. Suddenly nothing is tasty.
“Full?” Caleb asks, noticing your behavior. It’s really starting to piss you off being around someone just as observant as you.
You nod with a tight smile. “I’ll probably go now.” That’s all you say before standing up and gathering your coat and purse, feeling for your phone and wallet inside to make sure it’s still there. You look at the counter realizing you have to pay up front. Shit. Approaching is the worst. You always stutter and make a fool of yourself. Caleb stands up too, cutting in front of you and walking to the counter first.
Okay, rude. You glare at his back. He didn’t strike you as the impatient type but I guess everyone is full of surprises. He’s obnoxiously tall and broad; you’re eye-level with the space between his shoulder blades. Nice shoulders. You turn away, frowning at the floor. What an odd thing to think.
You weren’t paying attention so when Caleb turns from the counter and offers to walk you home you say, “Oh, I have to pay.”
“Don’t worry, Mouse. I got it.”
You blink at him stupidly. Because surely he doesn’t mean he paid for you? “Got what?”
“Your bill.”
You cringe. “Please no.”
“What an interesting way to say thank you.”
“I’ll pay you back right now. In cash.” You start digging in your purse for your wallet. Oh my god, do you have your wallet? You sigh in relief when you find it, but before you can pull it out there’s a hand on your arm.
“I got it this time, you can pay next time.”
You force yourself to look into his purple eyes, blinking a couple times. “Next time?”
“When we hang out again, obviously.”
“Why would we do that?”
His smile is secretive. You get the feeling he’s laughing at you in his head. His eyes are like galaxies. “Can I walk you home?”
“Do you have to?”
“Yes, actually. I’ll die if I don’t.”
You give him an unamused look and leave the restaurant. Of course he follows. What is with this guy? The road is busy with students out for a good time. It has over nine restaurants on it alone, and Italians like to stay out till one a.m., you’ve begun to learn.
You turn back to Caleb. “Thank you for my dinner. I will pay you back. But you don’t have to walk me home. I live really close.”
“I’d feel better if I got you home safe.”
“I’m sure the whole knight-in-shining-armor thing is charming in your head—”
“I’m charming outside of my head too.”
“—But really, I live close by and I’m fine.”
“We didn’t finish our game. At least let me walk you a little.”
Why won’t he give up on you? “I live this way,” you snap and start striding in the direction of your apartment. He follows, catching up to your side with a winning smile. Arrogant ass—
“What’s one thing you want to do that you haven’t done before?”
That question stumps you. One thing you want to do. How can someone who doesn’t really desire anything answer that question? “I’ve always wanted to go to a bar. And order a drink. And drink it.”
Caleb looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “You’ve never been to a bar?”
“No …” You’ve been sheltered your entire life and told drinking alcohol was a sin. It sounds lame but it’s making your gut clench just thinking about it. “I’ve just … I don’t know, I want to experience being drunk at least once.”
“I’ve never really been drunk either. I always stop before I get to that point.”
“You don’t like being out of control,” you say what he doesn’t.
He narrows his eyes. “Do you have some kind of mind-reading evol?”
“I’m just observant. You like control. Of yourself mostly. I’d bet on other people too, but you don’t show it as much. This persona you put on, it’s only half true. The charming smile and the kindness—it’s a cover-up for something else. Something you can’t control.”
For the first time you seem to have genuinely upset him. Huh. And you weren’t even trying that time. He turns away and keeps walking forward, facing ahead.
“I guess you’re kind of right. You’re the first person to notice it, though.” He says the last part quietly, like it’s more to himself than to you. “And what’s your conclusion then—why am I controlling? C’mon, I know you have a theory, Mouse.” He flashes a smile.
“Something happened to you when you were a kid,” you respond quietly, staring down at your beat-up red Converse. “Something out of your control.”
He’s silent for a few moments, which means you must’ve been right. “Tell you what,” he says suddenly, stopping only a few doors down from yours and turning to face you. “How about we both do things we want to do that are … out of our control?”
“What.”
“Like … once a week. We’ll do something you want to try, like get drunk at a bar—”
“I can’t get drunk at a bar!”
“Well, that’s the point, Mouse. Do things we want to do that we’d usually never do. We can switch off. We can even make a list.”
You do love a good list.
What are you thinking? Hell no!
“We don’t even know each other. You could be a serial killer.”
“This will help us learn. And no offense, Mouse, but you don’t strike me as the type of person who would still be around me this long if you thought I was a serial killer.”
You chew on your lip. “I’m busy.”
“For the rest of the semester?”
“Yes…”
“Don’t make me beg, Mouse. I’ll even let you pay me back for dinner.”
“What is wrong with you? Why would you want to—?”
“Because I like you,” he responds like it’s simple, then resumes walking. The yellow streetlights glow upon his black hair. It looks shiny. And soft. Like your fingers would glide right through it. “And you don’t have any friends.”
You open your mouth. He cuts you off.
“And before you freak out and say ‘don’t take pity on me’ or whatever you were about to spout, it’s not pity. I think everyone should have at least one person they know in a foreign place. Someone to do all the … college stuff with, you know? I don’t have a lot of friends here either.”
You stare at him blankly.
“What? It’s true. So come on, just say yes. What’s there to lose?”
Everything. Nothing. Who knows. Even though he isn’t asking a lot, it feels like agreeing would change your entire world. Maybe you don’t want things to change yet. But still you reach your hand out. “Give me your phone.”
His grin is as warm as the sun. He digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone, unlocking it before handing it to you. You add your number and name yourself by your name then in parentheses “(not mouse).” You have a feeling he is going to ignore that and change it to “Mouse” anyway. You hand it back. “I’ll think about it. Okay? I’m not … much of a ‘just do it’ person.”
He nods, still smiling, and then starts walking again. You grab his wrist, halting him. His eyes flick down to your hand then back up to your face with a question in them.
You let go, trying not to shake out your hand and erase what his skin feels like. “Oh, uh, my apartment is right here.” You point to the old brown door you’re standing in front of.
“Okay, so you weren’t lying when you said you live close.”
You shake your head and dig in your purse for your keys. Oh my god, where are your keys? Did you leave them? You feel your heart start to race in your chest as the digging gets more frantic. And to make it worse, Caleb is watching this entire freak-out. He’s going to realize how you are. Realize he doesn’t want to be friends with someone who panics over the simplest of things. Who—
Your hand finds your keys and you let out a breath, pulling them out of your bag. You don’t spare him a glance, too embarrassed to look. You put the key in and unlock the building door.
“Does Friday work for you?” he asks suddenly before you go through the door.
You turn around reluctantly. He’s not looking at you like you’re a freak. Instead it’s that same smile that makes you feel odd. “I haven’t agreed,” you remind him.
“Yet.” His smirk tells you everything. “Goodnight, Mouse.”
“Not my name,” you grumble and slam the door. Who would want to be friends with such an annoying man anyway? One that nicknames you after a rodent? Not you.
You get to your apartment and are relieved to see it didn’t burn down, which shouldn’t be surprising since you checked four times that your stove was off before you left and even took a picture. You take off your shoes and quickly change out of your clothes into pajamas. Another name to the list of your worst enemies is jeans. You fucking hate jeans.
After brushing your teeth you take your meds and plop down on your twin-sized bed, staring at the pink fairy lights twinkling on your wall. You try reading a book, which is what you would normally do, but your mind keeps wandering.
A friend …
What a joke.