The Story Of An Almost Us

~~I wanna be rich, and I want lots of money,~~

What? My radio alarms is going off? That means that…

0 new text messages

Excuse me? Why is Tim not texting me this morning? This is not okay..

~~And I’ll take my clothes off, and it will be shameless~~

Oh right. He’s working on finishing the kitchen today. He’s been working on that for ages, I wonder if he’s wearing the hardhat I made him…

I get up and saunter down the staircase, stopping to dance a little, maybe pretend like I’m on Broadway. I reach up, about to spin, and a sharp pain gets to my hip.

I pull up my shirt, and push down the lace waistband of my knickers. The cuts from a few nights ago are bleeding again. I rush to the closet and pull out some bandaids, quickly covering my shameful act. Timmothy knew, but he thought I was getting better. Truth was, I didn’t think I could get better.

Ever since I lost Steve it’s been ridiculous trying to cope. I pushed the thought straight off the bottomless cliff in my head and tried to remember what I was about to do. My mouth was dry, and I was super tired.

Right. The tea.

Water cascaded down the side of the tea pot. I was too lazy to try and fill it perfectly. I put it on the stove and turned up the fire, and it started licking the edges hungrily. Hungrily. HUNGRY. 

The door the the storage room creaked as I blasted it open, in search of some nutrient or something sweet. A poptart, maybe? Or Lucky Charms? Before I found anything, the tea started shrieking. I clawed at my ears, begging for it to stop. Eventually it did, and I plopped in a few bags of Earl Grey.

Hopefully Tim wouldn’t forget about me today. I’m making a conscious effort not to annoy him or make him get bored of me (although, I know he never could). I slowly sip my caffeinated beverage.

What to do today?

can u get on skype??

My phone buzzed, it was Tim. The usual morning text. I pulled a sweatshirt over my bra, not even stopping to fix my hair or primp by the mirror. I power on my Mac, basking in the warm radiation of the screen. The fan was whirring inthe background, and I gave it a kick in an effort to turn it down. I reached over to the radio and started blasting classics through it’s tiny ancient speakers. Skype powered up, and of course, a call from him came through.

“Goodmooornninnnnnnnnnggggg”, his voice echoed almost through a tunnel.

“Gahhh, shuddup, do you know what time it is, I’m exhausted from last night”, I burried my head in my hands, rubbing my eyes. It had been his birthday yesterday, his 15th. We had gone out to some fancy resturant, and had cake, and embarassed him by forcing the staff to sing to him. Of course, him being Timmothy, he started singing along.

“Oh cheer up fatso. I had the wierdest dream last night!”

He continued talking to hours, telling me about his dream. Something involving Asians and Gina and his grandpa. I don’t even remember it all. When he finally ran out of breath, we started singing and dancing and just being plain ridiculous.

It was summer, and this was pretty much our life. Bestfriends, that was us. Sure, we had a few problems alone, but together, we sure as hell rocked the world’s socks off.

One of my problems?

I was madly in love with him.