I was reading some of my old posts – a moment of nostalgia – and I came across the first part of a story I started my sophomore of high-school (and never finished…oops).
“can we talk?” his voice was soft, but urgent. “please?”
hah. like i’d even give him a second of my time. after what he’d done to me? but then again, i did care for him…more than i needed to. more than was healthy. and although i had every right to think poorly of him, i didn’t want him to think badly of me. my anger and my buried feelings were fighting a bloody battle.
his hand brushed against my shoulder. i jumped away from the contact. his skin against mine was unbearable. especially when i thought of how it had been so natural for him to grab my hand or wrap his arm around my waist before. before…
“please, kate?” his pleading voice broke into my memories. “I need to-”
“fine,” i interuppted. “whatever. just make it…quick.” and painless, i added in my head. i wasn’t trying to make my voice so icy, but i was glad it was; he couldn’t know how he still affected me.
(Sorry for the lowercase – I just copied and pasted…didn’t feel like fixing it.)
Some lines of this remind me so much of what I’ve been going through the past few months: a break-up (if you can really even call it that) between me and someone I still see for at least five hours a day monday through friday. It’s kind of scary how I put these emotions that I wanted to be feeling into a character, and here I am, actually feeling those things.
The story doesn’t play out how my life is playing out, but isn’t that why people write after-all? To create a different world. That’s why I wrote.
Maybe I should go back and finish that story. Now that I actually know what a relationship means, or more about one, anyways. They always say write what you know; I’m not sure what I was thinking as a sixteen-year-old, writing about something I only dreamed about, but never knew.
