Mind and Matter

19 | Leo

I could feel things slowly crumbling apart.

It sounded more dramatic when I put it that way, but it seemed that in every corner of my life, something was wrong.

As I walked away like a pathetic fool from the scene after school, turning around had never crossed my mind. Because the moment I took that first step was the moment I realized I never took a moment to think matters over.

Emerson's stoic face filled my mind at intervals, her pursed lips and unreadable eyes as Neve had divulged something I had almost forgotten. She'd just stared at me—hard—and maybe if she had said something, I would've felt better.

In the beginning, she had intrigued me; her brainy quirks and the fact she seemed both proud and shy about herself was charming. But as the time went by, I didn't only like the things anyone could notice.

I liked the way she never skirted around the point with her answers and statements. She was honest and real. She didn't ignore or encourage my addiction to cigarettes. She didn't jump to conclusions like an Olympic track and field star.

She was a balance of open and reserved, and I was beginning to think she liked the chase.

So as I lay in my bed last night, staring at my ceiling until the smooth paint seemed to blur, I came to terms with the fact I liked Emerson.

I liked her a lot.

But I didn't know how much of that was reciprocated.

But maybe I was selfish. The list of things I liked about her all seemed to relate to me.

And I didn't just feel selfish with her.

Santiago hadn't answered my texts in days, and I didn't have the decency to at least call him. Maybe I was no different with my father. Parts of me ached over the way it'd been growing up—the constant feeling of being second best, a burden. Always tamping down that burning desire to be able to list positive traits when asked about him instead of coming up with nothing. But I had never tried to change the way it was between us.

Or maybe I really just hated phone calls.

I kicked myself out of my bedsheets and planted myself on my desk chair. I tore off a page from a notebook and drew circles on it with the back of a pen, pondering whether I wanted to write anything. Penning a letter I would never send sounded like some corny shit a therapist would recommend, but I had so much to get off my chest, the words started flowing by themselves.

☆

A full front and back of a page later, I'd fallen asleep on my desk and woke up to ink imprinted on my cheek and a crick in my neck.

Even the slightest movement of my head from one side to the other made my muscles contort and tighten, as if someone had their fist wrapped around my trapezius and kept twisting. I told myself to suck it up, as this was minor compared to some injuries I'd sustained from playing soccer all these years. Fractured radius. Sprained knee. The ball to my face not too long ago...