And then he stopped. Shane leaned his forehead against mine, breathing heavily, our eyes still closed, and he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Astra," he mumbled against my lips. "Please don't hurt yourself."
And all at once, his body fell l...
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C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - E I G H T
TW ⚠️ if you or some you know are experiencing suicidal thoughts or ideologies, please please PLEASE tell someone! Life is worth it, I promise, it has its ups and downs but please stay here. I know it's hard but you'll get through it like you have with everything else. This book aims to portray the negative consequences of suicide. Ily <33 help is available. You're not alone.
A s t r a *.✧
"What are you doing now?" asked Shane.
"Unbuttoning my apron," I deadpanned, rolling my eyes as that's exactly what we were both doing.
It was the end of our second day of work, and it was early evening since it was a Saturday. It was kind of busy today, and again, our other co-worker - whose name I did not even know, not that I cared - had bailed on us again.
There were no difficult customers today, thank god, but there probably would be soon. Saturdays were meant to be our busiest day but since the café was still fairly new, there weren't as many customers. Although, we were warned we'd have to work longer shifts in about a month or so's time.
"No, like after."
"Walking out of the café."
"I swear to god-" he muttered, shoving his apron back on the rack and grabbing his bag.
"What?" He didn't answer, and we both parted our ways at the door. I could feel the anxiety building up in me, and I swallowed.
"Bye, I guess." I weakly waved, feeling a tiny bit of guilt for how I'd just brushed him off.
"Bye," he smiled sarcastically. "Have fun walking out of the café." He snapped.
"Oh, I will." I rolled my eyes at his sudden mood change and we both went opposite directions. I could have gone the same way but today I had to visit someone. Finley was at home today with mom, so I didn't have to worry about him.
I decided to walk since it wasn't far from here, only about ten or so minutes. My hand flapped anxiously by my side with each step I took as I approached the small, red-bricked house with its neat little lawn. Mr and Mrs Hemingway must have trimmed the grass because the last time I came here it was knee-high. But that was a while ago.
I breathed in through my nose, and pressed the doorbell. A ring sounded faintly through the house and a figure moved behind the blurred glass of the door. After a few seconds there was a click and the same familiar creak I'd gotten so used to over the years.
