The Exchange Student ➵ phan

Chapter 7

Yet I know in the back of my mind that these may be a chat room of child molesters in rapists I took a chance, the perpetual sadness and anger at time zones for existing leading me to make that first message. I've grown close to a boy named Evan Edinger, an aspiring writer who's been an exchange student in Manchester for 2 years and he tell me he's in love with it. Evan never misses a moment to try and reassure me when I feel a bought of depression washing over me, almost able to read my emotions through text. We've talked on and off for hours about almost anything you could possibly think of, sports--our aversion to the idea of them--video games, hobbies, Netflix's, absolutely everything we could think of between the hours 9pm and 4am, when my brain refused to let me sleep, entirely convinced I would choke to death in a snotty mess while I slept.

Tip toeing over to the door I flip the horned hood of my sweatshirt over my head, holding my arms closer to me and shivering. What was I thinking wearing only my boxers around this house? What is the temperature exactly, -5 degrees?

I make my way down the steps, catching a glimpse of what it looks like outside from between the curtains on the window next to the front door. I walk over to it and slowly shove the heavy drape to the side. Hissing in pain while the light hits my eyes, causing me to blink continuously until they adjust to the sudden light change. I haven't looked outside in at least 3 days. Taking a huge intake of breath I can feel my eyes physically widen at the sight before me. Jesus Christ I've never seen the sky look quite so breath taking.

Orange mixes with pink, yellow, blue, purple, soft red, everything swirls together in the most perfect of ways. I almost want to cry as the rainbow colored is illuminated by a setting sun. Houses dot below the sky, creating a steady outline with a free dark to light comparison. it;s the perfect photo taking sky, even the window is set upon the perfect angle. I take my opportunity to stare at it for as long as I wish. Another downfall to never be alone, you can never quite gaze upon beautiful skies like you desperatly want too. Always thinking someone will catch you staring and categorize you to be a weirdo.

I should go outside, I think randomly, forgetting about my grumbling stomach for a few seconds and turning towards the sun room. It shouldn't hurt that bad, I can lay in the grass if I really can't stand upright anymore. Oh, that's a good idea, I haven't laid in the grass since I was twelve and was shell shocked out of it by some bully calling me gay on the playground. Who the fuck even stereotypes laying in the grass? How can there be something wrong with appreciating extraordinary things? Apparently there is but fuck that guy I can look at beautiful things all I want. Sexuality only controls who you want to date not who you are.

The moment the scent of fresh earth hits my nose I sigh in contentment, shutting the glass door behind me and stepping unto the porch and down into the gorgeous garden. God this place is such a shell shock, not once have I looked back here and thought, 'holy shit this place is actually real not in an old Disney cartoon.' Hard to believe Phil's dad found time to garden this entire thing by himself--when Mrs. Lester didn't give into his pleas and helped him water the other half before dinner--I'lll admit I would really like to help them someday but I still have a rocky relationship with Mr. Lester, though he is extremely courteous towards me the way his temper cracks in half a second keeps me on my toes around him at all times. Afraid I will say the wrong thing any second and force him to crack down on me. Which I know from experience will drive me into complete hysterics and self hatred for months on end until somebody finally gets the balls to snap some sense back into me.

I walk the garden for a while, appreciating the fireflies slowly bobbing into view as the sun sets lower, tinting the ground a shade that much darker and the sky burns an even deeper red than before, changing all the colors behind it. I walk along the stone path, running my hands along some of the flowers delicately as I possibly can, I can not stand the idea of hurting something so sweet, so previous that it could be destroyed by the smallest of movements. A flick of a hand I could destroy everything Mr. Lester worked hard to create, probably resulting in me getting slapped across the face and told to never come back to this house.