𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗝𝗔𝗖𝗢𝗕𝗦,
A smart girl with a secret. A smart girl with too much regret and hatred in her heart for the person who once made it shine.
𝗡𝗢𝗔𝗛 𝗦𝗖𝗢𝗧𝗧,
A gentle boy with a desire, A gentle boy with to much love and memories...
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••••
I sigh, and I stare at the street across from me, Two houses down, to be exact. It's the house that has yet to be hit by the sun's gaze.
It's an all polished white, opposite of mine. My house is painted this obnoxious Prussian, blue color, with polished white rims, surrounding the windows, the front door and the banister to the stair case outside the house.
When I look at her house, with a pathetic gaze. I don't know what to really think about. I don't know if I should go into the sappy story, of how I've created a distance between our completely opposite houses.
And yet, In the same conclusion. They have stayed the exact same.
I would like to say that it was us who grew apart, but we stayed the same, almost. It was the world that didn't like us together.
It's not like the movies, it was never like the movies. Our windows weren't perfectly lined across from each-other and we didn't flicker flash light in a language only we could understand.
We created a challenge to talk to each-other, and we completed it every time. Even that one time, when I broke my ankle once just to talk to her, just to look at her sparkling brown eyes and play with her sweet silk curls, the world doesn't really get to see anymore.
At the time it was stupid. A seven year old boy probably shouldn't jump out of a window, two stories up just to see a girls smile, but just like the every cliches, it was worth it.
Still now I don't know what our story is supposed to say or if we even have one.
So, right now all I can do is stare, "What the fuck are you staring at." My light features of solemn thought falter.
The tight voice of my brother lifts to my ears. My eyes slice over to him from outside of my car where he stands, with a bored look.
His shaggy brown hair peaks out of the black beanie, he has over his head, matches the black hoodie that has some skater logo on it. His finger grips onto the strap of his bag, while the other hangs loosely off his shoulder.
I purse my lips together, "I was seeing if The Storks had a return policy on delinquent — preteen boys." My voice flat, with a look of sarcasm.
"I'm not a preteen, I'm thirteen. You dumb fuck." He glares, the features on my face scream 'what's the difference' as I glance back at him.
"For someone who still has spider—man bedsheets. You sure are confident in that statement." I mutter, unfazed. I twisted the key in the ignition, hearing the rev of the engine, before leaning back.
