A Bad Boy in my life

Fourty nine

Still, no matter where I go
At the end of every road
You were good to me

You were good to me — Jeremy Zucker, Chelsea Cutler

POV: MAXON

An intriguing truth about farewells is that they only sting when they come from something you've grown profoundly attached to. I came to realize this as I experienced loss during my journey for survival.

It's akin to the disappointments in our lives—they do hurt, but the pain intensifies when they stem from someone you deeply want to keep close, someone who evokes certain... emotions within you.

And so, my solution became crystal clear: don't form attachments.

Thus, regardless of the numerous partings, they would fail to impact me any longer. I succeeded remarkably in this endeavor; I fostered connections to scarcely anything. Yet, two exceptions slipped through the cracks of my self-imposed detachment: my motorcycle and Margo.

My motorcycle wasn't merely an attachment—it stood as a symbol of achievement, a manifestation of my freedom. Margo, on the other hand, defies classification—I struggle to articulate her significance, but she commands a level of importance and attachment equivalent to my motorcycle. While packing my bag, I pondered what it would entail to keep both of them by my side indefinitely.

However, I believed that my course of action was sound. My thoughts maintained a delicate equilibrium. Departing seemed undeniably right. In fact, I even dreamt of it, though not in the context that unfolded.

With my backpack slung over my shoulders, I retrieved the motorcycle key from the countertop and attached the Lion keychain that Margo had gifted me.

I'm fully aware that anyone who sees this attached to my keychain will likely question my masculinity. Yet, I remain indifferent; each time I start my motorcycle, memories of Margo riding pillion with me flood my mind. It serves as a poignant reminder of the promise I made to her—a vow I doubt I will ever forget.

I am aware that we'll cross paths again, though I'm realistic that circumstances will not remain static. I remain uncertain about the duration until our reunion occurs, and there's always the possibility that Margo might find someone...

After confirming that I had packed all essentials, I retrieved my cellphone and accessed the chat from our most recent conversation.

As I tapped on her profile picture, I allowed myself a moment of reverie, gently tracing her features with my thumb, almost as though I were physically caressing them. Then, I deliberately dropped my phone onto the floor, the subsequent thud signaling its demise. I stomped on it until it ceased to function, discarding it into the trash.

Locking the door behind me, I strode towards my parked motorcycle on the front lawn adjacent to the sidewalk. Once I ignited its engine, and the familiar rumbling resonated between my legs, I merged onto the road from the sidewalk, gradually fading from view.

POV: MARGO

It's him—my father.

Not quite as I remember him; he used to go by George, now he resembles more of a Dr. George Steve, but it's unmistakably him.

"Dad!" I hurry over to him and envelop him in a hug.

Is he angry with me? What has my mother told him?

In a way, my initial question is answered as he returns my embrace, evoking memories of the past.

"Why are you here?" I inquire, curiosity piqued.