Blake's Perspective
"Bro, just do this, please?" I ask DJ.
"I tried, bro. She doesn't want to hear what I have to say when it comes to you. I think Game is after that anyway."
"Who? The rapper?"
"Yeah."
"How do you know?"
"She was chilling with him the other night at the party. And here, watch this." He gets out his phone. He opens snapchat and clicks on a name. The story plays. The Game is commentating "my friend is getting her first tatt." It shows Aaliyah laying on a table getting a tattoo. The ten second video ends and another plays immediately after. The Game continues to commentate "Her baby hands." He laughs. The video shows them holding hands. It also has a caption on it that reads "I'll be your daddy baby." The video ends and a picture pops up. He's taking a picture using the reflection of the mirror. He's sitting on the table Aaliyah was laying on. She's standing between his legs facing him as his hand rests on her waist just above her butt.
"Turn that off, bro. I don't want to watch that shit anymore." I push DJ's phone away.
"Yeah, I don't know what to tell you."
"What do I do?"
"Move on."
"Easier said than done."
"Open them DM's sitting in your inbox. Put candidates together."
"So, just go back to my old ways?"
"If it helps."
"You give the best advice. The fucking best." I say sarcastically.
"I'm just saying. You want advice? Don't send someone to do your dirty work. You want something done? You do it yourself. This is something only you can fix."
"Yeah, alright. Well, I'm going home. See you later."
"Later. DM's. Let me live vicariously through you."
I shake my head at his request. I walk out to my car. On my drive home I take DJ's words into consideration. Maybe I should just stop by her house. But then again, maybe she doesn't want anything to do with me. Seeing that snapchat story made me sick to my stomach, in a sense. As soon as I get home I turn straight to my version of therapy. Shooting a ball through a hoop. I need to clear my head. After awhile I come to a conclusion that even basketball won't help. I sit down on the court and think. I think about the first time we played ball here, on this court. Memories start to flood my mind. Fuck. I head up to my room to get ready for bed. I go in the closet to change. I look at the box of clothes in the corner I took out from the closet, where they used to hang. I see a particular sweater she always used to wear hanging off the side. Her hoverboard lay next to the box. I never thought I could miss someone so much. I have a homesick feeling for her. She was my home. I get out my phone and open my contacts. Fuck it. I send her a text.
BG: wyd? Can we talk? Please.
I wait for the message to send. A few minutes later a message from the phone pops up: Message failed to send.
I attempt to call her. An automated message comes on: We're sorry, but the number you have reached is disconnected or no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.
I decide to write to her on her social media accounts. I can't get through, she has me blocked. I just want to hear her voice even if it's her just yelling at me.
I lay in bed thinking myself into the late hours of the night. I grab my phone off the nightstand and click the twitter app. I open my DM's and reply to the swimsuit model who specifically called out to me to beat the pussy up. After replying, I set my phone back down on the nightstand. No more than 30 seconds later my phone "Pings".
Hello, old me.
