All night, he was with his friends, maybe forgetting what was originally planned—the night was for the family and the day was for her. But everything was ruined. She could have been okay with it, but time was her love language. She didn't want to get the time for his family, so she had to adjust . . . not because she wanted to but because it was best for him.
The next day, she went out all day, still clinging to the bit of hope that he might have a little time for her—an hour was okay. But the day ended without a glimpse of him.
"Even just a bit of time, you couldn't give for me," she whispered to the cold wind, holding a bottle of beer, hoping that it would her message to him. She wanted to tell him all the sleep and time she sacrificed just to be with him, but she thought twice. Finally, she cried, just cried, and blamed herself for hoping and loving him too much. "Merry Christmas, I guess."
YOU ARE READING
Tales of a Girl
Short StoryAt night, she pulls her blanket to herself, takes her pen, and remembers every bit of detail in her life. She had a lot to write about her regrets of the past, her doubts of the present, and her worries for her future. She did not want to think, but...
