Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

45 | Wires Inside Engines

"Claudia," I snapped, irritation laced behind my words. The sudden urge to get out of my seat and leave the room becomes apparent to me, a usual mechanism I take whenever things get too much.

I had to hold myself down.

"Harlow." She returns, retaking her seat. "You come into my room, after spending a day with Dahlia, and you're somewhat upset. Passive. I don't know why, and it looks like you have a lot going on in your head—which is weird. A day with your significant other should release a couple serotonins—"

"Stop fucking psychoanalyzing me." I breath, clenching down my jaw so hard, it felt like my teeth were going to shatter. I didn't gloss over the subtle branding about Dahlia and I's relationship, but that's the least of my worries I needed to correct.

The impulse to split and run draws closer, so easy to take. The door is only a couple of steps away from me, and my legs tremble to have a stretch. I wanted to leave—maybe this was a bad idea—but I held my ground. Gripping on the edge of my seat, forcing myself to unravel all of the cautions I taught myself since that day.

For once, I'm trying to be rational.

"I want to quit smoking," I said, honest and raw, finding a metallic taste in my mouth. I didn't have it in me to look up and read Claudia's reaction, and I'm not sure I want to. Half of me expects her to act surprised—like this is a step no one saw me take—and the other half, I expect her to be smug. Like, yes, this family broke me down, forcing me to change into a better person.

I'm not.

"I..." Claudia gape, rendered speechless. "This is not what I was expecting on a Thursday afternoon."

I know she's trying to lighten the mood, and I know it's from the goodness of her heart to attempt to loosen the tension hidden in the atmosphere—but I can't bear it in me to crack a smile. This is a serious decision; something I haven't made in a while.

I don't reply. And neither does my foster sister.

The silence is thick upon us, unbearable and uncomfortable to breathe. I could almost choke on the stillness of the world, the mute of sound. There's a silent plea, among us, to break into the quietness of the environment and to bear a voice of reason. For someone to speak and transition us over into something more comfortable—something more loose.

I couldn't do it.

I close my eyes for a second, shutting away the world and picturing a vision. I've done this before, countless times, and I always found myself drawing a blank. I could never see a light at the end of the tunnel and I could never see myself living further than twenty. I had no ambitions, no goals, no nothing.

For once, I'm seeing something.

I'm imaging myself sitting on a porch, on the edge of the steps, without a cigarette tucked between my fingers and stripping away each year of my life with each notorious breath. What would I be doing? What happens next?

Then, I begin to hear children. I don't know where the fuck they came from, but one ran up on my lap and I'm fucking smile. I settle a little girl on my thigh, and she's adorable. She has wild messy hair and blue eyes—identical to mine. She's giggling, mumbling something incomprehensible into my ear and my heart string tug as the image stretches.

A woman appears, and she's by my side. She settles onto the steps of the wooden porch with me, grinning. I couldn't picture her face, or the abstract of her features, but she leans her head on my shoulder, wraps an arm around my waist and it warms my chest with a thousand fires. The closest thing I could describe this feeling is an euphoria. A fantasy.