Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

56 | Getaway Car

DOMINGO
8:18 PM

Dahlia Gray

Sometimes, I feel lost.

Truth be told, I think I was always lost. In philosophy, religion, culture. There was a stagnant doubt that clouds me that I could never shake off, no matter how hard I try. In a situation where I was groomed and conditioned through the walls that justify my father's behavior, I find myself unable to rely on what many—like my mother does—for hope.

But, in the stars—in the stars, I can.

I sit on the small balcony of Aysa's apartment, a far unusual location for my stargazing antics. My legs tucked warmly under me, the bare of my naked toes skimming the cool concrete. My head tilted back, eyes skimming the clear night sky with twinkles of dots for stars; I drag my finger, connecting star from star, building constellations and rolling their respected names off my tongue.

The wind whistles as the night approaches, growing colder as time stretches, and the clock ticking down the seconds. While regret comes down on me for not bearing warmer clothes in this weather, I refuse to move an inch from my position, wanting to soak in the moment.

The crisp moments of fresh, breathable air.

I hear the balcony door slides open, rolling on its track, while footsteps approach from behind me. I didn't get the chance to turn around when I felt a thick, wooly blanket plop on my shoulders, closing me in from the cold.

"How long are you planning on staying out here?" Aysa asks, her voice drawn from concern.

I pull my legs from under me, pressing them against my chest and tucking my chin behind my knees. "I don't know," I say quietly, "as long as I can, I guess."

I don't know why I came over, I just knew I needed some time alone. I went from sleeping in the comforts of my own room, in my own bed, under the shelter of a home that was cared for by two lonesome souls to losing my privacy, sharing a bedroom with three others, and living in a house with several additional members. The sudden shift felt suffocating, and I just knew—I needed to get out.

Aysa doesn't respond for a few seconds, but I can hear paper rustling against the wind, as if she brought the book along with her. The romance book she was reading. "Can I join?"

I don't answer. Only opening one end of my blanket as a response, allowing her entrance to tuck in the warmth beside me.

She drags her feet across the small, accessible balcony and plops a seat beside me. Adjusting the large blanket around her shoulders, we form a little cuddle underneath the thick material as I guide my eyes away from the stars and towards the living across the street.

Curtains pulled back and revealing individual apartments of lives I've never witnessed before. Some flicks on their lights, illuminating the apartment in a bright glow, while others are left in pitch darkness. I see couples, singles, and groups of friends in all of their respective homes; dancing, singing, and some just relaxing. Comfortable.

"I feel ungrateful," I confess, releasing a burn in my throat similarly to fingers brushing their tips against hot flames. I knew what I felt was awful, and what I should feel is complete gratitude for all they've done for me, but I don't know. I don't know. "I don't know."

Suffocating. That's one word I could define my situation, but I couldn't hold the power to suggest such language. I don't know how to explain it—I'm so entirely grateful for all the Soberano-Godfrey family has done for me, welcomed me—but I can't fight the emotions brewing in my stomach. Airway clutch to my throat. The feeling that I can't breathe, just like before.