tw: smoking
tw: drugs
DREAMS PERSPECTIVE:
5:52 in the afternoon. The sun's setting. Standing on a cliff, overlooking the water. George by my side. Teenage years coming to an end at the age of 18.
I dig my hands into my pockets, watching the sky fall into a mixture of peach, baby blue and tan. My car still smells like marijuana; my mom is gonna kill me. George picks up a rock beside him.
"Got a pen?" he asks. I drop to the ground and rummage through my school bag, chucking him a pen.
He catches it and starts writing something on the rock.
"What're you doing?" I ask, still looking at the sunset.
"Writing our initials down on this rock so that if anything ever happens, we're still together, somewhere in the ocean."
I don't know what hit me, but it felt like a truck. I'm in love, I thought. I want to so badly drive him back to my house, go to bed and sleep with him. Not have sex. No, nothing like that. Just sleep together in the most innocent sense. To have my arms wrapped around him while the golden, warm rays of sunlight project themselves through slits of my curtains and beam onto us. To cuddle him, to melt into him, to dissolve every square inch of my body into his. To wake up later in the day, to him still asleep, my arms still around him.
He throws the rock. Far. Far enough to where I can't see it, not even the splash. He looks at me and smiles. I huff. I don't know whether I should let myself get even more emotionally attached to him. Guess I'll find out along the way.
-- LATER --
"I mean, yeah, life's pretty stressful right now. But I guess that's high school," I say. We're both sitting down on the same cliff, only it's 6 hours later.
"Well it's nearly over. No more assessments anymore. No more exams."
"Just the two of us."
George seems to scrunch his face up. "What's wrong?" I ask.
"Well, I need to tell you something."
My heart drops.
"You can tell me anything," I lie, because he really can't. It's not him, it's me, not being able to take everything. I take a long drag of my cigarette to ease the delivery of his next few words.
"I'm... I'm talking to this girl," he says slowly.
As I sigh, the smoke exhales through my mouth. George copies me and takes a shorter drag of his own cigarette.
"When did you start talking to her?" I ask, quietly. The wind hushes my voice and I don't make an effort to revive it. A slow zephyr carries our smoke out into the ocean, off the cliff.
"A week or two ago..." he says nervously.
"A week or two?!" I cough lightly, forgetting the linger of smoke in my mouth. He reaches out to me, but I flinch. "I'm not mad that you're talking to her, but I'm mad you didn't tell me earlier. I'm your best friend, dude."
I look at my phone.
"I know, I was just-"
"I'm going home."