Back Into Your Arms
Chapter 8
I canceled my class the next day.
There was no way I could show up in the state of mind I was in.
I laid in bed looking over the poem and the photo of him on my yearbook. He wasn’t as handsome as he was now.
The poem was special, but I was curious as to why had no one ever mentioned his name.
My friends from high school never talked about him, I had no pictures of him, no diary where I wrote about him.
I assumed perhaps he liked me and confessed to me but nothing ever happened between us and now that we were older he found me again and thought maybe I’d give him a chance but the story didn’t sound right.
I wanted to talk to him, but whether we talked or not was in his hands.
He had my number.
I didn’t have anything.
I grabbed my phone and looked through his social media that was so open to the public because well he was somewhat famous.
He was funny, and deep, but he looked like a total bad boy and a player.
He wasn’t my type.
I found myself looking back at the text messages between Alex and I.
There was nothing special in them. He never did write me a poem or a sweet text.
I looked at his thread and deleted it so easily, for there was nothing special, nothing I wanted to treasure.
I spent the rest of the day streaming The Maine's music in bed. Looking up at the ceiling, wondering why it felt that some songs were written about me, for me, just like the poem.
There was no way I could show up in the state of mind I was in.
I laid in bed looking over the poem and the photo of him on my yearbook. He wasn’t as handsome as he was now.
The poem was special, but I was curious as to why had no one ever mentioned his name.
My friends from high school never talked about him, I had no pictures of him, no diary where I wrote about him.
I assumed perhaps he liked me and confessed to me but nothing ever happened between us and now that we were older he found me again and thought maybe I’d give him a chance but the story didn’t sound right.
I wanted to talk to him, but whether we talked or not was in his hands.
He had my number.
I didn’t have anything.
I grabbed my phone and looked through his social media that was so open to the public because well he was somewhat famous.
He was funny, and deep, but he looked like a total bad boy and a player.
He wasn’t my type.
I found myself looking back at the text messages between Alex and I.
There was nothing special in them. He never did write me a poem or a sweet text.
I looked at his thread and deleted it so easily, for there was nothing special, nothing I wanted to treasure.
I spent the rest of the day streaming The Maine's music in bed. Looking up at the ceiling, wondering why it felt that some songs were written about me, for me, just like the poem.