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life / a warm light on a cold night

Today I found out that the girl I’ve got this not-insignificant crush on (and who’s been the topic of a couple of my previous posts) probably has a new boyfriend and shit. Apparently he’s quite a nice guy. Which means that I’ve got no sort of chance with her anymore. But, really, it’s not like I really had one in the first place. A lot of reasons make me say that, but the most notable one would be dear ‘ol me and my near-hopelessness at anything that really involves people.


Anyway, I think this following (really) short story is pretty good. Two people agree with me.


The only real light that night came from my cigarette as I took another drag from it, feeling the nicotine and tar do a number on my lungs as I fed my ever-consuming addiction. The power was out, and everyone had decided to light candles and huddle indoors instead of enjoying the night, like I was.

But they didn’t matter. The only things that really mattered that night were me and her.

Or, rather, her words.

Things weren’t going so well. They looked about as rosy as a dead body in a coffin; stiff and lifeless, a sad reminder of what once was.

My cell started vibrating again.

Unlock, view message.

“I don’t think this is going to work out. You and I, we’re too different; you’re… you and I’m… me. I don’t know how to put this, really…”

I didn’t bother to read it until the end.

Menu, delete.

I searched around in my pockets for another cigarette, and my phone started vibrating again.

Another message.

“Are you there? Why aren’t you replying my messages?”

I figured if she couldn’t bother to actually call then I wouldn’t bother replying to her messages, and I told her exactly that.

And I continued looking for another cigarette. No luck. I would have to go inside and get one.

But then she called.

I held the phone in my hand for a while, admiring what was probably the last time I’d see her name displayed on the screen.

Then I answered.

“Well, here I am. I called. What do you have to say that’s so important?”

(as if breaking things off wasn’t important)

“Nothing. What I’m interested in is what you have to say.”

Silence. I could tell she was trying to figure things out in her head.

“Look, I don’t think we’re going to work out together. We’re too different, too dissimilar. I want to know you care, but you never really show it. You’re always hiding behind that mask of coldness, of solitude. Sometimes I feel like you’re in your own world, away from everyone else, even when we’re holding hands, even when we’re lying down on the grass, looking up at the sky. As much as I’d like to try and go on until things work out,I don’t think I can last until then. Do you love me? Have you ever loved me anyway? Because I’m not entirely sure that I do anymore…”

And her voice trailed off.

Silence again.

“I don’t know.”

Stock answer. If I earned a penny for each time I said that I’d possibly be rich by now.

“Well, I guess this is it, then.”

She was crying.

“Good luck with whatever you choose to do. Goodbye… honey.”

And that was that.

I got up, went inside, groped around for my box of cigarettes and went back outside. I sat down, lit one and took a long, slow drag.

A single tear rolled down my cheek as I leaned back and pondered what I would do tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.

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