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The thought of Adora crashed over Catra, turning her stomach and her heart. Sometimes it happened like this, all at once, and sometimes the memory of her hair and her scent and her body snuck its way into Catra’s mind the way leaves slowly drifted in the late autumn breeze.
Catra shivered in her denim jacket and smoothed down her hair. As she breathed in, the air bit at her lungs, the slight discomfort of the feeling grounding Catra where she stood on the concrete. She could still the slight disorientation that came with thinking of Adora, but pushed it away as the bus rolled to a stop in front of her.
Adora—such a simple, lovely name, and if only the memory of her could be described in the same way.
Catra acknowledged the passenger boarding in front of her and the driver as she passed him, but didn’t truly see either of them. She dropped in the same seat as always; she could tell without really looking who was and who wasn’t a regular on her bus ride home. The routine of it all felt empty and flat, as if the bus and its driver and its passengers were cardboard cutouts meticulously placed just to keep Catra from completely drifting off somewhere else.
As she leaned her head against the window, the bus rattled any lingering thoughts from her mind, leaving just a hollow, zoned-out expression on Catra’s face and the habitual act of picking at the skin around her fingernails.
Damn, was that—out of the corner of her eye, a flash of blond hair and strong shoulders and that stupid red varsity jacket. Catra jumped, attracting glances which she couldn’t have cared less about. In this city, here in this place, why would she be here?
But, of course, it wasn’t really her. It never was.
Finally settling down, Catra noticed the sting in one of her cuticles, bleeding where she had picked just a bit too much. Bringing the finger to her mouth, Catra couldn’t help but be reminded of the tenderness she used to feel when Adora would hold her stinging hands in hers. She bit down on her finger and it stung more than ever, but it wasn’t enough for Catra to release the tension & longing in her body.
Almost two years had passed since Catra and Adora met. In a month, it would be a year since Catra realized she was in love with Adora.
Another month after that would mark the last time Catra spoke to Adora.
A smile grew across Catra’s face as her hands fell into her lap. It grew and before it could reach her eyes she was crying and her hands came to her face and goddamn it, Catra really thought she had gotten past the whole crying part of this shit.
She wiped the tears from her face with the rough fabric of her jacket. For a split second, she wanted to sit down next to the kindly looking woman with the sympathetic eyes across the aisle and cry about whatever the hell was going on in her heart, but she was already glaring and snapped out a raspy, “Can I help you?”
The woman turned away, but her gaze still lingered on Catra’s skin. Whatever. She didn’t need help or even want anybody’s sympathy. She didn’t need it, want it, or deserve it.
As Catra let herself in her drafty apartment, she couldn’t shake off the memory of Adora. It haunted her from the edges of her vision, echoed in her ears, played beneath her fingertips and Catra could so vividly remember the things she had pushed away and ignored and truly believed had disappeared from her heart and mind altogether.
Everything came back to her in small flickers as she moved like a ghost through her own home, and suddenly she was in the shower and the water was too hot and she was on the floor and the water beat against her, but she deserved it somehow, right? She shouldn’t be thinking of Adora, shouldn’t want her like that, shouldn’t ruin Adora’s relationship with her step-mother just because she wanted to be selfish.
That month when she and Adora were together—not together but in each other’s presence—that winter month when Catra’s street was snowed in and Adora had to stay the night and then she stayed another night and another before her step-mother called her home. That winter month when she and Adora texted almost nonstop when they weren’t sitting right beside each other. That winter month when she fought with Adora’s step-mother and Adora had no idea because Catra didn’t say a word. That same winter month Catra was told that Adora’s problems were a result of their relationship, and Catra decided Adora was better off without her.
The following month was when Catra realized how deep she was in it, but it had already been weeks and she had ignored so many texts and calls from Adora, so how could she call now and pretend none of that happened?
Tomorrow, Catra told herself back then, tomorrow I’ll call, and tomorrow became next week and next month and then two years passed and Catra was crying on the shower floor. Funny how time did things like that.
A few hours later, Catra curled up in her bed, most of her cuticles bleeding or scabbing and her skin still feeling a little raw. Thinking about Adora still made her gut twist and her heart wrench.
Tomorrow, Catra said. I’ll feel better tomorrow and I’ll forget this ever happened. Everything will be fixed, tomorrow. What a lovely thought.
Funny how time works.