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Dying, dimming stars sprinkled the sky, on a cool, windy night—one, one just like this one— it felt of peace; wonderful tranquil, and her.
Overgrown, yellowing grass of a midsummer's night prickling on your back, and her hand entwined in yours—everything finally felt as if it were finally falling into place, like waves, coming to a calm.
Maybe the worst of it was finally over.
…
It’s dark, as most summer nights are at 11:00pm.
The sun had only just recently died out, and you remembered how she rested her head on your shoulder with a content sigh, just as the last glimpse of the golden light fizzled out, dying into a darkness; dark blue tainted with imperfect stars and lights. And how the moon, not exactly full, slowly faded into view, now hiding behind a flurry of clouds and light mist.
Some lights could even be seen past these thin, translucent clouds. Some of them were able to be clearly seen, as it flickered a bold-in-contrast red, on and off as it moved across the sky. Red, on and off. On and off.
(On and off, again and again, until it disappeared into a dark cloud. )
They were probably planes. A plane with tons of people on it, just moving on with their lives. You long for something like that, even at 16. Just…a way you can move on. And live, away from the world. Free to do whatever you want, with whoever you want.
Guilt pangs in your stomach, as you find yourself including her in these childish fantasies. Something stronger—something like shame—kicks in especially hard when she lies down, head on your lap, facing the sky. (You wish you could stay here, with her, forever)
She liked to count them—the planes. The red lights. Whatever they were. There weren’t a lot of things to count in almost-clear nights like these. Not many stars, not many clouds. There was no such thing as a sky full of stars in the city, even in the summer.
When she first suggested stargazing, it was because it was supposed to symbolize some sort of return to normalcy , as quoted by her therapist, who apparently, was hippie and cool and all sorts of in with the new.
___
“Why don’t you try stargazing? It’s a wonderful thing to do to bond with your loved ones.”
“Loved ones?” Vada repeats, heart heavy.
“Yeah. Like… your family. Your friends. Even your boyfriend—or partner— if you have one.”
___
Another plane begins flying into view, and she catches it almost immediately from her peripheral vision. She glances at it with a small smile, clearing her throat. You brush a strand of hair from her face, slightly smiling down at her as you do so. “You’re still counting planes?”
She nods. “Yup. I mean, it’s not like we can count stars, can we? The world’s too polluted for that. I mean, to be honest, I don’t even know what Anna was thinking. You’d think she’d be super smart, since she's like, giving people mental health advice and all that kind of shit, but I guess she doesn’t know about polluted skies and stuff. Did millennials even learn about climate change?”
“Hmm…” You hum. “I don’t know.”
Then, a gust of wind blows through the backyard. Plants—leaves of all sorts, bristle against each other.
Then silence.
The domesticity of it all was nice, honestly.
…
And then, no more silence.
“Geez.” She whispers, acting slightly offended. A grin pulls at her lips. “Am I not that fun to talk to anymore? You totally cut out of the conversation.”
You laugh lightly; breathily. Awkwardly, you play with her hair. You hold back your snicker at the satisfied hum she lets out. “Well, Vada, sorry if I need to zone out once and a while. I mean, I listen to everything you say. You’re really talkative.”
“Whatever,” she murmurs, fidgeting with the necklace at her neck before placing her hands on her stomach, content. “You love me anyway.”
(Your stomach rolls into itself, and you find yourself stroking her cheek with the side of your hand to try and push down a familiar feeling of dread.)
“Mhm. Thanks for that,” Vada sighs with faux disappointment. “I guess you don’t love me?”
“Oh, shut up.”
A pause. The wind picks up its pace.
Its breath raises the hair behind your neck.
“What… What exactly are we doing, Mia?” she suddenly says, stopping your hand from stroking her cheek. Her eyes flick open. A breath of fresh air tickles in your chest when her eyes meet yours.
(This moment—it felt like a key, fidgeting with the lock; she the key, you, the lock)
___
Dark eyes meet yours.
You feel like a lock; she feels like the key. You feel yourself unlock, willingly, at her adoring gaze.
It felt more intimidating than it should have been. Especially with the wine and weed, prickling at your tongue.
“Let’s say you die tomorrow, m’kay? And like, what if you die sad, because you regret not having said what you wanted to say?”
___
“What… What are we doing?” You repeat, as if you were clarifying her words.
She nods.
It felt incredibly unnerving, to have her staring at you like that. You have to take a moment to swallow down the confession that desperately scratched at your throat. Answer the question.
“Counting stars. Counting planes. Stargazing. Whatever your counselor wants you to do,” you whisper. The lump on your throat grows bigger. “Really, I’m all for what you wanna do, honestly.”
“I don’t want it to be that way.” She mutters, closing her eyes once more. “I want you to decide some things too. Like, if you don’t want to do this every night, we don’t have to. I just, I don’t want to seem like I’m the one picking everything. You know? It’s like… you’re constantly tiptoeing around me.”
…
“But…” You protest, voice low and shaky. “I’m not.”
___
Her hand falls on your cheek, stroking it.
Your lips burn with confusion and want, all at once.
“ Is this okay?”
___
“But you are! You haven’t ever wanted to pick what we should do. Not since—”
“Well, I am picking.” You snap back, softly.
She winces slightly at the tone of your voice. It makes something drop in your chest, when she turns away, ever so slightly.
I’m sorry.
You lower your voice to a breathy whisper instead. “I picked, okay? Look, I want to stay here, Vada. Here. With you. We’re…”
A breath.
“We’re best friends. I… want to do whatever you want to do.”
(Crickets chirp. The water from your pool is almost still, but it occasionally splashes against the wall. And the wind, ever so light, blows the leaves to create a light breeze. (You’re glad that there’s something to fill the silence— something other than her slow breaths; your beating heart ) )
“Okay, then.” She says, disbelievingly, after a pause. Her voice, low and scratchy, sounded tired. An apology jumps to your throat again, but then, her hand grabs your wrist. Your words diminish, when your hairs on your arm raise. It felt as if her fingers were those of a ghost.
Cold. Light. Gentle.
(Just like that night.)
She looks up at you, eyes sparkling with a softness that you’ve only seen once. “Lie down with me, then?”
___
You nod.
Of course it was okay.
She was Vada.
…
Your heart races when her eyes flick to your lips, before capturing your lips with hers once more.
___
You nod. When you do, she lifts her head up so that you can slide down onto your back as well. Then, when you’re finally flat on your back, she turns her body to face you. It sends shivers down your body—from head to toe—when you feel her glance ghost the edges of your lips.
She doesn’t say anything.
“So…” you start, trying to break the ice. “The stars look pretty good tonight, don’t you think?”
…
She doesn’t answer the question.
…
No, she doesn’t answer the question; instead, she says an apology. What drips off the edges of her words is something all laced with regret.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers to your ear, again and again. “I’m… I’m so, so fucking sorry.”
It’s quiet, the apology. If you hadn’t been paying attention to her breathing, you don’t think you would have heard it. You’re glad you did. You never want her to feel like she couldn’t talk to you.
(You knew what it felt like.
For your words of regret, to fall on deafened ears.)
You’d never wish it on her.)
___
Dark hair brushes your cheek as she lifts her head up to look you in the eyes. You already wish for her lips back on yours. Hair, teeth, and lips, hair, teeth, and lips—it’s the only thing you find churning through the gears of your drunken mind.
Desperate, you try to pull her back down for another kiss, but she keeps her position, hovering over you just as she did when you started kissing. Her eyes burn into your skin.
“What’re you doing?” You mumble, eyes curious.
With solemn, glazed eyes, she then whispers something you hadn’t expected to ever hear.
“I think… I love you. I really love you.”
…
The way she says it makes you envy her, so, so much. Even in a state of drunkenness, she still manages to sound so self-assured of herself.
…
“Vada.. You’re… You’re drunk. You... You don't know what you're saying,” You stutter out. You almost sober up immediately after that, but she… still looks drunk. As drunk as she was when you had left the parking lot, high on sugar, wine and weed.
(Though, now you felt hopeful.)
(Drunken words were the most honest ones, after all.)
…
“Tell me you love me too, please?” She replies meekly, all too quickly.
…
You don’t reply with words, but a kiss. A kiss and a pulling of her shirt. And, God, you hope she understood what you meant, for this was how you conveyed your love.
…
She doesn’t say much after that.
___
“Why… Why are you apologizing?” You ask back softly. You knew what she was talking about. But, really, you didn’t want to have to bring it up. (Tears were already starting to collect at the sides of your eyes)
“For leaving.” She breathes out, voice cracking slightly. From your peripheral vision, you can see her blinking rapidly. She audibly swallows before continuing. “For leaving you alone. With no… n-no one. Even though… I knew that you were alone. I…I l-left you. Fuck…”
She presses her head onto the side of your arm. It’s wet with tears and sadness and grief and you feel absolutely horrible when you feel yourself unconsciously stiffen at her touch.
Awkwardly, you turn your head to face her— to look at her fully. To look at her—frantically wiping her tears on your shoulder?
“Ah, f-fuck. S-sorry. I didn’t expect… to… to c-cry,” She mutters when she feels your eyes suddenly on her. She blinks, seemingly trying to get rid of the tears collecting at her eyes. It does the opposite, though, as more tear tracks seem to run to the edge of her jaw.
“I swear I-I’m not usually like t-this. When I give apologies. I mean, I like… I planned this and everything b-beforehand. L-like, you wouldn’t even believe i-it. God, it’s a pretty sh-shitty one… Isn’t it? Sorry. F-for that.”
Turning your head back up to face the sky, your eyes find a star to fixate on as you try to keep yourself together. The tears. The crying. The apologies. (It’s hard to keep yourself composed.) Something painful crawls in your throat— (another meant-to-be unrequited confession, perhaps?)
You silently cough to clear your throat, and, with a whisper, you finally say, “I… It’s okay. I understand. That night. It… It was a lot to take in.”
It was a miracle that your voice didn’t crack.
…
She doesn’t answer back right away. She’s shaking, and crying, and frantically trying to get rid of the hiccups that keep jumping up her throat. No, she doesn’t answer back right away, and definitely not with words. Instead, she answers by shaking her head rapidly.
“Fuck. Fuck, it’s not okay, Mia. You almost died.” she exclaims in a whisper, her voice still low and scratchy. She takes your hands, holding them with a grip that feels of guilt and shame. “You almost died of fucking heatstroke. Just because–”
(A pause. A gulp. A gasp for breath)
“Just because I wasn’t there f-for you. And it’s not fair to you, b-because all you’ve ever done is be there for me. It’s not fair, and I’m just so sorry. I am. I really, r-really am.”
The tears threatening to fall starts to sting even more than before. The star you were trying to focus on was now blurred with the other lights in the sky. (All you can think to yourself? Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry—)
___
She hasn’t been over to your house in nearly a week.
You miss her so much. But you won’t text her. Not when she’s the one who left first—the one who texted last—the one who kissed first. She needed to be the one to start it. Not you.
(So, you wait. The hands of the clock, drenched in heaps of wine, hardly spins. It stays noon one day, and stays seven am the other. It feels as if they don’t spin at all; not until you’re asleep, at least.
It’s only when you’re dreaming of the things you did that night does time pass.
Though, you’d rather time stop moving, if it meant you didn’t have to wake up from a dream that had her soft smile, scattered freckles, and the hands that touched you—touched you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. (You’d like it all, really, if it wasn’t just a lie.)
…
Hurt, you spend your time watching reality TV shows and sitting in the sauna, trying not to think of the empty presence of the girl that had sat in the spot across from you, for days and weeks at a time.
(At two in the afternoon, days after that night, you’re drunk and desperate. And then, you do what you had sworn not to do.
You pick up your phone and finally text her.)
( do u hate me? )
___
“It’s not your fault.” You say quietly. “You.. You weren’t exactly sober.”
"Yeah, no shit," Vada forcibly laughs, under her breath. "I don't remember shit. Why else do you think I fucking... I fucking avoided you for so long."
"I don't know. You could have had your own things to deal with. I... I don't remember much either."
That was a lie, and she knew it.
“Why… Why won’t you tell me anything? I want to fix it, but I don’t know how, Mia,” she exhales, her tears coming to a slow. “How can I fix something I don’t know how to?"
“Well, you didn’t break anything,” You force out, trying to steady your voice. “You didn’t, Vada. You didn’t."
Her tears are back in an instant, and your head just won't stop spinning. Everything was too much. "Please, don’t cry.”
“I know I did something!"
"Fine, Vada." You answer back, almost harshly. "You did. But I don't want to talk about it, okay?"
She looks frustrated. Tear tracks on her face, and her lip, tucked into itself. "Please-"
“Trust me,” you whisper, almost pleadingly. “It might be better if we… If we talk about it another day, okay?”
A pause.
___
"Please."
___
“Then I’ll wait—because I do," She finally answers. "I… I trust you…”
___
Your hand trails further down her torso, before you shoot an asking glance towards her.
“I trust you,” she whispers. “Please, do it. I trust you.”
____
Contently, you sigh as she sleeps with her head in the crook in your neck.
All while staring at the stars, as if it was always meant to be.
You wake up in the sauna, surrounded by empty bottles. Sweat and tears burn like fire on your skin—a feeling that’s been too familiar these past few days.
Groggily, you reach for your phone to check for notifications.
(Specifically, from her.)
(Nothing is there.)
An aching, from your head to your heart, is all you feel.
____
You close your eyes again, and let the darkness swallow you like you’ve been allowing it to, praying that you’ll be lucky enough to get a dream as comforting as that. A dream with her, her dark hair, her freckles, and her smile, loving you in the way you love her.
___
Dying, dimming stars sprinkled the sky, on a cool, windy night. It felt of peace; wonderful, tranquil, and her…
…
Mia dreams the same dream.