Author: kittEfox1 PM
(vent writing) 'She supposed however, that even if her wound won't scab over, she could at least keep it from being ripped open further.'Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Words: 1,893 - Published: 01-28-13 - Status: Complete - id: 3096392
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
"What do you mean you quit?"
Sulkily, and maybe a little guiltily, the grey spirit turned its dark eyes onto its partner and repeated, "I quit. I don't know how to do it anymore. Whenever I try, it doesn't flow smoothly, and I can never finish anything I start." It let out an aggravated sigh and turned away again. "I'm…really sorry, and I know I broke my promise, again, but I can't do it. You'll be better off finding someone else to do it."
"You shouldn't discredit yourself like that." The other spirit frowned, a rich green in color with similarly colored eyes. Displeasure and annoyance emanated in waves from it. "You've probably just been out of practice, that's all. I've seen your work before and it's great, usually a lot better than what I can make. Like all things, you just need to practice, and then you'll be as good as new. Besides, who else am I going to ask to help me? Nobody else has been there for the development of it."
"Okay, first off, hypocrite much?" The grey spirit sputtered indignantly, "You're telling me not to discredit myself, when you're ragging on yourself like that? Your work is amazing! I'm pretty sure I'm the one who's supposed to be saying that yours is usually better than mine. I mean, the imagination of your works! My stuff never measures up to even that."
"Me? How am I the imaginative one-"
"I'm not done talking yet! Secondly, I'm not just 'out of practice' I'm completely hopeless! I try to practice, but I can never follow through on it, unless it's like, poetry or something-"
"Poetry is writing-"
"Well it's not writing writing. "
"Then are you telling me that all the poetry I made isn't really writing?"
"No, it's just, the poetry I make isn't really writing."
"And what makes your poetry so special?"
"Because my poetry is a bunch of random words that sound good strung together!"
"And my poetry isn't?"
"No it isn't!"
"You're being nonsensical!" The green spirit said exasperatingly, wings fluttering in distress.
"And you're being you." The grey spirit shot back, pointed ears lying flat on its head.
A silence fell over the bickering pair, before a snicker sounded. The grey spirit shook its head self-deprecatingly before saying, "And you're being you. I have the worst insults ever."
Grinning, the green spirit answered, "Well, it is true. I am being me."
"It's a saying."
"Why not just say 'damn right' instead?"
"…I don't actually know."
"You pick up the weirdest habits." The green spirit chuckled.
The grey spirit smiled. "I know"
They floated alongside each other, another, more comfortable, silence settling between them. Over the un-definitive landscape they wandered, sometimes chatting about inconsequential things before falling silent again, feeling comfortable just being with the other. When the darkness began to recede, it was with sorrow that they said their goodbyes.
"Bye.", Said the green spirit, a gentle smile tugging on its lips.
"See-you.", said the grey, a similar expression on its face.
As light crept over the horizon, their forms began to fade, evaporating like mist at dawn. Just as the two spirits were almost completely gone however, they whispered to each other once more, shyly, almost fearfully.
"Love you too."
"Love you more."
"Love you most."
Then the sun raised its head fully above the skyline, and the two spirits vanished, a mere memory floating along the wind.
Somewhere in the suburbs, a young woman woke up from a pleasant dream. She couldn't remember the details of it, but smiled at the warmth and happiness she could recall. As she stretched and got ready for the day, the corner of her brain whispered "Love you"
Also in the suburbs, but in a different neighborhood, a young man woke up from a pleasant dream. He couldn't remember much of it at all, but smiled at the warmth and happiness he could recall. As he yawned and got ready for the day, the corner of his brain whispered "Love you too"
The young woman ate a light breakfast with no drink, just enough to last through the majority of the morning. The corner of her brain said softly "Love you more"
The young man didn't eat anything, but did drink a glass of orange juice before leaving, just enough to last through the majority of the morning. The corner of his brain said softly "Love you most"
The young woman leapt off the bus hurriedly, speed-walking towards her destination. Every day she walked with the same urgency as when she had someone to catch up to. Now, even if she caught up, she would merely hang back timidly, staring at the unfamiliar blue backpack that used to be a bright green.
The young man stepped off the bus sedately, walking with no hurry towards his destination. He turned around once, looking over his shoulder for the familiar laughing face, a habit ingrained from when he had someone to wait for. Now, he didn't care to wait, simply hoping that he'd see the familiar face inside.
It's the end of the day, and almost the only time when the young woman and man see each other. Yet, even as they smile and wave at each other and the young woman tries to strike up a conversation with him, there is another, a talkative, funny, tall young man who takes away her attention. And she lets him, because sometimes she feels it's just so much easier to converse with him than the quiet young man with the unfamiliar blue backpack. Sometimes she wonders if he remembers, if he too recalls the casual conversation that used to flow like water between them, the casual shoulder bumps that they'd playfully indulge in, the goodnights they used to type to each other as they both went to sleep at night. Then she gives a little snort to herself and thinks that yes, he probably remembers, but probably doesn't care. They are probably good memories for him, but behind and in the past.
Sometimes she feels the same.
But at night, when overcome with nostalgia and want, at the confusing and utterly annoying moments when she more than anything wants someone to hug and to sit next to, she thinks longingly of the friendship they had. She wonders how much of the fall out was her, and is disgusted by her continued avoidance of him and her failing social skills. She wishes that she could cut off this wanting that is eating at her, sitting in the corner of her heart and mind, causing confusion and need. Day to day, she wonders if her feelings are platonic or what people call love. She drowns out everything by overloading on all the fanfiction she can bear to read. She wonders if he feels the same.
She can't bring the courage to ask him, almost certain that he doesn't. Thinks about the kind, pretty friend that he is smitten with, and smiles without jealousy or bitterness, because her friend is a worthy person to fall in love with. Both of them are.
But from the time he first told her about his infatuation, she felt that as it was right this moment, it was merely that; an infatuation. She could understand the longing he felt, but felt that the relationship would work poorly. She does not tell him so, not wanting to sound (or feel) jealous (is she jealous? She hopes, wishes, begs that she is not) Perhaps she was jealous however, or her doubt was contagious, because a year or so later, he had told her that he had given up. All the past year he had sent little gifts and messages anonymously, and frankly, the young woman thinks that it's probably best he stops the gifts if he only gives them anonymously. It's most likely emotionally draining.
So yes, she believes that he doesn't harbor romantic feelings for her.
She wouldn't know what to do with them if he did anyway. How could she, when she hardly knows what she feels for him herself?
There are those doubts though. Those doubts that come sporadically, like in his latest poem. There is definitely a message there, the words not simply meaning nothing as he had claimed. But she can hardly say that they were directed towards her or anybody at all.
Those doubts are too infrequent and weak to be of any real clue though. Other than his infatuation, there are other signs telling her that he isn't interested. The chats that taper off into one sided conversations. The times she sees him and he merely waves hi before leaving. That time when she got to see him, without a friend dragging her somewhere and he merely asked for where their other friend had gone, before leaving. The emails that he responded to once, and never again. The emails she responded to, but he never sent back. When she gets to courage to turn the signal for online on while he is there and how he never initiates the conversation.
Her pining makes her sick.
But she can't help it
She really can't
And after what seemed like months of ignoring, and weeks of mutual ignoring, she passes him once in the hallway while working on a project with friends, and he speaks to her. Asks her what they were doing and she laughs and tells him because she does that with all her friends, and he is still a friend, if nothing else. Even if before he was more her best friend than anything else. She hates how her heart sings at that uninitiated contact, but smiles indulgently at it. Their relationship seems friendlier for the next few days, and she even speaks with him, and he responds back! She begins to dream again at their old friendship, that warm comradeship.
She's both elated and furious; furious at him for talking to her after what feel like an eternity of snubbing, and furious at herself for caring so much even still.
She supposes however, that even if her wound won't scab over, she could at least keep it from being ripped open further. The young woman stares at her inbox, face awash with the glow from the computer screen, and looks at the emails he had sent recently and had yet to reply back to her responses and thinks, yes, she can definitely keep it from being ripped open further. Then she closes the window, and decides that she won't be sending an email anytime soon. Or initiating conversation. Or send more than a friendly nod over his way, maybe a smile if she's feeling happy.
The young woman stands up, and walks away.
A.N.- This is vent writing of the highest (lowest?) quality. Aha, in the beginning it was almost a story, but it sorta trailed off into just venting nearing the end...thanks for reading, and hope you review.