"Me in the Making

I never thought of myself as someone who would blog. But reading someone else's made me think twice about it. So here I am."

It's the only thing written on the blog that followed me at lunch. My shoulders slump in disappointment, hoping that I was going to have something interesting to read while I'm stuck in detention for forty-five minutes. Unfortunately, it took me all of two point five seconds to read that, and detention hasn't even started.

I sit at the table for two I've occupied every Friday afternoon by the window, looking around the classroom as the regular detention goers start to walk in. Mrs. Platt is seated at the front desk, her dark brown hair in a high bun as always and glasses rest on her nose as she reads a book. She is probably the best teacher to have detention with, considering we're allowed to keep our cell phones. As long as we don't make noise or talk, she really doesn't care what we do with our time. I don't blame her. Why care on a Friday after school about anything? She's deprived of her time just as we are, except she's done nothing wrong. Although she does get paid, I probably shouldn't feel as bad for her as I do.

It all feels like deja vu, just like every Friday in this room, with the same five people I always see in here. The same silence. The same buzzes of vibrating cell phones. The same boring atmosphere.

Until Harry walks in, that is.

He now has his hair pushed back in some sort of green fabric, the first time I've ever seen such a thing in a guy's hair. I'm assuming it's there because I messed his hair up this morning and it was pretty much all over the place the entire day, but it strangely looks really good, somehow making his eyes look greener, and I try not to make it noticeable I'm having trouble tearing my eyes from him.

Never in all the times that I have sat in this seat, have I ever seen him here. And with the recent events that have occurred, I'm unsure as to how I feel about it. Much like everything when it comes to him. He's seemingly turned my world upside down twice now, somehow making me do things I never thought I would do and making me question if I know who I am anymore.

His face is emotionless when he looks over at me. And I'm not sure if it surprises me when he comes to the back of the classroom and sits down next to me. There are thirty other seats in this room, why does he have to sit right beside me?

This boy has far too much nerve.

I'm not sure if I can handle it.

I look down at my phone, pretending to be busy with something on it. My attention is set on him through my peripheral vision, watching him take out a notebook and start to write something.

I can feel his eyes on me longer than I care to be looked at, before he slides the notebook across the table in front of me with his pen on top of it. My eyes quickly move to it, curious as to what he's up to now.

Your number?

I look over at him, raising my eyebrows after reading it. He has his distinctive smirk on his face looking back at me. I've come to realize I hate this smirk, and I want to slap it off of his face.

I think hard about wanting to give him this little bit of information. There are only five people who use my number and I'm not sure if I want him to have it. It's not like I like him enough to give it to him. In fact, I don't really like him at all, with the little amount of things I do know about him, or have heard about him, or what I've seen. He's clearly a cocky mother fucker who thinks he can get whatever he wants, which with me so far, he pretty much has. I roll my eyes at the thought, as I write down my answer.

No.

Please.

No.

Why not?

Why do you want it?

This particular detention will probably go down in history for being the most entertaining one I've been stuck in, despite the fact that all it includes is passing a notebook back and forth across the table in less than five minutes. I don't think he'd actually use my number if I gave it to him, but that doesn't mean I want him to have it either way. 

The way he squirms in his seat gives me a reason to believe I was right. He isn't used to hearing the word no and isn't particularly keen on having to explain why it is that he might want something. It isn't shocking when he doesn't pick up the pen to write down an answer, making it known he doesn't have anything good to justify his reasoning.

I decide it's best to divert my attention away from him when I know for sure he's not going to give me an answer, and pull out the book we're reading in English, since I missed today's class. I find it hard to think my life is so horrible when I read books like this one. The Diary of Anne Frank. This poor girl lived in—

I'm caught off guard when I feel a hand rest on my thigh, my eyes widening in disbelief as they dart around the room, and stopping on him. I wish I knew if I should smack it away, or let it resume there, considering his attention is still on his phone, his thumb scrolling up the screen slowly, and he's acting as if nothing has happened, completely unaware of the fact that I am freaking out inside of my head.

Where's the history books? I'll write this one down myself!

As time passes and I get back into the life of Anne Frank, his hand on my leg starts to feel a little comforting. The way his thumb caresses my thigh every so often is nice, making me realize a whole lot of things when it comes to the way people are with me when it comes to contact, or specifically the lack there of.

I put my book down and slide Harry's notebook back over to me after I look at the clock, seeing that there's only five minutes left of detention. My sudden movements make him remove his hand away from me quickly as he sits up straighter and clears is throat.

I underline my question he didn't answer, deciding if he has a good enough reason for wanting my phone number, I might as well give it to him. I'm curious as to what he would use it for. My need for wanting to know just about everything taking over.

Surprisingly, he picks up the pen as I put my book in my backpack and I wait for him patiently to finish writing his answer and slide the notebook back over to me.

So I'm not a creep who just shows up at your window.

***

Weekends are quite possibly my least favorite days of the week. Thursday nights through Saturdays, I could always do without. And so when Harry offered to drive me home after detention, I simply declined because a twenty minute walk home in the unusually cold April air is far better than being locked in my room, knowing exactly what's going on outside of the walls surrounding me.

Surprisingly after a week of staring at the cursor flashing on my screen, I have been able to actually write a few thoughts, leaving Harry out of everything of course. The last thing I will ever admit on my blog is sleeping with him. There's no way my blog will be like everyone else's. After giving him my phone number, I haven't heard from him, which isn't shocking whatsoever. I don't want him to show up at my window on a weekend anyways. It's probably best he stays away.

Sunday mornings are always the quietest. Always the best time to take in the silence. Dad is gone back to work for the week, and Mom is still in bed. I walk freely through my house to clean up the weekend's messes before going back to my room with a hot cup of coffee.

Today is just the same as all the other Sundays. Nothing ever changes, and I'm realizing this as I pull the covers over my legs,lean back on my fluffy pink pillow against the wall and start typing.

"I never really feel how alone I am, until I need a friend. And I suppose that's why I come here. To feel like someone's listening to me. Because I know in my heart, that's all I really need. I know that I have pushed myself into this corner. This place where I don't want to trust the friends I do have and show them what's really going on in my life. But to know that all eyes are judging, even those I allow to surround myself with, makes it impossible to let anyone in. But I've done this to myself. I've given myself this loneliness and sometimes—sometimes it's okay. And those days are the best days. But others, I just want to scream. To scream out that I need someone.

But on days when I am forced to look at the world around me, the days the truth is harder to deal with because it's all laid out in front of me, are the days I long for someone to hug me. Someone to wrap their arms around me and hold all my broken pieces together so I won't fall apart any more than I'm already trying to keep everything together on my own, and make me feel—really make me feel like one day everything will be better.

I can't remember the last time someone hugged me, or someone let me hug them. I don't even know what it feels like anymore. To wrap my arms around someone and just feel. I just want to feel something. And I suppose, in the strangest of ways, the way that one simple touch, made me feel a little something. The smallest of comforts. It made me realize what the smallest of gestures can do to a person, even if it did make everything seem lonelier somehow. It was there for just a moment in time, taken away when reminding themselves this simple action was never meant for me.

Girl_Disconnected"

There is nothing better than a long hot shower, where I just sit down in the tub with my knees up to my chest. The only time I will ever allow myself to cry is when the water can blend with the tears on my cheeks. Sometimes writing takes a lot out of me. Allowing the words to flow through my fingertips without even knowing what I'm writing half the time. And it's only when I read it back when I'm done, do I understand what's really going on in my head.

Today, I apparently need a hug. And it hurts not being able to have that.

Sometimes people use movies and television to escape their realities. I use blogs. All the while I'm getting my fix into everyone else's lives, it's also the way I tune everything out. I'm sometimes envious of how the kids around me live, and yet I feel like being able to read about their lives, lets me live vicariously through them in a way. Not so much in a movie sense, but a more realistic one, I suppose.

Another reason as to why Sundays are always fairly good, I get to spend my time in bed, reading about the parties everyone attended over the weekend. Who hooked up with who, if there were any fights, take in all the good gossip I need. I rarely ever attend parties, unless I can't take being at home anymore or don't want to be alone, but at least with these kids who write about them, I can at least feel like I was there, which is the case most of the time.

When I notice a simple (1) next to my new followers name, I'm intrigued to see what this Boy_Undiscovered has written, fully unaware of the effect it would have on me by the end.

"There's no way in hell, I could ever explain how painful it is to wait for something that I know will never come.

Never.

What would be nice, is to find someone who won't talk over my thoughts. Someone I know, in the silence, would agree with everything that I don't say. Too many times, have people not understood the value of silence. How it's nice to just be alone every once in a while. To think something meaningful, and write a song about it. Or I guess now, just write about it and hope that someone will understand what I mean.

Too often these days, people talk just to hear their own voice. It doesn't matter to them what comes out of their unintelligent mouths, as long as they get to speak. They all care about pointless things. Insignificant and absurd. Their minds are all hollow.

I can't be bothered anymore to pretend that I care. To act as if the hot air they're blubbering means anything to me. I've wasted so much of my time around people who are materialistic and unreal. Selfish and greedy. And I hate that I have just begun to realize this over the last little while.

I've only just begun to realize a lot of things over the past couple of weeks. As if something in me finally decided to click.

I've never experienced the kind of passion I'm looking for. The kind of intimacy you can't find in sex. But the kind where you just lay back, laugh with someone, or not say a word, and just enjoy each other's company. I know that it exists. I see it every day with my parents. And maybe that's why it's something that I want. To have that person I can be like that with.

Except relationships like that don't exist anymore. Not in the world we live in. Everything is about sex. People see that everyone is in relationships, except they don't see that all it is, is sex. There's no meaning behind it. No feelings. No real laughter. No good silence. The only time they're alone is to have sex. Otherwise, it's all just for show. Something to talk about. Or brag about. Something for others to talk about.

And that is fucking sad.

If you're going to have any kind of relationship with someone, sex or not, the only way for it to mean something, is to not share it with anyone else. 

If only more people understood that. Or cared enough to want that. These days, it's just not going to happen. And it is painful to wait for something that I know will never come.

Never.

Boy_Undiscovered"

I don't have much time to think about what Boy_Undiscovered has written, because there's a knock at my window that scares me, making my laptop fly across the bed.

A/N: Hope you are enjoying the book so far! Please comment your thoughts, I'd love to know what you think!! And don't forget to press the star!!

Much Love
amberlove
xo