Life is Funny Like That

Nyn. Running is Overrated

holy cowwwwww, this video is sad!!!!! i never imagined lost love to feel like that, but wow... also, i couldn't stop expecting him to slap into a wall or something.
he is one of my (many) favorite artists, an INFP unsurprisingly. i'm gonna give you the full scoop on this one, at the end of the book. stay tuned.

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"I'm... still on my shift," Adrian says apologetically.

"Right." Daffy bites a corner of her lip. "I forgot."

He nods with a little smile. They glance back at each other and their gazes lock, going steady for a moment. Those unforgettable suds suddenly pop out of the detergent and he finds himself counting each of the bubbles floating about. 

What? No. One does not count specks in those deplorable eyes. That is off limits. That is walking on thin ice. Pull away. Right. Now.

Reality falls back into his consciousness and he looks down to see the former space between them, thinning like his ankles since he gave up running. There is a chicken leg's width of space between their hands. How did they escape the pockets? Stop inching closer!

Adrian wrangles his hands back to himself, breaking the little bubble that was beginning to form around them. He clears his throat for good measure.

"I guess I should get that waffle." He stands, obtaining the chance of a slightly less awkward exit than any of the others he considered.

"Yes, thank you." Daffodil's voice carries to his ears right before the music and kids' voices plummet upon the atmosphere once more. For a small moment, life felt kinder than usual.

...

Adrian always searches for the stars first, in the night sky. The moon shows little change, compared to how different the stars look every night. Some disappear, some blink brighter than others. The sky never looks exactly the same. It's always changing.

A melancholy falls over him as he sits down on a bench, next to the sidewalk. The little sky lights continue to twinkle, but some of their magic fades as he stares up at them. Their former glow turns dull as his mind drifts into that area that demands attention when things are too good. When he feels the internal turmoil slow down, even just a little bit, that feeling comes like a hangover and lingers till he realizes his place in the universe; the sad, little, traumatized, emo boy who belongs with his cat and those dusty action figures. To stay stuck in that self doubting rut of depression and whatever else is in there.

So, what the heck is he doing here, gazing up at the stars as if he's a rebellious teenager, staying out past curfew? There's no curfew. It's not like Irma's gonna yell at him for coming home at two in the morning. He checks his watch. Make that three. 

There's a sort of thrill that comes with making people worry for you. It makes your heart hurt a little, perhaps, but it also makes it a tad bit warmer. Because it knows it is loved. And cherished.

His aimless wandering of the streets, past three, seems to be an attempt to draw some sort of question of what he could be doing up so late. But the desired thrill of worrying someone doesn't come. And the realization that he isn't wanted, dawns upon his already heavy heart.

That familiar gray bubble rises in his chest. 

Not a soul is waiting for him in that cement-floored apartment. A cat who halfheartedly wants dinner, maybe, but no worried thoughts about him, no food waiting on the table. No welcoming smile to come home to. The bubble begins to grow, coming up into his throat. It squeezes, and squeezes.