ᴀᴅ ᴍᴇʟɪᴏʀᴀ ~ ᴅᴘꜱ (ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴇᴋꜱ)

16 - hangover

"...And?"

I shake out of the reminiscent haze clouding my head. "And?"

"Yes," Amy repeats, "and? You can't leave me on a cliff-hanger like that!"

I continue to fiddle with the hem of my skirt as Amy stares at me from her bed.

"And... I don't know. He didn't get to tell me whatever it was."

Amy crashes onto her back, throwing her arms out as she falls onto her comforter. "Are you kidding me? I sat here for over half an hour, listening to you explain every detail of your little date, just for you to cut it off right as it was getting good?"

"I'm not pleased about it either, dipshit." I cross my arms and sigh. "Some girl ran up looking for an ice bag right after. Meeks asked what happened and she said, 'Chet just punched some guy!' Then Meeks asked who it was, and the girl didn't know, but she said he was dressed really fancy, and we both just looked at each other. We got up and ran down real quick. Chet and Chris were being held back by some guy, and Knox was on the ground with a bloody nose. Chet said something like, 'Next time I see you, you die.'"

Amy rolls her eyes. "Barbaric, like one would expect from a jock like him. God, what did ol' Knoxious do to deserve that?"

"He kissed Chris on the forehead while she was asleep. He was wasted out of his mind."

"Oh, Jesus." Amy pretends to gag. "Nevermind, I'm with Chet on this one."

"I know, right? Totally disgusting. I let him know that on the way back, too. I doubt the little shit remembers anything I said, though. Meeks swooped in and said something, something like, 'We'll take it from here.' Chris remembered us from earlier, so she let us take him. And now..." I signal to the room around us. "we're here. In the present."

Amy groans. "Underwhelming story. Meeks couldn't've continued your conversation outside?"

"The moment was over, Amy. Plus, Knox wasn't exactly a delight to bring back."

"I can imagine."

Amy sits up on her bed, reaching to her nightstand for a worn-out textbook. The gold lettering on the front has long faded, most likely leaving specks of itself on the hands of each student who studied it before her. She cracks it open to a seemingly random page and starts reading. Although the cover was no help, her confused expression gives me a hint as to the contents of the book: It's most likely some form of math.

I unfold my arms and continue messing with the edge of my skirt. The seam is starting to fray from my compulsive fussing, but I can't be bothered to stop. A muffled bird chirp sounds from outside our window. The sound surprises me; I had assumed all the birds left as the temperature plummeted the past few weeks.

My heart aches momentarily. The squeaky tune sounds again, crying to be heard. Maybe this bird got left behind. Animals' familial bond isn't as strong as humans, so it's a possibility that one could slip through the cracks. Maybe his bird parents didn't like him, never wanted him, so they took their opportunity to leave him in the dust. To die slowly in the cold is surely a grim fate, so I pray that's not the case.

Maybe he searches for them, day and night, never resting because the thin layer of frost blanketing the world is too uncomfortable for him to bear. Maybe I'm not the first student to do a double-take at his melancholy tune, though not the ears he hopes to fall upon.

Worse yet, maybe he wasn't left. Maybe he was forgotten. Perhaps the bird's presence was so dispensable that, even after an entire summer at home, he still feels like his bird parents stare straight through him every time they look in his direction. Maybe he gets left every year, hoping, wishing, praying that it will be different this time. It never is, of course; some things never change. Maybe he stays up at night, too scared of the thoughts that narrate his dreams to allow himself a moment of rest. Instead, he flies, and he sings, and he waits for spring again.