The Project || 18+ [ON HOLD]

13.

I lie in my bed feeling restless and pensive. The walls feel too close, too confining. I feel like I can't breathe. I need to get out of here.

I don't know my destination when I start walking. Maybe I will just walk through town, enjoy the sites. But then I see it, the glowing open sign of the local ice cream shop. After the week I've had, I deserve a much-needed snack.

The shop, a quaint little establishment nestled on Main Street, is a slice of nostalgia. With its checkered floor, pastel-colored walls adorned with framed vintage advertisements, and a counter lined with chrome stools, it feels like stepping back in time. This whole town feels like that sometimes. The air is filled with the sweet scent of waffle cones and the faint hum of what sounds like a 1950s tune playing in the background.

I walk up to the counter, my eyes sweeping over the array of flavors displayed invitingly behind the glass. The sweet, chilled scents mingle in the air, momentarily lifting my spirits. After a moment of contemplation, weighing my choices, I make my decision.

"Hi, can I have a double scoop, please?" I ask the server, a young girl with a cheerful smile.

"Sure thing! What flavors would you like?" she responds, her hand poised over the ice cream tubs.

I point to my choices, a mixture of comfort and adventure. "I'll take Rocky Road and Salted Caramel, please. In a homemade waffle cone."

"Great choices! Coming right up," she says, skillfully scooping the ice cream.

As she works, I find myself lost in thought. The contrasting flavors I've chosen – the nutty, marshmallow-infused chocolate of the Rocky Road and the sharp, almost biting tang of the Salted Caramel – feel like a perfect metaphor for my current state of mind. A blend of dark, swirling thoughts, and the sweet reminiscences of moments that now seem so far away.

The girl hands me the cone, the scoops piled generously. "Here you go. Enjoy!"

"Thank you," I reply, offering a small smile as I take the cone. The first taste is a burst of flavors, complex and satisfying.

I sit at the counter, one of the stools offering a comfortable perch as I dig into my cone.

I watch the girl while I eat and wonder how old she is. Sixteen? Give or take a year? I remember back to when I was that age. What I would have given to have a job of my own. The freedom of it. But I wasn't allowed. My parents so would never let me. They didn't like me socializing too much. Plus, we never stayed anywhere long enough for them, let alone me, to get a job.

Each bite of the velvety ice cream, with its swirl of chocolate and hint of marshmallow, offers a momentary escape from my thoughts.

The bell above the door jingles, signaling a new customer. I don't look up initially, lost in my own world, until a familiar voice breaks through my reverie.