One Shots

All That's Been Left Unsaid

A/N: So I was inspired by Next Semester by Twenty One Pilots—"I prayed those lights would take me home/Then I heard, "Hey, kid, get out of the road!""—and Fake You Out also by TØP—"Headlights call my name." But then the story took on a mind of its own and kept going and somehow turned into this. Hope you enjoy.

TW: suicidal ideation, disassociation

I sat in the middle of the street, criss-cross applesauce.

It was late. Maybe two or three in the morning. I couldn't know for sure—I stopped looking at the time.

I stopped caring.

I closed my eyes and swayed gently back and forth, like a song was playing. But there was no music. It was quiet, except for a slight buzzing. I thought it was coming from one of the streetlights. It could've just been my imagination, though.

I wasn't sure about much these days. I found myself disassociating a lot lately. I wasn't sure if this was one of those times.

I knew where I was. I knew what I was doing. But I didn't feel any of it. I was numb to my surroundings. I wasn't blocking them out, but I didn't feel present.

I'm not sure if I even understood it myself.

Then, even though my eyes were still closed, the outside seemed to get brighter. I didn't have the energy to open my eyes.

I stayed where I was.

The light got brighter and brighter. I think subconsciously I expected some sort of impact. But part of my mind wasn't connected to where I was sitting. Part of me didn't comprehend that I was still sitting in the middle of a road.

The light got bright and stopped getting brighter. Distantly, I heard something. I was too detached to know what the sound was.

Then, there was something touching my shoulder. I stopped swaying.

There was another noise. My body was moving again, but I wasn't the one moving it.

Some of the fog in my head cleared. I realized the sound I was currently hearing was a voice. The voice was attached to a person, who had their hand on my shoulder. They were shaking me, trying to get through to me.

I opened my eyes, dazed. The lights hurt, but I was too out of it to flinch. Instead, I lazily looked over and up at the person crouched beside me.

"Hey, man," the driver said gently, but I could tell his voice had become louder and more concerned the longer I didn't answer. "Hey, are you back?"

I nodded slowly. I was present enough to hear and understand what the stranger was saying and doing.

"Did you realize you were sitting in the middle of the road? It's pretty late, man. Most people are sleeping."

"You're not," I mumbled, barely moving my mouth. I assumed he somehow heard anyway since he let out a brief chuckle.

"Late shift," he said as an explanation. "Someone less nice or less aware could've hit you."

"I wouldn't've minded," I don't think I meant to say the words out loud, but I doubt the man was clueless as to why someone would do what I was doing.

"That's the scary part," he said more to himself, but I heard it with the lack of noise and close proximity.

I shrugged. I was still feeling emotionless. I was always feeling too much or nothing at all. I still don't know which is worse.

The man took his hand off my shoulder, stood up, and put the same hand out in front of me. "C'mon, let's get out of the road."