Outcast ✧ Phan

Thirteen

ques·tion
verb
feel or express doubt about; raise objections to.

Boing, boing, boing.

It was around midnight, and the moon was full, it's light seeping in through my black curtains. I was sat atop my bed, the checkered duvet crumpled and unmade. The sound of a red bouncy ball thumping echoed throughout the empty house. I was using my "powers" to bounce it around my bedroom, lost in my head.

Boing, boing, boing.

Each bump pretty much represented my thought processing at the moment. My sense of interest bounced from one topic to the other, kinda like that ball.

First it went to Phil, then to whatever I was feeling, then back to Phil again. An endless loop.

We already went to the film. It was fun, and I didn't even care that the trip didn't have any of that sappy romantic movie moments; like where hands brush while reaching for the popcorn, or one yawns and uses it as an excuse to cuddle the other.

Okay, so maybe I wouldn't have exactly minded that stuff happening, but I was still okay it didn't. Those actually might have happened if we didn't leave thirty minutes into the film, I suspected.

But since we were the only lone seniors in highschool sitting in the theatre watching Finding Nemo (we chose it ironically), we ended up ditching to go play mario kart at my house.

In the week that had passed since then, I can proudly say the paritally nonexistent goal to hang out with Phil more was going swimmingly. We haven't went to Phil's house, him always having put it off, but that was okay. I was just content to finally have a friend, somebody to obsess over pointless fandoms and bands with. Even if he did pretty much destroy my view on just about everything, I enjoyed spending time with him. It felt like we've known each other for years rather than just the short time we actually have, what with how comfortable our friendship had settled.

I couldn't help but wonder if Phil was gay. I mean, he sure as hell acts like he is. Flirting all the time, frequent unnecessary body contact with me (in innocence, of course). Maybe, if he is gay, he likes me.

Say he is gay, and he does like me. That still leaves one very important question to remain.

Do I like him?

Something somewhere inside of me would definitely answer yes to that. He was attractive as hell, and the only person to have ever broke through my bubble of existence. But I kinda didn't want to accept the fact I might have a crush on Phil. Having a friend was already worrying enough, but a crush? How would an outcast like me ever be able to have a boyfriend? That's just it, I couldn't. I'd only hurt them, only hurt Phil.

I rubbed my eyes, fighting back the urge to start crying. Be strong, you twat.

Boing, boing, CRASH!

I jumped. I had apparently lost my concentration with the ball while rubbing my eyes, and now it had knocked over something. I stood up and wondered over to where the aforementioned mysterious object had fallen behind my dresser.

I glanced down at the hole a drawer I had previously destroyed once lied, then peered over the back to look at what I had managed to break now.

First my eyes found the bouncy ball, slumped between two papers I had slid back there in the midst of tidying from who knows how long ago. Then, a lamp. Shattered into a dozen of pieces.

I groaned, bending over and picking up the shade to it. The shards probably needed to be swept, though. I glared at the ball, which was as red and glossy as ever, shining like it had done me a huge favour by murdering my lamp. I decided to leave the ball there as a punishment for its crime, even though I was well aware it was a inanimate object and held no brain function or even an acknowledgement to existing. Still, it was the thought that counted.