PROMISES » #MeToo ✔️

a glimpse into the past // pt. 4

A/N: This one is a little more heavy. Read at your own risk. You don't have to read this. Please, stay safe.

How do I spent my Friday nights, you ask?

            Apparently, writing an article for a magazine that will probably tell me it's too personal and decide to not publish it.

            Mom tells me this won't happen because she is one of the primary editors this year, and because I am her kid, but I don't know that she has total power over what goes in the magazine and what is kicked out. I think she tells me they will definitely publish it because, like my therapist, she desperately wants me to open up about this whole situation.

            And fine, I'll bite. I'll write the article. But if they tell me it's too personal, mom owes me a fancy dinner for putting me through this torture.

            Micah's hoodie is still on the back of my desk chair, and I glance at it warily before shrugging on my choir hoodie. I really need to give it back to him. It's just...weird. With it here in my room, I mean. I haven't worn it since that Friday after the JV game, so it's been taunting me from my desk chair ever since.

            I'm stalling.

            I groan inwardly as I unplug my laptop from the speakers on my desk, being sure to grab my mouse as I walk back to my bed. I set up my pillow corner, complete with fuzzy blankets and stuffed animals. I'm trying to be as comfortable as possible if I have to torture myself for an hour.

            Bandit drinks his water loudly as I crawl into bed, settling back against the pillows. He hears me rustling in bed and looks up, but then switches to eating his food, again rather loudly. He'll probably be in bed with me after his midnight snack.

            My heartrate increases as I open up my laptop, logging in and opening up the File Explorer. I can already feel my hands beginning to shake as I open the article, it coming to life in a short few seconds since I don't have much written.

            Where did I leave off at again?

            A useless question, really. I know where I left off.

            I take a deep breath, glancing at the clock. It's almost midnight. I'm only writing until twelve-thirty. No later.

            I shakily place my hands on the keys, deciding to continue.

            The next day at school, he said I had to kiss him. Because that was what girls did when they wrongly broke up with their boyfriends.

            I furrow my eyebrows, suddenly realizing that I don't truly remember what happened next. I have a vague idea, but...

            I never kissed him—

            I think?

—because one of my teachers happened to miraculously walk down the hallway as we were standing at the water fountain "getting a drink of water". I think about that teacher a lot. Sometimes I think she might've actually saved me from something really horrible.

In the midst of everything, my mom decided to make a Facebook account for me. And guess who decided to friend me? Mike. And guess who accepted his friend request? I did.

Things mellowed out after this, or at least I like to think that they did. I know now, with my knowledge of anxiety, that I was definitely experiencing some symptoms of developing anxiety throughout this whole ordeal, and more frequently at this point.