No matter how much she runs, Laura is stuck in an endless loop of her past. With a transfer of school and a curly-haired boy who seems to be wherever she goes, it's a matter of time she realizes that her universe ceases at the sight of him-and runni...
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THE EARLY MORNING DOWNPOUR MADE THE AIR FREEZE.
Beneath my hands, the ebony table ran frigid, numbing the fingertips. With a tense jaw and eyes fixated on the clock, it was the first time I wished to be running late—solely because it could get me tensed about the time and not the circumstance. Today was another day of waking up in cold sweat, fear constantly playing tug-of-war with the heart. It was only a matter of time it won, perhaps, and I forever succumbed to the metal chains tying me down.
Liam was sitting two seats across, hazel eyes drilling holes on my forehead. His lips beheld a scowl and hands motioned at the ceramic plate on my side. I shifted my gaze quietly, and almost wanted to throw up. For someone who could live on sugar, I had no appetite for the pancakes staring right back. It was way too early and way too much food, and my anxiety had torn down my insides to shreds.
"Laura," he threatened, and I could only roll my eyes. New cities were probably my arch-nemesis because I couldn't remember, for once, being completely unscathed when I travelled to a new place. Something always fucked up. But that was better way better than walking down the same halls without him right beside.
And for that, this had to be okay.
Like the perfect older brother he thought he was, Liam tapped on my elbow. When I didn't bother, he slapped my arm rather harshly, making me grunt. His coyness slipped past his lips, deceitful smile holding me in place.
"Your glares will break the clock."
"That's a fine input to this thriving conversation, Li," I glared and slumped farther into my seat. If it were any other day, I would've danced around because of the weather. It had rained after weeks—and precisely on the first day of my senior year to a completely different high school.
The odds had never really been in my favor.
Across the table, Liam had faked hurt and scoffed seconds later before he grabbed both of our plates and went back inside of the kitchen.
Change. Change was good, but only when it was subtle and not so ground-breaking. I couldn't help but wander back to the times when I had had this sort of anxiety—probably back when I was fifteen, and after two years of almost overcoming the constant nipping of uncertainty which clawed its nails at my very being—it had struck me like a bolt of lightning: striking blue, scorching, and livid.
By the time Liam walked back into the living area, I had gotten up from my place and frantically started shoving things in my bag. Maybe I was a little late, after all; it only made me grateful. My brain over thought at a thousand miles per hour, and Liam handed me another binder hidden below the cushions.
"It's good that time's fast, I'm going to get rid of you for a while."
This is what we were. And our favorite coping mechanism was turning seriousness into undebatable satire. The genes were to blame.
