Miss Incomplete | ✓

51 | He Loves Me

Isn't it lovely?
All alone.
Heart made of glass, my mind of stone.

I flipped the page as the song begins to unravel to the chorus; the beat producing before the lyrics showering down itself. I found myself mumble over the words a couple times.

My eyes scanned across the paper, taking in the words of the poetry book in my hands and picture provided. I crossed one leg over the other, one bent upwards, while the other hanging up its knee.

"What the fuck?" The sound of my brother is heard, and my head turns to his direction as I see him once more, in the hallway of our conjoined bathroom. A white light produced from the bathroom created a large shadow in front of him, and he looks at me, "why are you listening to sad, depressing music?"

"Hey," I tuck my thumb in the book, the spinal pressed against my finger as I dropped it right next to me, "you told me to listen to music."

"Yeah, and you know what music tells about someone? Their feelings. Why the hell are you still sad?"

"Your sister just found out that Julian practically hates her and she ruined all her chances with her crush because of what happened on Monday," I frown, trying my best not to seem too upset.

"Okay, first of all, why are you referring to yourself in third person?" Kenji questions, walking over to examine the placement of my music, "and second of all, who cares?"

"Because, Kenji, I like Julian and now I fuck up the possibility of us being together. Not to mention, I did something horrible to him and I feel entirely bad," I sigh, wiping the stray tear that disobey my commands, "can you just leave me alone? I want to be alone. Don't you see how perfectly happy I am?"

"I don't even think you're happy to begin with,"

"Shut up," I sat back against the stacks of pillow in my bed, "just leave me alone, Kenji. I want to wallow in my own misery."

"Okay, depressing theme," Kenji said, rolling his eyes. "I just gotta do one thing before I leave."

"What?"

He looks across the room to my Google Home, "Hey Google, play J Cole on Spotify." And he left.

The Google Home obeyed and changed the music into a more modern, hip-hop rap that blares through the air. I groan, commanding it to turn off the music just as a tap was heard from my window. I groan once more, can I just have a nice, sad and miserable day without interruption?

I dangle my legs over the bed, dropping to the floor as I walk over to remove the curtains to find Graham.

"Graham?" I unlock the window, allowing access for my best friend (who my father never allow in my room ever) to come in. "What are you dong here?"

"Can we do the questions later? When I'm not dangling on death?" I suddenly remembered Graham's fear of heights, and I move aside for him to come. He first drop his long leg on the ground, before scooting the rest of his body off the window and onto the ground. A ladder sound produced clank against my window. I rush to my doors, locking all of them. I turn back to Graham.

"Now that's done," I said, Graham's back facing me, "what are you doing—"

"Spit."

Spit is a word the gang and I formed; it is only used during needs of venting, and in need of a friend. We drop everything after hearing the word spit and rush to the person's aid — whoever the person said it to, depends on them. It's supposed to be a 'safe-word,' and rarely used within the group. I used it a couple of times, Iris used it in second place, and Graham used his chances the least. I first formed Spit as a acknowledge word that allows the group to hear into the problem without making judgement or commentary. Just pure listening.