Eighteen

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"Tis the privilege of friendship to talk nonsense, and to have her nonsense respected." — Charles Lamb

" — Charles Lamb

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~°~




This was a bad, bad idea.



In fact, it was a horrible one! Diabolical!



So why in the world were you tirelessly pacing back and forth in your bedroom as you pondered heavily over your best friend's absurd yet oddly tempting suggestion?



But just as you were about to respond to his suggestion — although you weren't completely sure what exactly your response was going to be — the man then suddenly got a phone call from somebody that he didn't bother to reveal the identity of, and he immediately proceeded to rush out of the apartment, telling you that he'd be back later.



And that was the last you ever heard from the man. He has not said a single thing or even given you any sort of proof of life for almost six hours now. Six hours of you making endless rounds all over your room with barely any sit-down breaks taken in between due to the restlessness that had begun to course through your body earlier.



It was like this idiot had now made it his biggest mission to make your head spin lately. Almost like he wanted nothing more but to fog your thoughts in more ways than he already had been, this time just being more jarring and nonsensical than anything that was there before. He had to be doing it on purpose at this point. He just had to be.



Any thought of him that you've had that could have been anything remotely similar to any of the shit the man has been doing recently was nothing but a part of your fantasy, never in a million years did you ever dare to think that those fantasies would be trying to solidify themselves and turn into a reality by knocking at your doorstep right now.



The way he kissed you that night... That fucking kiss... you had to fight the urge to roll your eyes back at the blissful and almost unreal memory.

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