I remember sitting on the edge of my extra long twin bed. The springs digging into the back of my legs. I tried to focus on something else. The choices were limited though. My room had been packed into boxes for days, all of my posters stripped from the walls. Everything ready to go except for my terrible pink rug. I kept it sprawled out in the middle of my tiny space until the bitter end. My feet drifted back and forth. They never quite reached the floor. Carving tiny figure eights into the stagnant air while the rest of my body did its best to sit still. He was nervous too. His staccato breaths gave him away. In and out like a race. And he kept running his hands through his cowlick. That tired black sweater like a uniform. Made it feel like déjà vu. Each of his sentences passing through me like a ghost or something equally as vacant. I fought to contain any sign of a reaction. But my eyes grew heavy despite my protest. And I remember we sat in silence for a few minutes. Maybe it was more than a few. Each one felt so infinite. We waited until each second overflowed with our unspoken surrender. Until the remnants of my tears were near invisible. Until we were finally ready to pull that borrowed mattress out from under us.
