Summer is gross; it’s a repetitive mess I want to escape from. Every morning is the same: I wake up and feel the sticky heat surrounding me as I try to sort out my thoughts over the crackling of the radio. I eat breakfast on the sofa, too bored to pay attention to anything but mastication, because that is the only important thing at the moment. I don’t have anything else to worry about, because I have little human contact and zero assignments, nothing to preoccupy myself with. The rest of the day is the same. It’s like the weekend over and over and over again, but without anything to look forward to when it is done. It’s hard to enjoy doing nothing when you’re so used to doing everything.
Sometimes, when I feel like my mind is about to explode from the lack of doing anything, I find myself missing him. I miss randomly seeing a patch of his flannel shirt through a space made by other people’s bodies. I remember the day that I mispronounced flannel and he yelled at me jokingly, his naturally flushed face turning beet red. I miss the silly way he winked at the camera in our video yearbook. Out of all my regrets, the one that stabs at me the most is that I did not talk to him one last time. Now I am stuck trying to tie up the loose ends of the past. The only alternative is to continue floating through this purgatory, these two months of emptiness.
I’m writing this on Sunday. Tomorrow is my birthday. By the time you read this, I will have turned 14. For some reason I don’t care. All that says about me is that in September, I will be a high school freshman who had the chance to be happy and passed on it. ♦