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by Bluesy Author IconMail Icon
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Emotional · #1400313
Dialogue between a confused youth and a beautiful female friend at a party.
Chameleon Feelin’

“Sometimes, I just don’t get it”

“What do you mean?” She turns to me with a cool smile, but eyes distracted, and I try anyways.

“All this… all these people, they look so happy. Look at them. They’re drunk; high, but it doesn’t matter, they would be anyways. It’s just hard to take, you know. Like why do I have to always be like this?” A warm regret sits in me. “I just mean that I wish I could be there with you.” The regret rises up to my throat, and flushes my face with a drunken tinge of embarrassment.

“It’s okay. I mean I feel like that too, I understand what its like.” Her soft, green eyes finally land on mine. “You know, I wouldn’t have you any other way. It keeps things interesting.” Her eyes fleet away back to the passing moment.

“Yea, I guess.” I watch her eyes flicker as she follows the background. “I just don’t get it though… like… how can you stand these people for so long?” Her eyes land quickly back on mine, hard for such soft eyes. She makes me want to stop talking, but I pursue with regret deep again. “It’s always just the same; it’s been like this for as long as I’ve known them, and I’ve known them for as long as I can remember.” I pause. “It’s always just the superficial game. Like, at the end of the day, it’s just me and the same thoughts I had last night, and the night before, and the night before… It’s tiring and I know it’s not good for me; it forces me to dwell on things, and I’ve seen what happens when people like me dwell on things night after night. I feel like I have to leave.” My eyes leave hers and look to the door; I can feel the cold of the rain already.

My eyes return to hers, wishing my feet had followed my thoughts. “You’re so difficult sometimes; I mean you don’t have to be alone. You’re Byronic; you alienate yourself.” I hate it when uses intellect where it doesn’t belong.

“I don’t know what you really mean, but I don’t want to be alone. I mean, when I’m with people, like right now, I’m far from being alone, but I feel alone and I am alone. And I do try with people; they say they feel like I do, but then in the end it’s always just me thinking the same thoughts on my own every night.” I dwell, and I take a cheap stab, but only for some reaction. “When I think about it, I’ve got nothing keeping me here.” I look hard into her eyes. She isn’t looking back.

“Everyone is human, don’t you realize that? Everyone has something good in them, and you need to find that.” I watch her eyes follow the party; I wait for her eyes to skip back.

“You don’t think I’m willing? I do try, but I don’t really believe in digging it out of people anyways. If people don’t want to wear it, people don’t want it to be seen. I always put myself out, but I only get hurt every time. Sometimes I think I should just let my heart dry up like all theirs, too.”

“Like you could do that.” She’s amused with the thought, but there’s no sympathy in her eyes.

“You don’t think I can, but I really can. It’s not a matter of not caring anymore; it’s just realizing there’s nothing worth loving. I’m not far off, I mean prove me wrong. I’ve been there before, and even when I look in the face of what brought me back, sometimes I forget what I thought was worth loving.” I look hard into her eyes, once more.

“Alright, well how ‘bout this.” It’s stupid how she can just resurface, and it’s stupid I let her, but she makes me resurface. “Just let it go; have some fun. We’re almost graduated anyways, it doesn’t matter. It’ll be done soon. Meet you back here in ten minutes.” She looks at me with clean, soft eyes again. My heart lifts before I can think.

“Ten minutes?” I laugh and let a smile. “Alright.”

She walks away and dissolves seamlessly into the party scene. My heart becomes grounded. Ten minutes from now, she won’t be who she just was. She probably has forgotten already. I won’t be back in ten minutes, and neither will she.

© Copyright 2008 Bluesy (bluesy at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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