FRIDAY
4:08 PM

Dahlia Gray

My laptop sat propped open in front of me, my trembling fingers digging into the case of my phone and my head hung low. Aysa sat in front of me, scribbling on her notebook, gel oozing from the pen, minding her business as much as I'm minding mine.

I didn't feel like talking. I didn't feel like doing anything. When I came into work today, it felt like my legs were anchors and I could barely walk across the floor without wanting to sink to the ground. As I accomplish tedious tasks—taking coffee orders, running back and forth from departments—the employees made note of my uncharacteristic silence. They didn't comment on it, but they eyed me and waited for me to speak up about the stars or give any commentary about the stars and the planetary alignment. They knew I love that.

But I didn't.

I wanted to call in sick and take days off, but I knew I had to persist. Despite the fact that my heart sank into my ribcage, every breath felt hard to take, and my chest constricting at the mere thought of Harlow—I had to continue. We were barely anything, and I treated us like a relationship.

I should've stayed in my lane. I should've stayed where I was at.

"Spill," Aysa demands, drawing my tired eyes to her face. Her red hijab wraps neatly around her head, her eyes dancing across the pages before meeting mine.

Swallowing hard, I gave her a look, because I didn't feel like opening my mouth. It felt heavy, every movement aches, but I'm here. I thought I looked distracted enough.

"What's going on?" She asks diligently, her brown eyes flashes with concern. "There's something off about you lately."

"Nothing." I answer quietly, nails digging into the plastic of the transparent phone case. I hope the lie escapes me well. "I'm just tired."

"Yeah, sure," she hums, her tone filled with disbelief. I wouldn't believe me either. "We're all tired, but that's not the problem here."

Aysa reaches forward, holding out her hand with her palm facing the ceiling. It was a warm gesture, and as she waits for me to take it, I stare back into her deep brown eyes–tired, sad, and a bit ashamed.

"Am I really that readable?" The words were soft, my voice cracking as they slip through my teeth, and I suck up the need to bawl out in the middle of the table. It's as if the waterworks are building in my lungs, suffocating my breath, and I'm just waiting for it to reach full capacity.

Her eyes soften, delicacy flashes through her irises, "kid..."

"I feel so stupid," I said softly, the words gasping on my tongue and the quiver in my voice I tried so hard to conceal, "I feel so stupid, and hurt, and there's this one feeling in my chest that I can't seem to describe. It feels so familiar, but so detached, and it hurts so bad."

My fists bundle underneath the table, clenching and unclenching, trying to relieve this stress building inside of me. I can't explain the pain I'm feeling towards Harlow ignoring me—turning his back on me—but it feels so close. So familiar. Like I'm missing a puzzle piece that could tie everything together but I'm too heartbroken to find it.

Aysa separates from the chair and falls in front of me, crouching with heels on. Setting a comforting hand on my lap, and forcing me to turn towards her while she watches my expression very closely. "Hey," she whispers, "can you breathe? Can you count?"

I nod viciously, but tears are welling in my eyes. I'm trying hard to wipe them away, before Aysa catches me crying, but it was too late. My cheeks are hot and flustered, my eyes glassy and visions are blurring. I feel embarrassed.

"Can you tell me, very slowly, what's going on? What happened between now, and last Sunday?"

I took a shallow breath, trying to regulate oxygen intake, before my words began to spill. I told her everything—from the birthday, to the kiss, to him ignoring me down to the hallway encounter. He looked away like I meant nothing, like he didn't bother wasting a second of his time on me. It hurts so bad, recapping all of this, and it hurts worse knowing it felt oddly familiar. It felt similar to something.

And as I'm retelling the story, starting from top to bottom, reminding myself of everything—of how I'm questioning what's wrong with me, of his feelings towards me, if I was a nuisance he carried from pity, and if I was someone deserving of love when all those around me seem to strip me of my confidence—the realization struck me.

He's making me feel like my father.

And I completely break down.

Aysa jumps to her feet and pulls me off the chair, dragging me to the nearest room. It was a vacant office, filled with a business chair and a large oval table, and as she pulls me in and locks the door, I fall to the ground as the thought consumes me.

My father.

Out of everyone, he's making me feel like how my father does.

And it hurts so much worse when the dots connect.

Oxygen struggles to enter my body, the walls are closing in and my world is shrinking. My head is spinning like a globe, crowds of colors blur all around me, and a headache pounces against my skull.

Aysa drops to the floor beside me, and pulls me into her lap, allowing me to cry all over her pants as she sweeps away my wild hair, and whispers soft melodies in hopes of calming me down. Her fingers trace the side of my shoulder, caressing her thumb over my skin.

When the realization finally hits, and I understand where the pain came from, it hurts. It hurts worse than him ignoring me, it hurt worse than my father's screaming and lectures. It hurts, because out of everything, the last thing I expect Harlow to make me feel like—is like my father.

The world fell quiet while I weep away, soaking the tears onto Aysa's pants as she tries to count the freckles on my face to soothe me. It works, to an extent, but hiccups arise inside my throat, swallowing my words. I did nothing but spoke in broken pieces, butchering between Spanish and English, trying to explain the unbearable pain.

But she stayed.

When I finally calm; words fall to a mere whisper, tears dried from the corner of my eyes, and hiccups are the only source of sound instead of my weeps of misery and Spanglish, Aysa pulls me upright.

She doesn't meet my gaze when she straightens the wrinkles out of my shirt, collecting a handful of my hair and untangling the knots between my wild mane. She adjusts the collar underneath my crewneck, and she finally said: "he's a dumbass."

I wipe the final tears off my face, feeling the burn of my cheeks from the back of my hand. "No...he's not."

"Yes, he is." Aysa said strongly, finishing the last touches of my crewneck, dusting the invisible dusts off my shoulders. "A dumbass is a guy who lets a girl think she feels unloved. A dumbass is a guy who ignores a girl without giving a solid reason. A dumbass is a guy who kisses said girl back and then goes to ignore her."

I don't say anything, biting on my raw lip.

She tilts and meets my gaze, "you deserve more."

"I don't want to deserve more, I want to deserve him."

Aysa shakes her head firmly, planting a hand on my shoulder and levelling her gaze with mine, holding me entirely. "That's where you're wrong. You want him, you don't need him. He's an accessory, not a necessity. You do not need to fulfill yourself to have him, you are more than enough." She pauses, letting her words resonate. "Stop letting little boys dictate who you are as a person."

I don't say anything, playing with the end of my crewneck with my trembling hands. My thoughts are spiraling, my mind running wild, nothing seems coherent anymore. "What if...what if there's a solid reason why he's ignoring me?"

She shakes her head immediately, shutting down the thought before it proceeds any further. "Never," she said, stern eyes follow, "never allow yourself to fantasize the things he could be. He is who he is, and he has shown it to you. Unless he proves to you any differently, never allow yourself to imagine the possible what-ifs. It will only hurt you in the end."

I swallow hard, hands balling into tight fists. My eyes soften to Aysa, brimming with vulnerability, as I let out a feeble sigh. "I really like him, Aysa," I whisper, trying to contain the emotions overwhelming inside of me. My eyelids feel heavy, and I'm not sure how long I can hold. "I thought he liked me too."

Her eyes searched my face, trying to figure out the right words to say. A couple of loose strands of hair falls before my face, and Aysa reaches forward and tucks them behind my ear. "I know. I thought so too—but I can't let you wallow in a pit of despair simply because a guy won't call you back."

"You deserve more than unanswered phone calls and being turned their backs to. You deserve more than bawling on the floor of a vacant office and nitpicking if you are the problem. Because, Dahlia, you aren't. It was his decision, and his choice. It had nothing to do with who you are as a person."

I lower my gaze to the ground, finding patterns in the static carpet. In a mumble, "what if I'm not enough?"

She scoffs, wrapping her arms around me and pulling me close into her embrace. "You are. And, that's why you deserve better. You deserve a love that will never leave you questioning your worth, and if Harlow isn't going to be the one to give it to you, fuck him."

I don't say anything, wallowing in Aysa's arms, but it felt comforting. I don't even know if I truly believe her words, or maybe she's applying pity to wound in hopes of concealing the pain. I truly don't know.

To say that I thought Harlow was the one, is extreme—but I won't lie to say I don't believe he's my person. Without him, I wouldn't be where I am today. I would've never met Aysa, progressively learned who I am and what's the label that defines my situation. I would've never grown if I was alone.

I need him. I know I do. To say we would end without effective communication is complete blasphemy, but I can't seem to work up the courage to talk to him and dig to the bottom of it. A part of me is waiting for it to slip away between the cracks of my fingers, and another part is begging for me to close the gap. The decision is like a power handle, and the lever is stuck.

So now, I'm here.

Waiting, crying, and trying to pinpoint who I am as a person—with or without him.

a/n: i want to say localpansexual i love you, you are absolutely doing the best you can, and i hope the light at the end of the tunnel is bright for you.