FOURTY ONE | THREE WEEKS LATER

                                    

                                          
I couldn’t do it. A week after my first kiss, I caved. I texted Ethan.
No reply.
I waited. Checked my phone. Refreshed the screen. Nothing.
He wasn’t at Miguel’s either.
And I hated myself even more.
Of course I spiraled. Wondered if I had said something wrong, done something wrong. The overthinking gnawed at me, dragging me deeper into the pit I was already stuck in.
After my online class, I went to our indoor garden. The air smelled like lavender and soil. I sat at the wrought-iron table, my laptop open in front of me, trying to focus on my English IV assignment. Analyzing the themes and motifs of Macbeth.
A thousand excruciating words on ambition, guilt, and fate.
I stared at the blinking cursor, fingers hovering over the keyboard but refusing to move. The weight of Macbeth's ambition mirrored my own anxiety. His descent into madness felt a little too familiar.
"Come on, Stephanie. Just write," I whispered to myself.
But the words wouldn’t come. My mind kept drifting back to Ethan. To the rain. To that kiss. To his silence.
I clenched my fists, frustrated. This is ridiculous. It’s just a boy. Well...a man, whatever.
But it wasn’t just a boy.
I took a deep breath, trying to ground myself. The hum of the garden’s water fountain filled the silence. Finally, I forced my fingers to type.
'Ambition drives Macbeth to his downfall, a relentless pursuit that blinds him to the consequences...'
The words came slowly at first, each one a battle. But I pushed through, pouring my frustration, my anger, my sadness into every sentence. The screen became a reflection of my own internal struggle—trying to make sense of a world that often felt like it was spinning out of control.
By the time I reached the conclusion, my fingers ached, and my eyes burned from staring at the screen for so long. But I had done it. A thousand words.
A small victory in a day full of defeats.
I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes. My phone buzzed.
For a split second, I thought it wouldn’t be him. It never was.
But it was.
I stared at the screen, heart suddenly pounding.
“Hey, how are you doing? Was... really busy. My firm's been having a couple of issues lately. How have you been?”
My mouth opened, as if I needed to say the words out loud before typing them. But nothing came.
He asked how are you twice.
He never started conversations with how are you.
I ruined everything, didn’t I?
My hands trembled as I typed a simple reply: “I’m good.”
Just two words.
I stared at the screen, waiting, hoping, but no ellipses appeared. No reply. No follow-up.
And I didn’t send anything else.
---
Miguel’s place.
I was in the back, tucked into a quiet corner. August wasn’t as hot as July, but the thunderstorms remained.
I wore a mustard satin camisole tucked into wide-leg jeans, paired with a white cropped blazer and strappy heels. My hair was styled in two small braids on either side of my head, forming a crown, while the rest flowed freely down my back.