𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞

And if I could
give you the moon,
I would give you the moon
-Phoebe Bridgers

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

December 2016,

Starting over could be hard.

Florida wasn't how I imagined. There were parts of it I enjoyed. The sun on my face and the sound of the waves. The anonymity and the fact that every night, once the sun went down, a party would emerge in its place.

That's where things had gone wrong.

I had gotten so wrapped up in the idea of an escape, I had forgotten University was supposed to be my fresh start—not a repeat of the last four years. There were nights I couldn't even remember my own name; mornings where I couldn't recall how I'd gotten to where I was.

And then there was that morning, when I woke up with an IV in my arm and Aunt Kali at my side. Her eyes were tired—she looked like me, that time I sat at my own mother's bedside wondering how in the world she ended up there, like that. Aunt Kali told me it was time to come home.

We could try to start over again, next year, at some other college.

I told myself, that time, I would get things right.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

I pull onto the side-street. Frankie has her nose pressed to the glass. I can't see her face, but I imagine she's frowning. "So, this is the place?" she asks, and we both stare at the apartment buildings on Franklin Street. The chipped brick, and rusted screen doors. The house numbers falling off the front entrance.

I unclick my seat belt. "Yeah, this is the place."

Frankie's eyes are wider than usual, but she sighs, and follows me up the cracked sidewalk. I ring the doorbell. We didn't give notice of our arrival; I'm unsure if anyone will be home, but it's a Saturday and it's daylight, so chances are—

The door swings open. Pip frowns at me, looks over at Frankie. She looks over her shoulder, cinches her robe tighter around her waist, and then places a hand onto her hip. "Who's this?" she asks.

"This is my friend, Frankie," I explain. "She's just visiting—um, is Tenny here?"

"Who wants to know?"

I frown. "Me, Pip...please, can I just talk to him?"

"He don't want to see you." She juts out her chin. "I told you that."

I sigh. "I know, but I'll only be a minute—please, Pip, it's me."

She looks over at Frankie again, and then back over her shoulder. I hear the television on full volume and I watch her shoulders tense. But then she sighs, slicks a hand over her messy hair and shuffles to the side. "Alright, but take off your shoes," she gripes. "I just did the carpets."

We oblige, kicking off our shoes at the entry way, so that were standing there in our bare socks. I can see the man back in the recliner; there's a dozen empty bottles scattered around his chair and his eyes are closed. Pip gives us a look, like we should stay quiet in order to keep it that way.

She talks in a low tone. "You want anything to drink?" she asks, and we follow her into the kitchen. It looks the same as the last time I saw it, and I watch as Frankie takes in the environment. There's a troubled crease in her forehead, and she barely perches on the edge of a kitchen chair.