sophspacedotcom

[sophspacedotcom]

internet graveyard.

my latest fictional story follows pollyswrld and an Instagram obsession.

I am following her purely out of envy.

Was that unfeminist to say?

I am enamored by her curated feed.

She has concert ticket stubs in her most recent photo dump. She smokes reds and has a Rolling Rock in her hand. She wears baseball hats in a way that feels so chic and refined.

She is endlessly cool.

She doesn’t believe in doing her hair. She has effortless waves that somehow look different and the same in every single post. Her hair is colored gray blonde All she wears is red lipstick.

Occasionally, she wears glasses. Girls with glasses are so cool and mysterious.

I have 20/20 vision and it feels embarrassing to admit. I hate that I was born with one thing right with me.

She posts quirky things on Instagram. Memes from still_on_a_downward_spiral or some Kate Bush song. She likes yacht rock, unironically (or maybe ironically) as I noted from her Spotify.

There are so many thirst traps of her.

Thirst traps of her reading, thirst traps of her drinking wine, and thirst traps of her with some mirror I hope is cursed. All taken on 35 mm.

I do not have the patience to wait for film to develop. Patience makes you more honest. I hate commitment, and I refuse to be honest with myself.

She has some fake job, she works in PR for niche painters. She is so fucking fab.

There is no way someone is like that all the time. We are all brands of ourselves on social media.

I hate her so much, but I want her to like me.

I want to be her.

I start engaging with her content. I like every story I can. I start to analyze every little move she makes (I was listening to The Police here).

I DM her via her story, where she takes an ominous selfie in the mirror, painting her lips the signature red.

pollyswrld: What lipstick color do u use?

she: a variety but mostly fenty uncensored xo

She posts a blurry selfie the next day on her story, her wired headphones are tangled. She has on all black and her messy gray hair is clipped up, barely staying there. She pairs it with a Bob Dylan song.

The next post is her reading a book I have never heard of, next to a cup of coffee. Then, a link to her Goodreads.

The last time I read a book was three years ago. It was a self-help book my Aunt sent me. Self-help books don’t work, I am convinced they were created as a pyramid scheme. They all reek of scam. And they want me to join their cult of boy mommies and Facebook livestreams. Drown me in laugh reacts.

I look over at my desk, half a deli sub remains next to a hair tie, tangled in my hair from earlier. Sticky notes with “Follow up with Jen,” “Call Mom!!!!” “Wash your face,” line my desk.

I wonder if she has a relationship with her mom.

Every single time I post a selfie, I look uncomfortable and starved for attention. I have the stare of a caveman. Everyone can smell it on me. Behind my eyes remains empty, the idea of a girl who is so lost that she never found herself on the way.

She posts the deli I was at earlier.

pollyswrld: Was just there! Soooo good.

Left on read.

She thinks I am such a freak.

I order Chinese food where I will sit on my mattress (no bed frame) and eat. I am rewatching “Orange is the New Black” for the 100th time. The glow of my TV radiates and comforts me. I feel like I only watch this show during the Summer. Every new season would come out during the Summer and I would watch episodes on my clunky iPhone 4. It felt like one of the times I could turn off my brain. Things felt simpler.

I have no idea how to do that anymore.

The sauce of my noodles minorly gets on my comforter. My comforter which I have refused to replace, has been unfortunately stained in other various sauces and period blood that never came out. Reminding me the most personal experiences of my body are far from glamorous.

I always feel ugliest when I bleed.

It feels so hurtful when I get my period. I cannot have children.

I think I always wanted to be a mother.

I think I could have maybe been a good mother.

You always want something you cannot have, and I think that is something I wanted. I wanted to do it over again, hoping my child would not become me.

I do not want them to have the relationship with their image that I have in the age of social media.

The idea of them following their peers, picking apart every imperfection would break me. Womanhood feels like workshopping, as we analyze every part of ourselves. And for me, it is too late to fix the final draft.

I know she would be a good mother.

It is so late, I can’t close my eyes. The TV feels even louder than it did an hour ago.

My eyes just continue to lurk on her page. My body refuses to go to bed until I can pick apart more of her photos.

Tagged photos. The unedited, the junkyard of youthful shame and looks to forever regret.

All her fucking tagged photos are so perfect. Not one flaw. Everyone is ugly when they start college, except her.

I look back at my tagged photos.

I look so uncomfortable on the other side of the camera. Every outfit I have ever worn looks like I am renting a phase that never stuck around.

I moved around from phase to phase, never really settling. She never settled in a phase either, but it comes across as evolving. While I stayed stuck in the weeds of awkwardness.

There was the phase where I was really into tomatoes.

Which is insane because I hate the mushy texture of tomatoes. They feel soggy in my mouth and they taste sharply bland.

There was the phase where I went boho.

I rewatched “Almost Famous,” every weekend and scouted the local record store’s classics section. I wore fringed vests and forced my hair to get wavy. My hair, straight naturally, was crunchy, and lifeless. I did get very into Donovan, which hasn’t changed. I just lied about tripping. It seemed like a good bit. I am the last person who should go on an acid trip.

There was the phase where I got into crafting.

The lack of patience made that difficult. So many unfinished projects linger around my apartment. I pay my respects to them every single night. I am a creative, but a creative who will never reach her full potential. I never remained there.

There was the phase where I got really into horror.

Horror fans are so fucking annoying. Going to cons feels like a waste of my time. It feels like going back to high school and all that remains are all the people who peaked and rode that high for the rest of their lives. They all call themselves things like “spicy” when they look like generic Spencer Gifts. Spicy. How edgy.

My apartment feels like a graveyard.

It still contains remnants of these fallen phases, as I remain stuck in limbo of who I want to be. I feel like I lost a little bit of myself with each phase I tried.

I do not even know who I am.

She leaves the number of likes on her posts. Hundred and hundreds.

When my cat died, I could barely get 25 likes.

It’s a shame. People love a sob story and I loved it for the attention I hoped I would have gotten. No one could muster any courage to feel sorry for me.

Engage with me. I need the lifeline.

People love sadness except when it’s me.

It’s now 3 AM and I need to be awake in a few hours for work. I should drift, but I cannot turn off my brain. I go to the mirror. I look at myself as she stares at me. I look at every pore. I look at every black hair I need to tweeze out of my lip and chin. I look at my bloodshot eyes. I look at my roots, beginning to gray earlier than they should. I look at.

I fell asleep on the bathroom floor, in a pile of cold drool and a pit of self-loathing.

She has a DJ gig this weekend. I should go. I bet her set sucks.

I decided to take a bus.

A fight breaks out on the bus, delaying me from attending the gig. I take the walk of shame back to my apartment, sweating in my outfit. It rains and I smell like wet nickels when I get back into my apartment.

I shed off the clothing and I hop into my shower. A can of beer remains from the shower I took two weeks ago. I take a sip and it tastes so unbearingly flat.

I threw up down the shower drain.

I open up my phone, naked from the shower, sitting on my bed. Crumbs from the comforter stick to me. I scroll until my fingers lose feeling. She posts her DJ gig on her story.

Sadly, her set is good.

All cool girls are self-proclaimed DJs. It’s like the right of passage among the indie sides of the internet. They try to come across as niche when it is the same in a variety but in different (yet similar) fonts.

I decided to call out of work the next day.

I work from home. My commute is not glamorous, since my floor has not seen a broom or mop in weeks. I order tacos and eat on my mattress. I browse Zillow and look at homes I will never afford. I go back to her.

I make a Pinterest board, it is time for me to get back to the drawing board. Making a board is like one step to getting my life together. Unfiltered curation through an algorithm that only knows an idea of me.

I Google her.

She was featured in Paper Magazine for her street style. I pick apart her look, from my stained sweatpants.

I somehow find a video of her at an open mic. She writes poetry in her spare time.

Give me a fucking break.

I feveriously pin away on Pinterest. Vintage ads, photos of Claudia Schiffer, photos of books, claw clips.

She comes up on my Pinterest. I feel my entire body get hot.

I never stuck with something because trends come and go. I was ahead of the curve, which is never enough. I wanted to be cool in the moment.

I LIKED BOB DYLAN FIRST!

I DJED ONE TIME!

I WRITE SHITTY POETRY ON COCKTAIL NAPKINS AT THE BAR!

I AM A NATURAL BLONDE!

I turn off my computer. I stare into the void of Instagram. I delete all my photos. I go into my bathroom. I take a selfie in the mirror, copying her pose.

I am not myself behind my eyes.

I am emulating what I wish I was, she happens to be the current inspiration obsession.

I delete them all until I find the perfect one. My viewpoint is lined in forgotten selfies I never saved.

Nothing is coming through, just radio static.

[sophspacedotcom]

warm vanilla sugar

a fictional short story.

Girlhood exists in the proximity of my bedroom.

My bedroom is my sanctuary, covered in posters and thumbtacks. The posters that seem to hang out with me at night. My bedroom stays awake with me when I can’t close my eyes.

My room has been left as a complete time capsule as I explore the grounds.

Girlhood exists in the CDs, scattered on my floor. Still somehow untouched. I used to get lost in the music of Pixies and The Breeders. Or I’d sulk away, listening to Fiona Apple or Hole. I grab a Tori Amos CD off the floor and I plug my headphones into my old CD player. Masking the looming existential crisis I am having.

Girlhood exists in the pages of my old diary. Lined with all my insecurities, all my crushes, all my hopes and dreams. Penned forever on paper in a pink notebook, covered in stickers. I kept a diary from late middle school into most of high school.

I look through it, some names I remember and some I do not.

Matt? Who was he? Someone I must have taken art with.

Chase? Someone from middle school I have barely a memory of.

I notice an entry about future career goals. I guess I wanted to be a reporter one day, too bad that didn’t work out. Would younger me be disappointed to know I work at a hotel, as an event coordinator? Or would she think that it’s cool I people watch often?

I notice a passage from a hard day.

Being a teenage girl is the hardest thing in the world sometimes. No one understands, except yourself.

I put the yearbook on my desk, along with other items I want to save. The desk has polaroids of people I am no longer friends with, as they remain distant memories.

Girlhood exists when I sit on the sofa, binging “Grey’s Anatomy” after I freshly showered, smelling like Warm Vanilla Sugar from Bath and Body Works. The only scent my mother has bought religiously. It makes me feel like she is here with me, as I remain in the empty house with a few of the furniture items I grew up with.

My mom never changed much to the house, it is a relic of a time that no longer exists. She never took anything out of my room when I moved out of the house. As I got older, I came less and less to visit. Stepping back in transported me to a time I never thought I’d be nostalgic for.

I should have visited more.

Digging through boxes made me want to drift off into sleep, but too bad that feeling rarely stays.

Most nights, I am awake and alert, watching reruns of whatever I stumble upon. I am not coordinating an event, they put me at the desk. I normally work the night shifts.

You learn so much during the night. I have watched couples fall in love and I have watched couples break up. I use that time to digest whatever my social media feeds are dishing out to me that day.

Girlhood exists on my Instagram explore page, as I get reel after reel of “natural Ozempic,” “how to glow up in ten steps,” “my everything shower, step by step,” or “how to manifest him in five easy steps.”

I am conditioned to feel like, at the age of thirty-one, I am no longer desirable. I am seen as ancient, and falling apart. Preventive Botox is marketed to girls younger than me. The term “iPhone face,” is rising in the ranks.

What even is an everything shower? Just call it a fucking shower. I should stop scrolling late at night.

Girlhood exists while I lay in bed, a candle lit, and reading a book I have been putting off for weeks. It was so much easier as a teen, I could sit there with a book and my mind somehow wandered less. I was less aware then. Likely because I had less to worry about then. I didn’t know what a 401k was, I didn’t worry if I accidentally missed a doctor’s appointment, and I never floated the idea of a nose job.

Girlhood exists, as I try and perfect my Instagram feed, to make it look like it matches. As if my life is so put together. When really, my life is seen through a filter. Projected to many people who do not really know the real me.

To post on social media is to constantly perform. And I no longer want to share the stage.

But I find myself, altering and choosing the right thing. The casual feed is in, making it look as casual yet staged as possible is what is trendy.

To exist in girlhood is to put on a show, which lately has not felt like the one I have written.

I feel exhausted looking through every photo.

What if there were more in these boxes? I find an old yearbook, reading notes from people I no longer speak to. “HAGS!” “You are so cool - I hope you love your next journey.” “So glad we are BFFs!”

A large page, written by an ex I have since cut communication off with. I want to take a big Sharpie and cross it off. But what if I need it for a memoir one day? That’s like taking artifacts out of a museum.

What would my memoir even say?

Clara. Someone who never lived. Someone chained to the shackles of a perfect Instagram and an unfulfilled life. Someone still following all the people she went to middle and high school with, for some reason. Someone, going through moving boxes as her mom leaves behind her childhood home to retire in Florida. The one with all the memories, that formed the girlhood she knows and loves.

Girlhood exists when I cry. I find crying to be so beautiful, a release of every emotion I am feeling all at once.

Why was it so much easier when I was younger to be an individual? I used to care about things that weren’t marketed for me. I didn’t talk about “girl math,” or being a “tomato girl,” or “olive girl.”

I was just me.

I go into my mom’s room. It is still the way she left it. The only thing on her nightstand is a bottle of the perfume she always uses. She must have forgotten to pack it. I spray some on my wrists and smell. Mom moved to Florida a few weeks ago, she asked me to come to the house and gather anything of mine before she donated all of it to the Goodwill.

I wander the halls of the tiny house, each room so close together. The couch, still preserved in the plastic slipcover I sweated on for many summers. My mom never upgraded our TV, most of my TV viewing was on a large tube TV, which felt like warmth in the room.

Girlhood is mourning a time in my life that no longer exists, but feels like a comforting memory.

I finish going through the things I want to take, boxes of old diaries, old yearbooks, CDs, and some clothes. I add the bottle of perfume to the mix.

Girlhood is hoping that whatever mom donates, some other girl can use in her own growing girlhood, to create new memories with. Maybe she’ll play the CDs I cried to on her bedroom floor and smile as she listens to them. Or she’ll wear one of the dresses I felt so beautiful in, and she’ll love how she looks in it.

I don’t want to say goodbye to the place that raised me. Maybe the memory of it all, no longer attainable, is sweeter than the actual experience I had.

I wanted to grow up so fast. I wish I waited to slow down.

[sophspacedotcom]

[sophspacedotcom]

Sylvia Plath, aged 17, journal entry #28, from "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath" (c. September 1950)

[sophspacedotcom]

[sophspacedotcom]

Elizabeth Berkley in 'Showgirls' (1995)

[sophspacedotcom]

Natural Born Killers (1994) Dir. Oliver Stone

[sophspacedotcom]

[sophspacedotcom]

voice memo (love) story

Recently, I have been listening to the album “Can We Still Hang?” over and over again by Daddy Issues, which is one of my favorite albums. This story is inspired by the song “Creepy Girl."

There is this man I am in love with. In my head, he is my best friend and we are madly in love. 

I hate thinking about him. I hate his guts, I hate his stupid smile, I hate his stupid clothes, and I hate his stupid voice.

I wish he loved me back. 

He may have at one point. He loves the girls in his phone. 

I was just another number. 

He fascinates me endlessly. 

I play his voice memos over and over, hoping to hear a different way he says a word. A different way he says the word “and” or even “yeah.”

He called me cute a long time ago. 

I have no idea if he meant it or said it as a way to be nice. I analyze a new (and old) text every single day, I read his body language and the slightest accidental touch makes my whole body freeze.

He tells me about all these women he thinks are Goddesses.

The Goddesses, who are smarter and cooler than I ever will be. 

I want him to shut up. I want to kiss him. 

When I look outside at the sun, I imagine he is looking at it, too. I wonder if he is thinking about me. When I listen to something on Spotify, I pretend he is lurking my page, adding the same songs to his Spotify. 

I analyze every little detail, it is ruining my life.

I hope you are thinking about me. 

We met purely accidentally, he came in looking for a Supertramp record while I worked my first shift at the record store. I talked to him about our favorite records, which I pretended to like since I did not want to see like a basic Smiths fan. 

His favorite band is Sonic Youth, he thinks Kim Gordon is the coolest person alive. I listened to “Dirty,” on repeat, trying to emulate her. 

We figured out we had been following each other on Instagram for a while. We then DMed after, about all the records we hope to find one day. I found his Discogs and bought the records on his wishlist. He asked for my Spotify and told me he’d made me a playlist with some recs. I got a DM the next day, with a Spotify playlist made custom for me. From him. I looked up all the lyrics to all the songs, was there a hidden meaning he wasn’t willing to tell me? What if this was him telling me he felt the connection a first sight, too?

I would forget to check the clock and it be 3 AM and we were still up. It turned to voice memos, as I giggled on the floor of my walk-in closet. 

One day, he told me about the record that launched his collection. And how it filled his room with colors and sunlight.

“I’m Still in Love with You,” by Al Green. 

I bought the record the next day. I played it endlessly on Spotify, reposting it on my story praying he would hit the like button. 

I was like Gatsby, if Gatsby was a 5’6” mousey woman. I was putting on a show for him. 

He liked the story. I imagine it was a kiss. I felt his lips touch mine, they were so soft and warm. My whole body filled up with bouncing butterflies and I felt so light. 

We started to hang out, all the time. He would take me to his favorite parks, we would talk about music and whatever hopes and dreams we had. He wanted his band to take over the world. My hopes and dreams were to be there with him. But I lied and said I wanted to feel serenity. 

After a few months, I asked him to come over. He walked into my small apartment, pointing out all my stuffed animals, sitting on my dresser next to my record player. Many of these records where “damaged” records from the store. He told me I had a good collection. 

He played the guitar that sat in the corner, collecting dust. He sang me a song that he had began to write. I pretended he wrote it about me. When he sang to me, he looked into my eyes. His deep brown eyes, locking in with my soul. I felt my lips tremble and my body shake. 

We stayed up late, laying on the floor, our heads next to each other, talking about all our fears. He told me about all the failed dates he went on. He wanted something serious, I could give him that. But he never seems to consider me. I wanted to hold him and tell him I could be the one. 

I probably should have, but I watched from afar. 

We spent days, communicating in memes and song links, only he would send. It felt like whole mood depending on seeing his name in my notifications. He sent me the demo to his band, I played it again and again. I pretend he is singing to me, it is just us alone in my apartment. 

Communication grew sparse. Responses turned to one-word answers to eventual likes and then eventually “left on read at 9:04 PM.” 

We don’t speak anymore. I just watch his stories, minutes after posting. 

He messaged me one day. He started to catch feelings for someone. He wanted my opinion, as a friend. 

A girl, the improved idea of me. A girl who actually knew her way around music. She liked French pop and folk music, like Joan Baez. I started listening to Joan, posting her on my story. A girl who emulated everything he ever wanted. 

He would message me, telling me the latest thing she did, asking me what it meant. I pretended to be happy for him. But instead, it was ripping me up from the inside out. What if she was just being nice? We were meant to be. 

His messages went from nothing to long. Mine were short and sweet. He has moved on from me, unless he was never there to begin with. 

I thought he was hopelessly single, forever. Everyone else was a fail, except of course the one he always wanted. 

I knew this was my last chance. 

I showed up at his house with flowers in my hand. 

She opened the door. She told me he was currently recording in the other room and she asked who the flowers were for. I had nothing to say. She let me in. 

I sat on their couch, she offered me tea. I declined. What if she poisoned it? He walked out and was surprised to see me. He looked at the flowers, he asked to talk to me outside. 

He told me I couldn’t feel this way. He told me he was going to make it official with her, soon.

But we could still be friends. We can still hang, sometimes. 

This means there is still chance. They’ll break up eventually and I’ll be there, as his next option. 

I was never his first option. 

I got home, I cried into my pillow and watched “When Harry Met Sally…” I wanted to toss my phone into space. It felt like the string, pulling me close to him, ripped out of my heart. I hated this. 

Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. 

He stopped talking to me. He comments on all her photos, I am hate following her. 

I was never an option, I was an idea he entertained.

[sophspacedotcom]

short story one

Refresh. Refresh. Open, Slide. Heart icon, like. I sit in a dark room, opening and closing the app a million times. I saw it on Facebook the other day. Who the fuck uses Facebook even? Is it just the people who made fun of you in high school for being “emo” or my parents, who like to repost AI reels with a caption with tons of laughing emojis no one uses anymore? But Facebook is the most sophisticated app. It can lead me down a wormhole of discovery. Instagram is the confirmation app, the app through a filter, the app that makes people want to kill themselves. Everyone is on Ozempic there or uses tons of filler. Facebook involves all the ugly, photos tagged of people in their truest form. You can see every imperfection and it feels humbling, surrounded by beautiful faces all day. We aren’t meant to see that many beautiful people a day, it makes me feel like I have so many unfinished tabs open. 

I scroll and scroll. And scroll. It’s late, I should be asleep. But I feel the most awake, staring at strangers and former ghosts on my phone screen. My eyes ache of dryness but I cannot look away. 

Ding. A reply to my story, a repost of Patti LuPone in the 1970s. She is so hot. I wish I was her. 

DylanBrowne: why r u awake?

I roll my eyes so hard, I can feel my head combust.

SallyJames: no.

DylanBrowne: hahahah

SallyJames: what do u want?

DylanBrowne: looked pretty in ur recent post. 

I feel my gums get tight and my teeth gain sensitivity. 

SallyJames: didn’t u ghost me like 2 years ago?

DylanBrowne: oops ;)

Never trust a man who types in all lowercase letters. I scroll through more reels, many of them are either plagued with the conservative mindset, pushing trad wife content, and then immediately followed by photos of tiny puppies in little puffer coats. Is this what the internet age is all about? 

I get up. I put in headphones and I listen to Dinosaur Jr., very loudly in my ears. J Mascis’s raspy voice feels my eardrums and I feel like I am levitating. It’s past when I should be asleep. No one else is awake around me, except @ DylanBrowne. Somehow that feels so isolating, I look out at the window and feel the moon looking back at me. I wish I could talk to her, I think she understands me the most. My studio apartment feels like it is floating towards her. The guitar on the song makes me feel emotional and it makes my eyes well up. I lost my sister and the world somehow felt like it stopped spinning. That was a year ago. 

A year ago, I was talking over funeral plans with my family. Now, a year later, I sit alone in my studio apartment on a Wednesday night getting DMed by some guy who ghosted me years prior. 

All for looking pretty on his feed. 

Pretty is so subjective. My sister was so stunning, I wanted to be here so badly. Prettiness doesn’t spare you from death, why do we obsess when who knows when the day will come? The prettiest girl alive could be many things, but when she dies she is dead. I could be dead tomorrow and that DylanBrowne guy could give a fucking shit. 

I DM back.

SallyJames: why did u ghost me btw

DylanBrowne: what

SallyJames: u heard me, answer pls

DylanBrowne: idk i have ADHD and forget things

SallyJames: why am i pretty

DylanBrowne: huh

SallyJames: answer pls u ghosted me

DylanBrowne: nice ass i think

Shallow and stupid. Why was I even still following him? Maybe I was curious. Or was it a hate follow? We all hate follow at some point, I think. Did I mention I have insomnia? That’s why my mind goes a mile a minute and switches topics very quickly. I can’t even turn it off when my head hits the pillow. I just lay awake, wishing I could live on the moon with no one around. With no access to social media. Just the flood of the stars, surrounding me. 

All I would need is my headphones and an iPod with all my favorite songs. 

SallyJames: Have you ever wanted to go to the moon?

DylanBrowne: didn’t elon want to do that?

SallyJames: mars, idiot. 

DylanBrowne: never rlly thought abt it ig

SallyJames: i want to go to the moon, i want to look at the stars, i want to float among them i want to get lost on the surface of the moon, in all the craters and all asleep with the same view every single night, i want to throw my phone into the air and never talk to anyone ever again.

DylanBrowne: ? r u drunk

Would I miss human connection if I went to the moon? Would I be lonely? I am only lonely at night, but not lonely in the I miss people way. Lonely in the way that only the moon is there to talk to me. I wish she would come into my apartment and sit with me. 

I look at her again out my window. I open my window.

“Hi,” I say. She smiles back at me, almost blinding me. 

“Hi, Sally.”

“You are the only one awake with me.”

“That I am.”

“I am enamored by your beauty.”

“That is very kind, thank you.” 

“I want to leave this planet and be with you. I think I am in love with you.”

“The idea of me, possibly.” 

“I want to be with you, I want to stay up late talking to you, forever.” “You think I am that beautiful?” “I do, yes.”

“I don’t think I am, but thank you.”

Even the moon doesn’t think she is beautiful. She looks like what I imagine Aphrodite is. Is that what it is like for others, looking at us? We just see the wrong and they see the right? I look over my shoulder. 

There she stands. The moon is in my room. Her hair, icey blonde and long. Her eyes are golden, and her skin, glowing. My eyes feel like they are welling up. I go to grab her hand. 

“You are here.”

“I am.”

“I want to kiss you.” “You can.”

I kiss her and it feels like the whole world stops spinning for a moment. Not like when my sister died, that was a sad, slow spinning. But when you listen to FM radio on speakers, and it feels so warm and so clear. 

My alarm goes off. I open my eyes. I must have finally fallen asleep again. I woke up to a pile of drool next to my cheek and my phone in hand, playing Dinosaur Jr. with headphones in my ears. 

DylanBrowne - 3 unopened. 

I blocked him. I walk over to the wall of photos and spot my sister again. Since she died, some night I sleep and some nights I don’t. Or I don’t remember when I closed my eyes. Seeing a sea of darkness scares me. I look out my window, there sits the sun. 

The moon is gone for now, I will see her in a few hours. Until then, I drift off, wondering what my life would be like if I did actually run away with her. 

I wish I did.