January 31st

Posted: January 31, 2013 in Uncategorized

Dear journal,

Take a wild guess at who came into the shop just as I was trying to close it last night; I’ll save you the trouble – it was Andrew. Needless to say, I told him we were closed and pushed him out to lock the front door. I ignored him as he stood outside, watching me finish up the last few bits of cleaning and finishing the daily paperwork. I even ignored him as I set the alarm, exited the shop and locked the door from the outside. He was trying to talk to me, but I pushed his words out of my head and I kept walking as though this was any other closing shift. He was a ghost to me.

It wasn’t until I went to unlock my front door that he grabbed my wrist. That was a big mistake on his part, especially since the last thing to grab my wrist ended up trapped in a dumpster. I ripped my wrist out of his hand, the force of which nearly knocked him down the front stairs. I finally asked him what the hell he wanted, and told him to make it quick, because I was only going to listen to him for a minute before I would slam my door in his face.

He started going into this story about how he didn’t think I wanted him around and how he’d been offered a place to stay by one of the guys at his work. He said he didn’t know the dumpster story had anything to do with me. Nothing that he yammered on about seemed to shed any light on why he just left without saying a word to me, nor why he would leave my house at risk by leaving it unlocked. I was mad as hell, and his minute had more than passed, but I felt the overwhelming urge to ask him about both of these points.

“I was moving my things and expected to be back to say goodbye before you got home. When I returned and the lights were all on, I knew you were already back and couldn’t face you.”

I lost it. I didn’t care if anyone heard me yelling at him. I told him that I felt guilty about him being out on the streets, and that he made me feel like I was completely worthless and he was just using me for lodging. I let all of the hurt just spew out of me, and before I could stop it, I told him something I had promised myself not to say out loud, ever: “I liked you, I trusted you, I let you be the first person to ever kiss me, and now I feel like a complete idiot for thinking you might like me, too.”

I can’t quite describe the look on his face, partly because it was a combination of a few different emotions, and partly because I could feel the tears starting to well up in my eyes so I escaped through my front door and bolted it before he could even think of following me. There was no way on Earth that he was going to see me cry. I came directly upstairs, foregoing dinner, and flung myself into my new room. I let it all out, and feel right to sleep when it was over. I heard him knocking on the door over the sound of my sobs a few times, but I decided it was way better to go back to ignoring him than to allow him to keep scratching at the scar he’d helped to create. I don’t need anyone in my life that is going to make me feel like I felt last night. No good can come from anything that makes me feel so lost and upset and alone and bitter and hurt.

He’s probably laughing about it with his work friends right now. I hate him.



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