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Normally, Jasper and I would be leaving at the same time, and usually instead of going home we’d hang out.
Not today.
Instead, I drive home fighting tears the whole way.
One solid week passes without me setting my eyes on Jasper.
I send a few texts, he reads them but never responds, so finally I give up on that. I refuse to be that psycho ex-girlfriend everyone talks about.
I spend my free time at the beach, not because I want to be there, but because I’m desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
As much as I miss being with him, I want to speak my peace, and then I think I could move on. If he’s going to hate me I should at least have the opportunity to explain myself.
But I never see him, and I think he’s purposely avoiding places he thinks he might run into me.
It hurts to think he might be going through so much trouble not to see me.
A frustrated sigh leaves my lips and I clutch my pillow tighter.
I can’t believe I’m lying in my bed in the middle of the day doing nothing. I don’t even feel like reading. Feeling this lost and out of control isn’t a feeling I like very much.
“Ugh,” I groan, and throw myself off the bed in a dramatic fashion—although not that dramatic considering my bed is practically on the floor already.
I look up at the ceiling, the pages we so lovingly glued up there what feels like so long ago now, but in reality was only a few years ago. Time is a fickle beast like that—at times a minute seems to span a thousand years, and at others a year feels like no more than the blink of an eye.
I push up from the floor, deciding I can’t sit around and mope a moment longer.
Changing into workout clothes, I slip on some tennis shoes and go for a run. I haven’t run in so long. I’ve been bus
y with so many other things and on the go that I brushed it off.
Now, I’m wishing I hadn’t.
I’m barely a mile in when my lungs start to burn.
I push past it.
My legs propel me forward, my feet thumping steadily beneath my feet. My breath rattles with each shaky breath I take, but still I push on.
I’m two miles in when I spot a familiar figure also running.
In a pair of shorts, sweat glistening on his back, he runs ahead of me with earphones.
“Jasper,” I call out, spurning my legs to go faster so I can catch up. “Jasper!”
On my second yell, he stops and turns around, pulling out an earphone.
My heart drops.
It’s not him.
This guy is clearly older now that I pay attention.
“I’m so sorry, I thought you were someone else.” The guys gives me a disgruntled look, shoves his earphone back in, and starts running once more.
I stop, placing my hands on my knees as I breathe heavily trying to catch my breath. The ragged inhales and exhales sound scratchy and I berate myself for not keeping up with my exercise regime.
Turning around, I start the two-mile walk back to my house.
