Page 75 of The Prospect

131,400 hours.

And 7,884,000 seconds.

That’s how long it’s been since Hazel and I have had a fight—a real fight—one where we’ve gone an agonizing amount of time without talking to one another. Mind you, back then, we were kids, and what we were arguing about was so mundane that I can hardly remember it.

But nothing, absolutely nothing quite compares to this silence. This rejection. This feeling as though I’ve fucked up the only good thing in my life, and I don’t even have a proper explanation as to why I’ve done it.

When Hazel left the dorm room the other night, I felt like my whole world walked out with her. Not only did everything go dark, but everything went silent too. An eerie silence, not one that hums you to sleep, but one that keeps you awake with just how deafening it is.

Amira was just about as shell-shocked as I was from my behavior. I know deep down she has questions. She wants to know why I was so eager to find Hazel at the party. Why I was sokeen to rush back to the dorm. Why I felt so compelled to kick up a fight when I saw her tangled in Hart’s arms.

I wish I had an answer to her questions—I do. I’ve been paving my way through my own mind day in and day out in hopes that I’ll find a response to appease not only her but also myself every time I come back empty-handed.

My mind is blank—full of nothing but regret and remorse. Thankfully, my somber mood and dumbfounded stare were enough to make Amira drop the topic of conversation altogether that night and jump into full-on nurturing mode.

She says that’s what girlfriends do and Christ, that’s all good and well, but I wish she could tell me what best friends do.

That’s the advice I need.

That’s the advice I’m searching for.

My glum mood has hardly allowed me to see sunlight these past seventy-two hours, but today I’ve got no other choice but to leave the confinement of my four walls. I’ve got practice and I know damn well that, “I’m in my feelings” is no kind of excuse that will appease Coach. I have to go, there’s no other choice.

But instead of being proactive in getting ready, I’ve been standing in my shower for Lord knows how long, drowning in my thoughts and checking my phone every few seconds to see if Hazel has responded back to me.

She hasn’t.

Amira says she’s stayed hush-hush about things when she’s seen her, although, every time they’ve been in the room together, she’s certain Hazel has either A., found an excuse to leave, or B., has pretended to be asleep.

Not only have I managed to fuck up mine and Hazel’s relationship, but as luck would allow it, my parent’s biggest worries have manifested themselves to be true, as my rippling impact on Amira has forced both her and Hazel’s relationship to turn stale as well.

I’m a walking mess.

I hate to admit that maybe this plan was a disaster from the start. Doomed to fail before it even began, but that wouldn’t be the case. The plan hasn’t been the problem—it’s me. I’ve been the problem. Causing hiccups at every turn, feeling emotions I never thought I was capable of and most importantly, adding “annoying best friend” as a step in the plan.

I should’ve listened to what Hazel laid out from the start. Followed her instructions to a tee, and maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t be in this situation.

As I turn off the shower, sinking my face into the soft fabric of my towel, I stand in the steamy bathroom, allowing time to pass by without a care.

I have no idea why I’m showering before practice—it makes absolutely zero sense. Perhaps it’s because I can’t stand to see my reflection right now, the steam doing an impeccable job of blocking my view of my face in the mirror.

If Hazel were here she’d draw something in the condensation. I’d laugh given that it would likely be something crude and smile given that days later, anytime I’d use the shower, the same graphic would re-appear.

That’s Hazel’s superpower, her subtle ability to linger in the background until at the most uncanny of times, she forces you to remember her presence. Only she’s not the background, Hazel’s the lead, the front-runner. She’ll always be that to me, even if I’m not that to her.

As I walk out of the bathroom I feel a heightened sense of sadness than when I walked in. It’s an awful feeling. It’s like, with each passing second, I grow more and more engulfed with regret. By the time I get to the field, I highly doubt I’ll be able to function and if I see Hazel there then I can promise you that the only thing I’m going to be practicing is my ability to apologize.

Once I get dressed, I slip my bag over my shoulder and with one foot out of the door, I peer down at my phone screen for a final time.

One missed call.

My heart just about does a somersault.

She called?

She left a message?

For the first time in days, am I actually going to get to hear her voice?

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