Page 117 of Sunflower Persona
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know. He’s been different lately, and not in a bad way. It feels like we are getting our pre-Chelsea friend back.”
“Don’t pretend that you would have agreed with him so easily pre-Chelsea.”
“Fine, you have a point. We are getting a more mature version of our friend.”
I grunt in acknowledgment, ignoring the unease rippling through my gut as I head to my room. Only one thing has changed over the past couple of months, and that is the woman who still rules my thoughts. I try to block them out, but merely thinking about her comes with a flood. Memories that have so much joy and so much pain interwoven with the type of once-in-a-lifetime love I know I’ll never feel again.
My friend has still been in contact with her. He hasn’t rubbed it in my face, but I’ve seen her name pop up on his phone enoughto know they talk—often—and every time, bitter jealousy rises in my throat.
But she isn’t mine to covet or claim anymore.
I’m glad Nathan is keeping an eye on her when I can’t. She needs someone like him in her corner, and I’m pretty sure he needs her just as much. Maybe I’m projecting. It’s a good thing either way; I know he’ll keep her safe.
I strip and crawl into my bed without turning on the lights. The pillow beside me has long since lost her scent, but that hasn’t stopped me from clutching it to my chest every fucking night while staring at the photo of Yellow I keep on my bedside table like some sort of simp. Morgan looks like a man with a healthy concept of attachment compared to my level of pathetic. She isn’t even looking at the camera. I snapped the shot while she was filling me in on the differences between two of the most recent eras in theGodzillafranchise. Her words went in one ear and out the other. I was too captivated by her pure excitement for the subject to pay attention to anything but her, and I felt the need to capture it forever. And I’m glad I did.
I should have taken thousands of photos of our time together. Eventually, the memories will fade. But now, like clockwork, those thoughts haunt my mind as I try to drift to sleep. It’s a blessing and a curse. For as much as thinking about my past mistakes hurts, I’ll always be grateful for that short time I had with her.
Even as a fragment of my tortured imagination, her bright light is enough to keep the gloom at bay, and it’s with thoughts of my sunflower woman that I finally drift to sleep knowing that if all goes as planned in the morning, I’ll be one step closer to being the man she already thought I was.
***
“Anything yet?” Nathan asks for the sixth time in as many minutes.
“Results can take one to three business days,” I explain. Again.
“But you got the other results within an hour,” he protests.
“And it hasn’t even been thirty goddamn minutes yet,” I half shout.
His impatience isn’t doing anything to help calm my nerves, and I’m going to kick him out of my fucking apartment if he doesn’t chill out. Hell, I didn’t even invite him over here. The motherfucker showed up and let himself in while I was taking the exam, then started pestering me the minute I walked out.
I really need to get those keys back.
He starts to open his mouth again, and I have half a mind to throttle him, but we are both cut off by my phone chiming. Our eyes lock on the device sitting on the counter. I put it there twenty minutes ago to stop refreshing my email every five seconds.
“Is that it?” my friend asks.
“I don’t fucking know. The notifications don’t get beamed directly into my head.”
“Check, you idiot.”
I start to reach for it but hesitate before my fingers brush against the cool plastic. What if I failed? I think I’d rather have a few more minutes of blissful ignorance than deal with the crushing disappointment that might wait for me. I’m not sure I’d find my way out of that spiral.
Seeing my cowardice, Nathan grabs my phone and shakes his head while muttering something I can’t make out.
“What’s your password.” He doesn’t try to mask the exasperation in his tone.
“5-6-7-4,” I reply automatically.
He types the numbers in, freezes, and lets out an amused huff.
“Seriously, your password is ‘Kori,’” he says with a chuckle.
“Shut up. Like yours wouldn’t be ‘Chelsea’ if there were the right number of letters,” I shoot back, but the tips of my ears grow hot under his scrutiny.
He shrugs but doesn’t deny my claim as he scans over whatever the notification says. Fuck, we are being stupid. That alert could have been nothing but spam. Although with each second that passes without him saying a word, I doubt that theory more and more.
