"We tried to be better, but we aren't. I don't think anyone could last more than a week here if they weren't willing to do bad things." - Alba Reyes

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Cicada Days
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👀 (credit to Kotorikun)
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that Irene had to go away and it was echoing endlessly and Irene's heart was saying she wanted to say, right there where her feet were but that heart was being pushed away by an impact of hands. Soft, pretty hands right to the spot of skin under which Irene's treacherous heart continued to pump and circulate the hormones that made her

See numbers or symbols or something that wasn't Jazzy. But it was her. It was hours and days and weeks and years. Years that she'd known Jasmine, since a quiet middle school day where Irene had seen a lonely looking girl and said 'hello' all happy and spastic. Numbers, like the numbers of pizzas ordered out, like the numbers of injuries sustained doing stupid stunts while Jazzy watched and laughed and the numbers of laughs that Jazzy liked to giggle when she breathed out and the scent would be all in Irene's face and she hadn't even noticed she'd liked it until one day when Irene had realized it all added up. So many numbers and Jazzy. Jazzy made it stop adding up. Jazzy had said go away. Irene didn't get it, because Jazzy had said go away. She hadn't said yes. She hadn't even said no. She had only said that didn't want Irene's heart there, she wanted it further away from her. Not a friend. Not a lover. Years. Numbers.

It just didn't add up.





But if that's how she wanted it to be.

Irene's dilated pupils imploded onto themselves. She bit at tooth so hard the enamel cracked, the gums cracked, her skull cracked for good measure. She could cry, she would cry. Would count each tear for each memory that Jazzy had pushed away.

"Fine."

"Be that way."

Steps. She could count the number of steps she moved away from Jasmine at a half-run that tore earth asunder under her feet. She could count steps and furious tears whipping at the apples of her cheeks and Irene's hands were all over her face smudging and blurring. She couldn't control it, she didn't want to. She was moving away, but her eyes were still on Jasmine's the whole time.

'Jazzy'. The contact her moist and greasy and fumbling fingers found from her phone, after a mistaken swipe eliminated some Jeremy Frasier's email from existence.

"Don't ever talk to me again you-" And Irene's heart continued to mumble and meander through pretty words she could never have a hope of saying. At the BPM speed of a song, a song Jazzy would never hear. Words. What to say. What was there left to say. Irene didn't know. She didn't know anything, except that tears hurt and she hated them like how she hated how her heart felt exhausted and weak. She knew other things. She knew she needed a bath, and a real friend, and a rant,

and to never see Jasmine King's face again.

So she hoped that someone who'd broken her heart was counting her steps as she stormed off.

Eat her dust.

((Irene Djezari continued in The Weekly Grind))
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Oh, it's so sad to think about the good times, you and I... · Memories from the Past