His phone left my hand and landed on the bed next to his sleeping head, my mind gave me no time to care what the weather was doing and my eyes wouldn’t let me focus on the clothes I was throwing on my back, my hand let go of the door handle, it slammed louder than it ever had and I thought for sure that it would wake him. I thought I’d receive a call or a text asking where I’d got to but nothing happened. It was raining, and I felt aimless, tears slipping into raindrops down my face, avoiding people’s eyes as my feet pounded the streets, my mind replaying the same line –
“if only he knew who I was really thinking about.”
After a while I found myself walking back into our apartment, he was still sleeping, in a split second my case was on the bed and my hands were clawing my clothes from the wardrobe.
He sat up, face a whirlwind of confusion, his mouth stuttering words trying to grasp answers to my actions.
All the rage I had held in for the 3 hours exploded from my chest as I screamed, all I could repeat was the same questions, over and over,
“do you think I am fucking stupid?”
the panic splattered his face like fresh paint,
“well?” I screamed, “do you?”
My tears had evaporated in the heat of my anger,
“texting my ex-boyfriend, really?”