Member-only story
The Weekend Girl
What were we but wasted time one passing season?
It was another Sunday morning where I traced constellations on your back. You never moved. I tried to tell myself that was because you were at ease with me. But no. To you, I was just the girl you met up with on the weekends. I was as fleeting as the seasons.
Tomorrow, you’d go back to her.
I had only met her once in passing — you’d hate it if you knew — but she was the sunshine to my shadows. My heavy lids bore traces of day-old mascara while her eyes sparkled with the latest palettes of luminescent eyeshadow. She was the kind of girl who still wore pink because everyone told her she was such a sweetheart, a darling girl, someone who wasn’t hard to love. In contrast, I was the one always getting left behind by someone or another.
It was a mistake of the universe, a misstep of fate, that resulted in the careless dance between you and me anyway.
I found your lost library book and returned it to you before the due date. As simple as that. We never should have crossed paths again.
It was a wonder the phone book even had your name in it — another trick of something mad and ethereal.
But you drew me in by asking me if I liked the book. I blinked, puzzled for one moment, before your eyes…
