Ricochet

The convertible sports car roars silently as you pulled into the garage. Gently, you climbed out of the car, taking your bag and you locked the car. You went into the house and paced around quietly through the walls. You made your way to the third floor. Placing the bag on the floor, you pushed the studio door and looked around. You take out the old iPod and plugged it in. Sitting at the day bed, you pulled in your knees to your chest and tears began fogging up your sight. While the music plays through the earphones, you just sat there crying. Thoughts flooded your head.

There you were ; silently breaking down. You cry because of the way people treated you. Always the rebound, always the last option. You rest your elbow on the windowsill while you cried. You’re scared, hurt and sad. The one picture that sits on the windowsill looked at you. A picture of your dead best friend standing hugging you while you broke down in his arms. You remembered crying.

Then reality reminded you there was no one to hold you while you cried. You wiped off the tears on the back of your hands. “I wish you were still here to tell me that things will be okay even if they’re not,” you said to the picture. You looked around the studio and a Great Dane that was sleeping at the corner woke up to your sobs.

He got up and slowly made his way to you. He climbed onto you and licked your tears away. Placing his hand on your shoulder, he whimpered a little ; as if to tell you that it will be okay.

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