Fifty

El doesn’t call or text me. Neither do I. I slip the phone inside my breast pocket, tired of waiting for a call I am sure will never come. It fucking stings. Staring at the phone, hoping for a text or a missed call from her. It won’t come but I keep hoping, checking. Less than a week apart from her and it feels like the end. 

The conversation would have ended differently if we weren’t so intent on hurting each other. I didn’t lie. She’s a flee or flight woman. I need her to be my ride or die. I am her ride or die, together forever. 

God. This is fucking it. The end of our love story.  Good things really don’t last. We didn’t even get up to eight months like last time. I stare at the roof of the car until it blurs, my eyes sting from trying not to break down. 

El hates me. She fucking hates me.

I rub circles on Wyn’s back absentmindedly, careful not to rumple her uniform. Another sigh esca