Score: Levitating - Dua Lipa

Lydia

I let out a deep, relieved breath. I am so happy this conversation is over. Even though it didn't turn out the way I'd hoped it would, at least it's done with now.
I throw myself on the bed and start scrolling through the missed call notifications and the unread messages I have received while my phone was out.

7 missed calls from Patrick. Jeez...
5 missed calls from Alex. OK, I see why she was so pissed by the lake. I would have been, too, if I was supposed to drive my best friend back from a party and wake up in the morning only to discover that said best friend has disappeared during the night and is nowhere to be found, and unreachable.
5 missed calls from Gloria.

This is getting absurd. I am not a child, for fuck's sake.
No missed calls from Colin, Celia, or my brother, though.

Phew, at least no surprises there.

I also have dozens of messages through a couple of messaging apps, varying from:

Patrick: 08:43 am: I am looking forward to seeing you at the game!

To:

Alex: 11:54 am: If I find you, and you are alive, I am going to rip that pretty hair of yours off your head and make a rug out of it!

I sigh and throw the phone beside me on the bed.

Why can't everyone just leave me alone? All I want is just to be left alone and not have to constantly account for my whereabouts and for my every. Single. Fucking. Breath.

It started when my mom left. My friends started acting weird around me. Like I was some delicate flower or a precious crystal statuette that would break if anyone as much as looked at me the wrong way. I just can't breathe without someone asking me if I am OK anymore.

They wouldn't say it openly to me, but I can see how Gloria and Alex are exchanging glances any time my mother is mentioned, or anyone mentions mental health or depression, or pills, even. Like I am going to break down right there. Like I am a bomb, just ticking, waiting to go off.

My class chose me to be their Mental Health Ambassador after The Incident, even though I dreaded it so much. Every time I have to speak in front of the whole school, make a presentation, or speak at events, they would ask me to speak out about my personal experience.

It inspires others, is what my teachers and the school counselor had said.

But I hate it so much! It's like reliving the whole thing over and over again.

Of course, I agreed to it, in order not to disappoint them. In the beginning, I even felt flattered, but when I started receiving speaker invites for school events and had to actually start working with other kids, who had similar experiences, or who were having suicidal thoughts themselves, I realized how damn hard that was.

The only way for me to do it was to hide behind a smile and detach from any emotion that threatened to creep up, whatsoever. I was doing it regularly, anyway.

But the way everyone looked at me...

Except for my father. He'd never bring my mother up again after she left. He'd never talk about her or what happened that day. He has never asked me how I felt about it, he has never tried to talk to my brother and me about it.

He'd sent us to therapy and got me a car and that was it.

Convenient, I guess.

My phone buzzes and I reach out to see who that is.

Mark: 14:43: U there?

L: 14:43: Hey.

Mark: 14:44 Hey, how did it go?

L: 14:44 It went...

M: 14:45 :D Ouch! Sorry! It was my fault.

L: 14:45 No, it wasn't. No need to apologize.

M: 14:45 You wanna hang out? I'm still in town. I'm hungry.

I haven't noticed how hungry I am, until now. I haven't eaten anything, apart from the caramel latte this morning, in 24 hours, and I am freakin starving.

L: 14:47: Sure. Where are you?

M: 14:48: In front of your house.

L: 14:48: Are you stalking me?

M: 14:49: Don't flatter yourself. My car's parked on your street.

Oh. I feel strangely disappointed by his answer, but, yet, I'd love to go get something to eat.

L: 14:50: I'm coming.

I jump off the bed and am out of the flat in under two minutes.

A personal record.

Mark is sitting on the stairs in front of the building, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together, his back to the door. I walk past him and turn to face him. He smiles up at me and lazily gets up to his feet, reminding me of a cheetah, standing up.

"So, I get you won't be getting that big, fat ring anytime soon, then?"

I can't help but laugh at his joke.

"Can we go eat? I am starving. And, let's not discuss Patrick, or the match anymore, OK?"

"Sure," Mark says, shrugging his shoulders, acting indifferent. "We won, by the way," he says and winks at me, mischievously. "I just thought you would want to know."

"Wait, how do you know that?"

"Gloria told me," he says, as a matter of factly. "I saw her and Liam after you ran off."

"Good. I hope this helps Patrick get over what a terrible girlfriend I am easier."

"You wanna go to Carrousel?"

"Yeah, let's go get some brunch."

I book a table through the app on my phone. Our reservation is in half an hour, so we walk to the restaurant and talk about Gloria and Liam, and school, and I tell Mark all about my plans for the summer and University.

I blab on and on about my A-levels, our Leavers' Ball, and getting all packed and ready to move to Edinburgh, and I don't even notice we've arrived.

A leggy blonde welcomes us and checks our reservation. I can't help but laugh internally at the way she is looking at Mark. I know he is gorgeous, but I have also been taught that staring is not polite, and showing off cleavage so obviously is also showing a little too much desperation.

We take our seats by the window and a lad in a crimson apron comes to take our order.

I order pancakes and eggs and Mark orders avocado on toast and oat milk latte.

"It's LA," he says when we get our food served. "Everyone's eating avocados, and drinks oat milk, and green juices and shit, everyone."

"Don't care," I say and shovel half a pancake into my mouth.

"That's my girl!" Mark says proudly and pats my shoulder.

A shudder passes through my body. His words resonate in my ribcage and I can feel my heart thumping loudly against my ribcage.

That's my girl.

Patrick's never called me His girl. It's just not something he'd do. He is kind of scarce with words when it comes to expressing affection.

I know Mark only meant it in a friendly way, but it just sounds so good, coming out of his mouth. I feel something warm coil in the pit of my stomach.

I feel that I am blushing and I chase the pancake down with my water, trying to focus on our conversation.

The rest of our brunch goes uneventful and by the time I have cleared out my plate, the small restaurant is already closing. It is open only till five pm on Saturdays and Sundays, serving only brunch all day, and it is one of the best brunch places in London.

"I am stuffed," I sigh, as we step out onto the sun-lit sidewalk. "I had a really good time, Mark". I tilt my head towards him.

"I'll walk you home and I'll take my car and go back to my dad's".

We walk back to Brompton Square, talking and laughing. We reach my apartment building and I turn to face him. He leans forward to hug me. He smells like spice and summer, and...and Mark and I inhale deeply, as I push my head in the crook of his neck for a beat.

"We should go out someday. Like out, out. I miss London's nightlife," he says and I feel that flutter in my chest I felt earlier today when he smiled at me. "You know, when you and Patrick figure your shit out."

Oh. Said flutter crashes against my ribcage and dies a miserable death.

"We should all go out," he says finally and I nod.

"There's a new place in Camden. I'm sure you're going to love it," I say and turn towards the stairs.

"Lyds," Mark calls and I turn back. He is standing on the sidewalk, half facing me and half turning to the street. His hands are in his pockets. It's funny how we've spent together nearly the whole day and it is only now that I notice how his black jeans are hanging a little loose on his hips...how the sleeves of his light cream sweater are rolled up to his elbows, showing off his arms... and how the late afternoon sun is falling on his face, making his features look like they have been carved out of stone and his golden-brown eyes glowing with the warmth of honey...

He winks at me and says, "Take care, alright?"

A dull, sweet, unfamiliar ache spreads through my chest. I don't know where it's come from, but I welcome it. I savor it. I cradle it.

I don't reply but turn around and climb the four steps in front of the building. As I walk into the hall, I see myself in the mirror-paneled wall and I barely recognize myself.

My face is flushed and glowing, and I am grinning like an idiot.