"I'll be honest, I wasn't devastated
But you could've held my hand through this, baby"

- Frank Ocean

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Devlin's POV

In the Grey family, two things were non-negotiables: Saturday was brunch day and Sunday was the day of the Lord. It had been that way for as long as I could remember and it wasn't going to change anytime soon. And truly, I loved it. That closeness that we shared, the lively conversations around a table where everyone would chip in, the chance to catch up with the other family members. I would have never missed it for anything in the world. But now, more than ever, I couldn't have cared less about skipping what I knew would turn into a lengthy interrogation session or a sappiness festival.

"Darn. . ." my mom muttered under her breath, kneeling the dough of her cinnamon buns. The corner of her eyes wrinkled as she looked up to the ceiling and let out a sigh of exasperation. My mom only got in that state on brunch day and it happened to be today. I never really understood why she cared so much. Why did she feel the need to wake up at 6AM every Saturday just to scrub the same five kitchen tiles and cook dozens of equally fancy and complex recipes for a bunch of people who couldn't even distinguish 7-eleven beer from an expensive wine straight out of a French winery?

Her hands twitched as her fingers forcefully dug into the dough. She sucked her teeth and said, "I ran out of butter. Do you mind dropping by the corner store to get me some?"

"Now?" I sighed, rubbing the remaining sleepiness from my eyes.

"Yes, now. I need it for the rolls and the eggs."

"Okay," I agreed. I knew how much she wanted everything to be perfect and that even a small thing, such as not following to a T Mimaw's 'world famous bun' recipe would end up throwing everything off.

"Here," she said, handing me a five dollar bill. "Get yourself candies or something with the rest."

"Thanks, mom." I put the money in my pocket, stood from the stool and headed to the entryway where I grabbed my coat, boots and beanie. I rapidly put everything on and exited the house, without worrying that I was still in my pyjama bottoms.

A breeze, slightly chiller than usual, greeted me as I stepped outside, taking me by surprise and shaking me awake. I watched my breaths turn into fog as tucked my hands deeply into the warm pockets of my coat. The carpet of crimson and yellow leaves that covered the sidewalk crunched under my worn out Timberlands as I walked down the pavement of the street. It was destined to be a regular day. Cold, but nonetheless, regular.

Though their faces had become familiar over the years, I couldn't help but look at people as I walked past them. Something about them intrigued me. Perhaps it was the ways in which they all looked so different, from their various complexions and hairstyles to their very distinct shapes and styles, but that they somehow all carried the same energy or demeanor–this look in their eyes. A look of dread and fatigue that one can only embody after living a life of unfulfillment. A look that I had seen countless times in my father's eyes after he had gotten back from one of too many night shifts. A look that seeped into the spirit of those who lived on the east side of Amberwood for too long. It tinted their vision with a dull grey film, the same color as their uniform.

I found comfort in observing them from afar, imagining what their lives could have been if they could have left this dump and moved to a nicer place like Square Avenue or something like that. I wondered if at least once in their lives, they even had the opportunity of getting something better–something brighter–and were simply too scared to jump into the unknown. One thing was sure, it was that when my time finally came, I wouldn't be scared, I would dive head first into the pool of a life that was undisclosed to people like me, people from the 'wrong side of the city'.

That's what I like to think to this day, and that was exactly what I was thinking that morning on my way to the corner store.

The yellow and red sign of the small store swayed in the wind, appearing bigger and cleared as I approached the building. I mumbled a couple of "sorrys" as I passed through the few people who had gathered in front of the shop. I held my breath, going through the thick cloud of smoke that their cigarettes produced before wrapping my hand around the door handle. The door, a glass surface that served as a less extravagant billboard on which were plastered a wide selection of ads, ranging from discounts on beer to lawyer services, cracked as I pulled it open. I then entered the store, preparing myself to head straight towards the dairy section.

I let out a soundless gasp as I saw Adrian standing behind the counter. My heart fluttered so fast that I thought that it might jump out of my chest. I immediately lowered my head and sped walked towards a well isolated aisle, away from the prying eyes of the other customers. I buried my face in the palm of my hands, hoping that he hadn't seen me. I stood for a while with my heart raising and pounding. I imagined several exit plans that would allow me to leave the place unnoticed and avoid having to look at Adrian eye to eye: escaping by the roof, through the vent or even digging a tunnel through the tiles, but sadly none of them involved me getting my mom's butter—the reason why I had even left the house in the first place. The choice was clear, I had to get the butter, even if it meant having to face him for the first time since summer.

"Shit," I uttered through my gritted teeth as I reached for the handle of the fridge. I grabbed a stick of butter and headed to the checkout counter. I felt myself shake as I placed the stick onto the countertop.

Adrian's eyes looked away from the register and a courtesy smile broke out on his face, which I immediately dodged by glancing sideways. "Hey, man," he said, as if time hadn't worn down our relationship to the bone. "How have you been?"

Though I knew it too well, I despite it with my entire being. It was the type of smile that looked as though two metal hooks pulled the corners of your mouth down, but you still managed to force a smile onto your face. It was a painful smile that you give a child when they tell you that they lost their puppy or when you assure a beggar that you only use credit cards and therefore have no cash to give. It was fake and pitiful, reflecting what was left of our relationship.

"Hey," I said back, attempting to fight off the bitter expression making its way to my features. All I could do was force my lips into something that looked more like a rictus than a smile and say, "Good," in an exaggerated manner. Meanwhile, I prayed that that the phone would ring or even that someone would barge into the store with a plastic gun and request all the cash from the register—anything for this gut wrenching small talk to finally end.

"You know, man. . ." he began. I sighed. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I should have dropped by or even called you after what happened, but I didn't. I thought about visiting you at the hospital, but I guess I didn't know what to say."

Adrian's eyes squeezed as he awaited an answer that I wasn't going to give him. He awkwardly ran his fingers over his reddish brown dreadlocks and repeated, "I am sorry" as if that was going to erase the past. My jaw tensed as I looked past him.

I had spent the entire summer thinking about what it would feel like to hear those three words coming from his mouth and about how good it would feel. I found comfort in imagining how they would be like a warm blanket placed over me after a lifetime of being out in the cold. But somehow, now that I heard them, those three simple words, 'I am sorry', felt more hollow than ever. No matter how much he repeated them, they would still end up echoing in the emptiness of my heart with nothing to hold on to.

Adrian's mouth moved and so did his hands–I assumed he was talking, but when they reached my ears, his words sounded distorted and senseless–pure gibberish. They didn't mean anything to me. He folded his lips inside his mouth, shutting his eyes for a second.

"What do you say?" Adrian asked, taking me out of my mind.

"I didn't expect you to reach out," I lied, my voice coming out as blank as a white canva. "We haven't talked in a while, so obviously you shouldn't feel obligated to."

"What?" he mumbled under his breath, his eyebrows knitting in a confused manner. "I just apologized-"

"And I'm telling you you shouldn't." I glanced at my phone before finding an excuse to leave. "I should really get going, my mom's waiting for me."

"Brunch day?" he asked, scanning the item.

Silence stretched between us, like the waves eroded the coast as we spoke, causing the distance that separated us to grow bigger. I glanced at him, feeling so close, but yet so far away from him. He was close enough to reach, but not close enough to feel. Close to hear, but not close enough to understand.

For an instant, I felt something compelling me to say something. To lean on the counter like I used to and forget everything–the good, the bad and everything in between– and start anew. Tell him that I missed him. That I missed our friendship. That I missed our early morning rides right after dawn and those right after dusk, when the sun had set and all that was left was him and I on our bikes, riding silently in the meadow. That I missed when silence actually meant something–when it used to mean more than empty words and phony excuses. I missed when silence gave me hope instead of anguish. When it meant that I listened to the wind and the chirping of the birds and not to the unbridled rhythm of my own heart.

But silence meant no more than pain. It dragged me back to the countless nights that I spent alone in the darkness of my hospital, wondering if we would ever meet again or if he had forgotten about me. Silence was a turmoil of agony and unspoken words, a final farewell, more powerful than any word could have been.

I gave him the money and he handed me back a couple of cents before wishing me a good day. I did the same, keeping a straight face, masking the feelings that were taking a hold of me. Adrian met my gaze, as though he was expecting me to say something else, something more. Something that I couldn't give him.

I exited the store without looking back. I breathed out a shaky sigh as I crossed the road to head back home. The cold nibbled at my face, leaving the skin of my cheeks feeling raw and abraded. I couldn't help but bite my lips as I stared at the bricks that paved the sidewalk. It was the only thing that soothed me as I replayed the conversation that I had with Adrain. Should I have been less harsh? No, he deserved it, I convinced myself. After all, what did he expect? That we would just go back to being friends as if nothing happened? I winced, running my tongue over my lips, feeling a flash of something metallic on my tongue. My hand immediately rushed to my mouth to wipe it. It was blood, small droplets of it coated my fingers.

To be continued. . .

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

Hey sunshines! I hope that you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you very much for your support. I appreciate it a lot.

Here are some questions that I've been meaning to ask you:

Do you think that Devlin went too harsh on Adrian?

Do you think that Adrian was sincere?

Much love,

-A

Here are my questions:

What is your first impression of Daniel?

Would you have reacted differently than Shayana if you had been in her situation?

Much love,

- A