”I think about dying. ”
”And what happens when you think about dying? ”
I twiddle with the ring on my forefinger. ”I wonder… I wonder if Ill even be remembered. ”
”You want to be remembered? ”
Who doesn ? ”Yeah. ” I nod. ”I want… people to remember me. ”
Thunder rumbles, and the lights in the diner flicker.
”Yes, people, ” I answer. ”I want them to remember me. ”
”You think they won remember you? ”
I let out a dry laugh and look down at the barely eaten fries and untouched burger on my plate. Hed ordered the food and black coffee, saying I had to eat something. Id asked: ”Can I at least buy the food myself? ” Hed said, taking his wallet out: ”Its nothing. I got it. ” Hed sat across me, watching, waiting for me to eat, and so Id forced myself to eat a few fries before losing the little appetite Id had to begin with.
”I know it doesn make sense. Nothing I say makes sense anyway. ” I look out the window at the pouring rain outside the diner and then back at him, at those piercing ice blue eyes.
”It makes sense. ” He cradles a steaming cup of frothy coffee in his elegant long-fingered hands—probably absorbing its warmth. Fuckin rain. I can even feel my feet, let alone wiggle my toes; they are frozen solid. It doesn help that the diners heater is broken. (Id asked the young waitress behind the counter to please turn the heater on, and shed said without so much as looking at me, in a dismissive tone, that its broken.) ”Theres nothing wrong with wanting people to remember you when you die. I think there are people who will remember you, ” he says, voice deep.
He nods. ”Your family will remember you. Your friends too. ”
Only Jonah would remember me. My family, though… Well, thats a whole other different story.
I shrug. ”My family, they… I don think theyd remember me. ”
He looks at me pensively, like he wants to say something but doesn know exactly what to say. I stare at his blue eyes. He is an extremely handsome man; he has the kind of face that would make people stop and stare—a beautiful, captivating face. He has short dark curly hair that frames his well-sculptured face, sharp blue eyes, and piercings in three places: his right eyebrow, nose, and lower lip—and he has tattoos on his hands. Hes hot as hell—a modern-day Greek god.
I don know this handsome man, nor do I know his name. But what I do know about him is: he makes good money. He is wearing an expensive black tailor-made suit and has an expensive-looking car parked outside the diner. And, despite his youthful appearance, he looks several years older than me—maybe in his mid-twenties.
He opens his mouth, thinks, and then closes it again, deciding against whatever he was going to say. His gaze is on me, those blue eyes of his studying my face, thinking, probably, about what would be the right thing to say to me. With his intense gaze on me, I can help but think: I probably look like Ive been dragged to hell and back. I have dark circles under my eyes from sleep deprivation (its been a rough two days) and cracked dry lips; my eyes probably look swollen and red from crying from when Id been at that bridge—where hed found me.
After a beat of silence, I say, ”Anyway, I should go. ” I stand up. ”I can believe I just told a stranger my problems, ” I say, more to myself than to him.
He looks at me and says, ”You are leaving already? ”
”Yeah, it looks like it won stop raining anytime soon. ” I nod towards the window at the pummelling rain outside. ”So, I better leave. Otherwise, I will be st
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