Creative Writing

My Fall Girl

//circa January 2014

Despite my soda stained T-shirt and swaying walk, I’m fine: only a couple shots tonight. It’s 2:41 a.m. and I’m looking for her.

Those brown eyes, I get lost in them every time I look. She is fall, and that’s what I did. I fell for her. Her hair is the autumn leaves falling from the trees, her skin is a smooth hot chocolate. This is my fall girl.

When she speaks, her voice bounces around my ears like I am a canyon and she is an echo. That sweet, sweet voice; the one that whispered my name when she was tired and shouted it from the rooftops when I was knocking her roof off.

I run into my door frame and feel my pockets for my keys. They’re loud as their sound jingles in my ear, and I leave scratch-marks around the keyhole from my inability to focus.

Is it her that’s been keeping me from focusing or is it the vodka from tonight? Maybe I had a few shots. Her smile jumps into my memories like her cat jumped onto my lap the first time I got to sit down in her apartment. Sugar was the name of the cat, but it was also the taste of her delicious lip balm, which I was lucky enough to relish in that night.


I bump into my side table and hear a picture frame thump down, but don’t hear any glass break. I set the picture back onto of the table, and even in the dark, I can see the outline of her perfect jaw. Found you.

Shaking my head, I continue to lay down in bed. My bathroom door is open and the moon is shining through, illuminating the rug on the bathroom floor. How long has it been since she’s been inside this apartment, making fun of how the rug in my bathroom matches the shower curtain. “You’re lucky to have a guy who even cares about the color — or existence of — a rug or a curtain,” I said to her. She ruffled her fingers through my hair, and one thought raced through my head like a horse championing for first place: how silly am I to have loved such a girl.

Even breathing in this apartment, smelling her on my pillow, makes my mind flurry with memories, like the way her hair would frizz up when she slept on it wet, or how she contaminated my T-shirts with her scent when she slept in them.

God I need to get over her. A half grin pops onto my face, and I take one big whiff, hoping that’ll be the last I smell of her until my nose gets used to her perfume. Lungs full of air, the smirk on my face turns to bulging cheeks and popping eyes. I am lucky enough that my trash can was next to my bed, and propitiously, a new smell flooded my bedroom. At least I didn’t mix my alcohol tonight, because seven shots of different drinks, and that stuff would have come out a long time ago.

My head is spinning in circles, and closing my eyes feels so good I smile. Sleep comes quickly.

I read somewhere once that everybody always dreams, but I can’t seem to remember mine. My head is throbbing with a massive headache, and slumping to the kitchen to get the drugs I need to calm it makes it worse. It has to get worse before it can get better, I suppose. Of course, downing a whole glass of water, and then another, leads me to vomit once more in my sink. I grab for the IB Prophin; two little white capsules clink out of their bottle and into the depth of my sink.


For the past month, after the breakup, I’ve made myself promise not to drunk text anyone. Of course, this was to avoid texting her, but it was also due to the fact that I have too many contacts on my phone and am always curious as to what is in the deepest realms of their hearts at two in the morning. These too many contacts don’t appreciate this gesture of friendship when they’re trying to sleep. Let’s see if I kept my promise.

Click. Swipe. Hit. Fuck.

Two new messages, and they’re both from her. The first one: please stop, Charlie. The second: I do miss you, though.

How exactly does she expect me to react to those messages? Don’t talk to me, also you’re in my thoughts. Do I reply to the first, angry and confused, or the second, confessing my need for her? Am I allowed to not acknowledge my feelings at all at this point? Can I ‘k’ her? What did I even send her in the first place that would prompt such messages?

Oh. I spilled out my heart.


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