Chapter 21

"The world is full of idiots that don't understand what's important."

Rick Sanchez, 'Rick and Morty.'

Suddenly, I witness Wyatt's triumphant grin of victory, convert into a frown of utter remorse and disappointment. Rapidly, his emerald-green eyes hold within them the disgust and sadness he must feel towards me and his hands, which were once playful and often had the tendency to move about in the air as he spoke, were clenched into a fist at his side.

The sky continues to remain dull and mundane, the leaves tilted as the breeze gathered its strength and force,the finches committing frequent mistakes within their tunes.

"I guess there's no difference between them and you," I think. "Both creatures proceed to make mistakes on what is only a simple expectation. A straight-forward obligation."

As the perfect boy lets out a frustrated sigh, I then silently watch as he too gathers his strength and his belongings. After, Wyatt stumbles away from me, not bothering to give me a second glance. Of course, I am ashamed but also shocked at how quick he was to leave me. At how briskly the mood had changed.

Sprinting past the small congregations of people, I manage to find him, pulling on his arm as I do so. However, Wyatt's immediate response to my action, is to shrug me off, kissing his teeth in annoyance whilst I plead for him to stay and listen. Yet, I soon discover that my attempt is in vain, for he shakes his head and begins to amble forward, ignoring me with every step.

"This is your fault!" I yell at myself. "You had to go and mess up everything!"

"Wyatt," I whimper.

Angry, he turns around, his eyebrows furrowed and face completely flustered.

"Look, Valentina!" He shouts, "I don't think I can be your personal trainer anymore. Tell your mother I'm sorry."

My heart shatters, my hands tremble as I gradually reach up to touch him. Instantly, Wyatt blocks me, lowering my hand and shaking his head.

"Aren't you glad I told you the truth?" I ask.

Sighing, Wyatt answers with:

"Of course I am, but if I hadn't confronted you about it, you wouldn't have said anything! Am I right?!"

I allow my lack of a response to be his answer.

Tutting, he runs his finger through his dark hair and  I am almost frightened when I hear his heavy breaths occurring regularly. I want to calm him down, to prevent him from hyperventilating but he seems to do that on his own, closing his eyes as he recollects his thoughts.

"You had so many chances," Wyatt states, "so many to tell me the truth. At your mother's dinner, when I got your phone number. You had the chance to tell me on the day we walked out of school and I asked whether or not you'd do something like this to me. And what did you say?"

Again, I don't respond.

"What do you say, Valentina?!"

"Please stop shouting, Wyatt," I think. "I seriously want to cry right now."

"I said: 'No, I wouldn't do that to you.'"

Wyatt paces around the place, the water of the fountain unable to drown his chaotic thoughts. He tugs at the ends of his hair, biting his lip as he cranes his neck and looks up.

"I opened up to you about things that I could've told you in person," he whispers. "Things that I wanted to tell you over time."

Immense, thick tears fall from my eyes, sobs escape from my mouth and my body shakes uncontrollably.

I fumble with my hands, hide my face with my raven-black hair, try to turn around this unbearable situation.

"I think I need some space," is Wyatt's next words.

And he leaves.

He leaves me.

He leaves our friendship.

He leaves me, crying.