slow down the music and turn up the volume




She likes to dance, sometimes, with the cd player belting out tunes, and she'll sing at the top of her lungs, horribly off tune and not caring. And she paints her room purple, because she says that if she painted her room to match her eyes it would be terribly cliche — he rolls his eyes at her, but says nothing, because it's Blue — you don't argue.


He watches her through tinted glass — and he smiles, because he loves (the girl) to see her happy, when he can't find enough in him to make her laugh — and he gets up and leaves after a while, hands stuffed in his pockets, with her loudloud voice trailing behind him, wisping out of the windows and sneaking into his brain — it's beautiful, he thinks, but doesn't stop to listen more.


She stops singing when she sees a figure walking up the driveway, and her breath gets stuck in her throat when she sees spiky hair — it couldn't be Green, she tells herself fervently, because she doesn't want to pretend he cares, when she knows he doesn't.

She breathes out, and sings louder to drown out the treacherous thoughts sticking in her brain.


He ignores her the next day — it's a routine nowadays — and she wonders if it was him the other day, walking away down the asphalt. But her eyes don't linger on him long — she tears them away and forces herself to talk to Yellow — this isn't the time, she thinks.


But it's never the time, now is it? She twists her mouth into a crooked smile and waves goodbye out the window.