Seen But No Reply (Rewrite)

Its been 6 hours since I sent my message. Seen, but no reply. Something must have happened. Maybe he’s hurt? It’s not unlikely that he tripped and hit his head. His apartment is a mess after all. I push my chair out, arising  into a panicked loop as I walk a figure eight around my room. My feet kick against bottles and cans, my foot swings and an old pizza box is sent flying, launching stale crusts across the room.

Maybe he’s ignoring me?

No, of course not. He’s not like that.

I grab the keys to my car from their spot next to my laptop and head for the door, my foot slipping as I grab the handle. The door moans as I open it, as if it’s begging me not to go. I understand that it’s dangerous out there, but he needs me. I slice through the night air in my 96′ Corolla, 60 km/h road signs merely an afterthought. My nerves fray at traffic lights as I rush through the suburbia.

Maybe he’s just not home? Out with his friends? Saw the message, but ignored it? No.

Maybe he wants me to want him?

Oh, I want him…

I flick my blinker and take the corner wide into his street, clipping a wheelie bin as I wildly spin the wheel to stabilise the car. I pull into his driveway and jump out, slamming the door after me in haste. I hurry into the building, a greasy old flat. One would think it has long since been abandoned, overgrown grass and dirty cracked windows, but I know better. He’s never been one to keep up appearances.

I barge through the front door and run up the stairs. What if he’s hurt? No… I mustn’t think like that.

But what if?

I need to hurry. My throat is on fire by the time I reach the fourth floor, but now is not the time to rest. I barrel toward the unlocked door of his apartment and fly through it. I slip and hit the ground, the door moans to greet me. I skitter to my feet, spying a laptop that sits alone on a desk. I place my keys next to the laptop and sit down. I gasp for air in the chair, staring at the white screen. Blood drips from my forearms and knees, but I don’t feel any cut. I throw myself from the chair, walking in a figure eight around my room, sending kicked bottles and cans flying with every step. I snap my eyes to the screen. Seen but no reply. Maybe he’s hurt.

I grab the keys to my car from next to my laptop and head out the door. I slip as I grab the handle, and a hand reaches for my ankle. This house cannot stop me. I kick the hand away, opening the door that moans for help as I run out into the night.

What if he needs my help?