in space, nobody can hear you soundtrip.

150.

I don’t talk too much. A hundred and fifty words is enough. It’ll do.

A hundred and fifty words. I remember how you used to do that annoying “no sweat, I can do this” smirk at seeing that as a minimum word count for the essays we did during tests. A hundred and fifty doesn’t seem like an intimidating number, but when you finally get to word number a hundred and forty-eight, you have that sudden slap of realization that you’ve just ended up avoiding the point ‘till it’s too late and there’s no time left.

Like when you tell me to shut up when I talk too much.

I can feel you smirk again as you read this. That godawful grin. Teenage feelings are horrible, horrible things. Like an ache you want out of your system.

But now we’re on word number hundred-fifty-one, and you’ve finished the story without me.

kabel mishka ligot, 7-9-10