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Stupid, stupid Nine. GOD, I’ve always hated him.
Her stupid face, her ugly sunglasses, her dumb smile, the way she never wore ANY equipment on her skateboard, the way she talked—god, I’ve always hated everything about her. She was always such a pathetic, overconfident dumbass, always crying to me about someone insulting her sunglasses or falling off her skateboard while trying to do a flip. And she’d NEVER shut up. She talked like she was stuck in the nineteen-nineties—on top of that, she’d always point finger guns at people with a huge grin on her face, thinking she was the coolest number in the Equation Playground. I should be happy that neither she or anyone else is around to annoy the shit out of me anymore.
Then why do I miss them so much?
Being all alone in the Equation Playground with literally no one to talk to is kind of getting to me. If I had an easel with me, I’d probably paint the trees and grass and playground equipment around me, but then again, it’s just the same old trees, grass and equipment. No Five to berate Seven for swinging too high and landing face-first into the sandbox. No Eight to literally just… stand there.
And no Nine.
No Nine to talk shit about the others with, no Nine to dump my ideas to, no Nine to bring me to new places I’ve never been to before, no Nine to dump its secrets and insecurities to me, no Nine to show me records from bands I’ve never heard about in my life, no Nine to patch up after every accident or trip or faceplant, no Nine to lay its head on my lap with a smile on its face, no Nine to just… be around.
I never thought I would say this, but…
I actually kind of miss him rambling to me.
I miss her long, fluffy hair always tied up in a ponytail, begging me to run my fingers through it, all tangled up in the waves. I miss the gap between her teeth, something I’d always see when she laughed about something stupid she saw someone else in the playground do. I miss those pale blue eyes and those white lashes, things I didn’t see much but made the most of when I could see them. I miss her recklessness. I miss her awkwardness. I miss the way she’d freeze up and turn pink whenever I touched her. I miss the softness of her voice. I miss the Nine I knew beyond that “cool skater guy” front.
And I miss how flustered they’d always be
whenever I kissed them.
I inhale, then I exhale as I finish carving its sunglasses into the sandbox with a stray stick I found. The drawing I made there isn’t the best—I haven’t painted, let alone doodled in a while since everything happened—and it won’t last forever, but it’s what I could do. I can’t help but smile as I draw what I remember of its long, white hair, those blue–and–yellow extensions in the front, its gap–toothed smile, the bandages plastered onto its face, and its sunset–colored sunglasses.
It’s what I remember of him.
And all of a sudden, she’s stupider than I remember.
Stupid, stupid Nine.
I throw my stick onto the ground and brush sand all over my drawing of them. Then I stand up, hesitate, and stomp on the stick with my boot, snapping it for good measure. After a little while, I sit down and hug my knees close to my chest. If Nine were here, they’d probably come up to me and try to crack some stupid joke. Or they’d sit down with me and lean onto my shoulder, and maybe we’d fall asleep together.
Or maybe it would come traipsing through that door, skateboard in hand, and then I’d finally see it again after all this time and I’d scoop it up in my arms even though I’m shorter than it, and spin it around and kiss it long, hard and passionate. And I’d tell her how much I missed it, and it’d tell me how it felt the same way. No, fuck that. That’s just wishful thinking, plus it’s too cliché. Realistically, I’d probably give it a huge slap in the face for leaving me alone for so long.
Stupid, stupid Nine. This REALLY shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.
Gah, just… stop thinking about him, Six. It’ll hurt less if you do.
But it hurts not having her around to talk to or even look at, and… URRRRRRGH. I tangle my fingers into my own hair under my beanie, flopping over onto my back. This was awful.
I wait for a while, then I hear the creaking of a door behind me. I whip around, hoping I’d see Nine—or, well ANYONE I knew.
But all I see is some tall, pale, weird–looking person with yellow hair and a pink beret. A shorter, tan person with a bright teal headband under curly brown hair and a weirder–looking… person covered in what looks like orange paint stand in the doorway next to them. They clearly aren’t from anywhere around here. The tall person with a pink beret makes a nasty face at me, like she just had a lime shoved into her mouth.
“Ew!” they yelp, flinching away from me. “One number is enough for now.
One number? Is another one out there? Could they know Nine—gah, fuck it. This person clearly hates algebraliens. I could tell from the way she grimaced at me like I had the remnants of someone else’s skin on my mouth.
I stand up, put my hands on my hips, and glare at them.
“HEY!”
Before I can do anything else, the tall person slams the door. I can hear them and those two other people walking away. That door obviously led to somewhere with another algebralien, but judging from those blue lockers with the number “4” plastered all over them, the chances of said algebralien being Nine were near zero. I huff, turn around, then pick up a rock and throw it at a nearby tree. I sit down and hug my knees again, my thoughts turning back to that dumb, reckless skateboarder with the gap–toothed smile, the long, pale hair, and the sunglasses.
I eye a skating ramp right across from me, then glare at the sand beneath my feet. Goddammit. Everything I see reminds me of them. I dig my nails into the legs of my cargo pants. I fucking hate them, but I love them so much at the same time. I miss them so much, it hurts. It hurts more than it should. I squeeze my eyes shut, just barely feeling tears forming in the corners of my eyes.
Stupid,
stupid
Nine.