Chapter Five and a Half

I'm happy. Really, I am.

But he's discontent. And I haven't a clue why.

He told her he was going to Seven-Eleven to pick up some snacks. Gummy Savers or barbeque flavored chips or something. Whatever tickled his fancy. When he got there though, he went straight to the register and bought only a pack of Camel menthol lights, "matches?". He walked outside, quickly opened the pack, took one out, threw nineteen away, lit a match, lit his cigarette, threw away nineteen matches, and smoked 3/4 of one cigarette.

I don't know why. Maybe I just wanted to be a bit of myself again. I'm happy, I promise you. I'm not trying to convince myself, I just don't think you'd believe me. It's him. He's discontent, and I can't figure out why.

As he drove back, he could smell the lingering smoke in his nose. The smell reminded him of something. Of some time - a period in his life that was over but that he distinctly remembered. It made him nostalgic. He remembered the lake and the feeling of flying, and the lights, and the trees that were hydras, and the poems and words in the notebook he kept. He remembered the realizations that seem so silly now, but that taste. That taste haunted him.

I remember this taste. I remember it with fondness, and maybe that's the problem. Maybe?

As he drove back, he prayed that his parents would be asleep. He didn't want them to smell the smoke on his breathe - they would definitely smell it. It lingers so long. It's on his fingers, his breath, his jacket and his shirt. He worried that something in his voice would give it away, his discontent. That when he called her, she would somehow know.

She always knows, but I hoped she'd convince herself that he was happy - I should rephrase that. I hoped she's have faith in the fact that I'm happy.

But, he thought, maybe this feeling of discontent was exactly what she said it was. Maybe it's just idleness getting to him. Maybe when he gets back to school he'll feel different, he'll have some sense of duty and accomplishment. The boredom is making him feel like this. The monotony and suffocating lack of freedom, resulting directly from living under his parents' roof, is the cause of this feeling and this restless drive for something, i know not what.

Because I'm happy. I'm telling you. Things have never been better. But I'm nostalgic, and I'm restless, and I'm scared, and I'm worried.

But I was smiling a moment ago, and that felt good. I was happy a moment ago, and it wasn't fake. Right?