Yesterday, I found myself completely consumed by my dream-come-true experience, making it incredibly challenging to concentrate on anything else. The sheer excitement and fulfillment that had flooded my being had taken over my thoughts, leaving little room for any other considerations.

However, despite finally being with my dream boyfriend, it felt as though a tiny worm of fear and uncertainty was determined to undermine my joy and contentment. It seemed like a cruel attempt to diminish my elation, but I fought back with every ounce of strength I had. I refused to let negativity tarnish the happiness I had longed for.

The way things had unfolded didn't align with any of the romantic scenarios I had imagined for such an important milestone as losing my virginity. None of my fantasies included a sponge mattress covered with plastic in a sports hall, where I was pinned on my back, my gaze fixated on a looming clock. The subsequent hurried encounter in the locker room only added to my sense of bewilderment and left a taste of disappointment.

Furthermore, I found myself abandoned to clean up the aftermath alone as he rushed off to his car repair appointment, yet, the simple fact of being with him was overwhelming everything else. That feeling radiated within me like a brilliant sun, washing away all doubts and uncertainties.

That had been yesterday.

There was at least one positive aspect to the situation: my concerns about my sanity were nearly forgotten, being overshadowed by my romantic thoughts as if they had been washed away.

The following day, I rushed to the school, eager to meet him, my beloved Joe. I had hoped to flaunt our newfound connection, but to my dismay, he was nowhere to be found. During the break, I approached Lola and inquired if she had seen him. She informed me that his class had gone on a field trip to the natural history museum, a piece of information she had received from Clara.

That was the first blow of the day, but I attempted to downplay it. Perhaps, in his rush yesterday, Joe had simply forgotten to inform me.

It seemed like a recurring pattern in my life; after a day filled with joy, there always followed a day of disappointment. Could this be what they refer to as karma? I wasn't sure, but I was willing to accept it as the price for being with Joe.

Matt's absence from school, along with several others who seemed to have taken advantage of the holiday to enjoy an extended break, only served as a reminder of my own restrictions. Being on the principal's blacklist meant I couldn't afford such luxuries, so I impatiently waited for the hours to pass.

I accompanied Lola for lunch but couldn't bring myself to discuss Joe and my concerns with her. I longed to share everything with her, but Joe's absence compelled me to remain silent. I wanted to walk hand in hand with him, to proudly show off our connection before revealing the truth.

After lunch, I returned home, changed out of my school uniform, and opted for my usual jeans, jacket, and sports shoes.

Originally, I had considered waiting until Monday to confront Matt, but the persistent worm of doubt within me had grown fat and insatiable. I needed to distract myself and shift my focus away from Joe. Why hadn't he called me? What were his plans for the weekend? Where could he be? These questions gnawed at my thoughts, urging me to leave the house and occupy my mind with something other than Joe.

In an attempt to find solace, I took a deep breath and attempted to pacify my racing thoughts. I reminded myself of Joe's usual routine, envisioning our future encounters in the sports hall or schoolyard, engaging in playful games, and later joining the boys for a casual beer. Perhaps there would even be an evening party to look forward to. With these thoughts in mind, I reassured myself, repeating the mantra: "Keep cool, Dolores. He is my boyfriend."

I took first the bus and then the subway, but while the train stood in the Saint-Ana hospital station, a sudden realization struck me—I had left my bike nearby. The memory flashed in my mind, and without a second thought, I made a split-second decision. I swiftly exited the train just as the doors were closing, earning a few amused glances from other passengers.

Ignoring the commotion, I hurried up the stairs and out of the subway station, eager to retrieve my bike.

I arrived at the spot where I had parked my bike, only to find it missing. A mix of disappointment and relief washed over me. Disappointed because I had hoped to find my bike there, but relieved because deep down, I knew it didn't make sense for me to have a bike. Although there were other bikes parked in the area, mine was nowhere to be seen. It seemed that the memories I had associated with the bike were likely false. It was becoming clear that my imagination had played tricks on me, conjuring up experiences that didn't align with my reality.

As I observed the bikes in front of me, I couldn't envision myself pushing or maneuvering one of those machines. They appeared heavy and cumbersome, and I doubted my ability to even move one. Of course, I might look sexy sitting on one of those machines, but the sight of those solid and imposing metal structures intimidated me. The bike, from my imagination, was a grand, formidable machine, not a lightweight and effortless contraption, even bigger than the ones before me.

As I made my way to return to the train, a heart-wrenching sight halted me in my tracks. There, on the other side of the street, stood Joe and Clara, hand in hand, on the cusp of entering a cinema theater. My mind and body seemed to seize up, paralyzed by the scene before me. A tremor coursed through my lower lip, and it took considerable effort to regain control and close my mouth. Swallowing became a struggle as if there was an immense lump lodged in my throat, constricting and suffocating me from within.

The decision of whether to follow them inside the cinema or not weighed heavily on my mind. What purpose would it serve? To silently observe them from a distance? I dismissed the idea, realizing it would only bring more pain and torment.

With great effort, I tore my gaze away from the theater's entrance and began making my way back toward the subway station. Lost in my thoughts, I almost boarded the wrong train. Thankfully, I caught my mistake in time and boarded the correct one. As the train journeyed on, I had to endure two more stations before reaching Matt's neighborhood.

I walked like on autopilot for about twenty minutes, my mind consumed by thoughts of Joe and Clara. It was a bitter pill to swallow, even knowing that Joe had a reputation as a womanizer.

Experiencing it firsthand was far more challenging than I had anticipated.

Upon reaching my destination, doubts began to cloud my mind. While the house matched my memory of Matt's, I couldn't be certain if it was truly his. Should I take the risk and ring the doorbell? There was no label or sign indicating who lived there. I approached the fence and peered inside, trying to jog my memory. I recalled jumping over a fence in one of my fragmented memories, but as I looked at this particular fence, it towered above my belly button. Could this be the right fence? Uncertainty gnawed at me. I sure as hell cannot jump over this in one go.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

A woman's voice interrupted my musings:

“Hello, Dolores! Looking for something?”

I turned surprised and saw her: Mrs. Cutler. Ugh, Matt's mother had seen me haunting the place and must have been wondering what I was doing.

“Ahm... Hello, Mrs. Cutler," - I stammered, caught off guard by her presence.

"Is Matt at home?” - I asked.

I couldn't help but feel like a young Dolores, eagerly checking if Lola was available to come out and play.

"No," Mrs. Cutler replied succinctly, but she didn't immediately retreat indoors. Instead, she continued to observe me, her gaze piercing. After a brief moment, she inquired further,

"Is there something wrong?"

I struggled to find my words. "Um... my mobile... uh... I... uh... could it be that Matt has my mobile?" I managed to stammer out.

Mrs. Cutler looked at me with a mixture of surprise and confusion, raising her eyebrows inquisitively.

"No, I don't think so,"

She hesitated as if considering the possibility before making a decision. As she made a move to enter the house, she turned back to me and asked,

"Was it a black mobile with some yellow lines? A black cracked case, held together with yellow glue?"

A wave of relief washed over me as she described my phone. That was not yellow glue but a phone case artistically glued together with golden glue, but I was not going to argue about that now.

"Yes, that's mine!" I exclaimed, elated to hear news about my phone.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said with a regretful expression on her face.

I was momentarily confused as to why she would apologize for seeing my phone, but then she continued, explaining the situation.

"I thought it was one of Matt's old play-mobiles. It didn't work at all, completely blank and cracked. I was cleaning up his old gaming board and some other electronic toys. He said I could throw them away. I didn't realize your phone was in there too... I disposed of everything in that container over there a couple of days ago. That's where we dispose of electronic waste. I'm truly sorry! Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea? Oh dear, how could this happen!"

"Ahm, no, thank you. Do you happen to know where Matt is?" I asked, hoping for some information.

She shrugged in response.

"He's gone with the boys to work on something. Are you sure you don't want to come in for a cup of tea? He'll be away for the whole day and probably staying overnight. Let me compensate you for the phone. How much did it cost?" she offered.

I shrugged, downplaying the value of the phone.

"It was really cheap. I bought it secondhand for practically nothing. Phones don't usually last long with me."

As Mrs. Cutler went back into the house, more or less dismissing me, I approached the large metal container placed on the side of the road near her house.

I exerted some effort to push the heavy cover plate upward, revealing its contents.

Inside, I found a few old electrical devices, discarded lamps, and various other pieces of junk, but it was mostly empty. My mobile phone was nowhere to be seen.

Letting out a sigh, I pushed the cover to fully open the container and carefully looked around. I made the decision to climb over the metal wall, which was no easy task but not overly difficult either. Unfortunately, I couldn't avoid coming into contact with the container, and I frowned as I noticed some grease had smeared onto my jeans.

After searching for about ten minutes, I reluctantly admitted defeat. My mobile phone was nowhere to be found in the container, or perhaps I was suffering from some kind of selective blindness.

As I made my way out of the container, a car suddenly came to a halt, and I heard a woman's voice calling out to me.

"Oh my goodness, Dolores, are you still here?" It was Matt's mother in her convertible.

I let out a sigh.

"Well, I was trying to find my mobile," I replied.

"Oh, I feel so guilty about it! They must have emptied the container; it was full before," she expressed with regret.

Bitch, and you are telling me this now? I ground my teeth, but despite my inner frustration, I chose not to voice any complaints.

She continued speaking.

"Listen, I was actually on my way to an electronics store to buy a replacement mobile for you since you didn't want to take any money. I wanted it to be a surprise, but since you're here, would you like to come along?" she offered.

Well, that was an unexpected gesture from her. I needed a new mobile anyway, considering mine was missing. I nodded appreciatively and struggled to climb out of the container. She glanced at my greased pants with a hint of suspicion but refrained from commenting.

"That's very kind of you," I responded gratefully.

As we got into the car, it accelerated with an unexpected roar. I had grown accustomed to her slow driving, or perhaps that was just my imagination?

"It's the least I could do," she replied, acknowledging my gratitude.

"I wonder if the shop is open," I pondered aloud.

"Yes, they're open every day, holidays included, except for Mondays. It's quite a unique shop. They specialize in second-hand items, buying and selling. I enjoy it because you can find valuable things at bargain prices," she explained.

Within a few minutes, we arrived at the shop.

It was a weathered building that served as the front entrance and extended into a vast warehouse behind it.

The place was filled with an assortment of recycled old items. Even giant outdated television sets and vintage radios were scattered about, placed haphazardly on old wooden shelves spanning five levels. The highest levels seemed to be only accessible via a ladder, or perhaps they were intended for towering giant trolls.

The owner warmly greeted Mrs. Cutler by name, indicating a familiar relationship. We were the only customers in the shop, and a young girl, presumably the owner's niece, came to assist us.

I managed to find a mobile phone within five minutes, and it only cost me fifteen bucks. I intended to pay for it myself, but then I realized that I had left my jacket by the trash container.

As expected, Mrs. Cutler paid the bill, but she took some more time browsing the shop, searching for a lamp while I anxiously waited, my thoughts consumed by the jacket and the money purse I had left behind. It wasn't a significant amount of money, just twenty bucks, but the purse also contained my ID.

After we concluded our shopping and Mrs. Cutler purchased her lamp, we drove back to her house.

To my dismay, upon arrival, I discovered that my jacket had been taken. Farewell, jacket. Farewell, my weeks' worth of pocket money. And farewell, school ID. I would need to request a new one.

I was feeling on the verge of tears when Mrs. Cutler kindly drove me to the train station and insisted on providing me with money for a ticket. Clutching my new mobile tightly, I shivered from the cold, dressed only in my blouse without a jacket. Ignoring the stares from people who noticed my prominently visible and almost frozen nipples, I boarded the train, longing to escape the day's disappointments.

Reflecting on everything that had transpired, I couldn't help but consider Mrs. Cutler's behavior in light of my memories of her. Perhaps my recollections weren't as distorted as I had believed. I sensed an underlying animosity in her actions toward me, even if, on the surface, she seemed to be kind, even too kind.

In the grand scheme of things, it was an incredibly frustrating day, one that I wished I could erase from my memory.

Little did I know that the worst was yet to come.